The night was heavy with rain, each drop tapping against the window like a soft, rhythmic lullaby that somehow felt wrong. Ji-hoon stood at the center of the room, his fingers curling into fists as he listened to the sounds of the storm. His mind was racing, no longer tangled in the haze of anger that had consumed him for weeks. It was something different now—more focused, more calculated. A quiet storm was brewing inside him, one that could no longer be ignored.
Ara's name had been floating through his thoughts like a haunting melody, lingering in the corners of his mind, taunting him with memories of a past he had tried so hard to forget. There was so much he still didn't understand about her—about everything that had led them here. Their tangled past, their relationship, had always been something that Ji-hoon had avoided fully confronting. It was too complicated, too painful. But tonight, he couldn't avoid it any longer.
She had been there at the beginning, hadn't she? In the moments when everything had felt normal, when the world hadn't yet been shattered by the weight of his blindness and his mother's murder. Ara had been one of the few people who hadn't treated him like a victim. She had been there for him in ways that no one else had, even when he didn't know he needed her.
But things had changed. The way she had acted after his mother's death, the distance she had placed between them—it all felt wrong now. She had slipped through his life like a shadow, too close to ignore, yet always just out of reach. He had trusted her, maybe more than anyone else, but somewhere along the way, that trust had been shattered. The pieces of their once-strong bond had cracked, and now, all that was left was a song he couldn't quite finish.
The room was quiet except for the storm outside, but in his mind, the sound of her voice echoed. Soft. Melancholic. A lullaby from a past he couldn't reclaim. There had been so many moments with Ara that Ji-hoon had brushed aside. Their conversations had been simple, full of the kind of intimacy that only came when two people shared something deep. He had let himself fall into that space with her, believing it was something pure, something untouchable by the chaos around them.
But Ara had her secrets, just like everyone else. And now Ji-hoon was beginning to realize that perhaps the truth had been right in front of him all along, masked by the gentle lullaby she had sung to him. A song for Ara—he could almost hear it now. It wasn't a song of love, not anymore. It was something darker, something that had been twisted over time, bending its original form into something he didn't recognize.
He walked to the piano, his fingers grazing over the cold keys, their smooth surface a stark contrast to the fire building inside him. He sat down, his movements deliberate, as if playing the instrument could somehow answer the questions burning in his chest. He had been avoiding this moment, avoiding the music for so long, but now it felt like the only way to make sense of the chaos.
The melody that escaped his fingers was soft, tentative at first. The notes came slowly, cautiously, like a whisper from another time. He could hear it, even though he couldn't see it. It was a song that was both familiar and foreign, like a memory he had tried to bury but couldn't quite forget. Ara had always been the one to pull him out of the darkness, but what if that had been her role all along? To distract him, to pull him deeper into the lies that surrounded him?
As the melody grew stronger, so did the realization that Ara had been involved in this mess all along. She wasn't innocent. None of them were. He had known for some time that there had been something off about her actions after his mother's death. Her reluctance to confront the truth, her hesitation to tell him what she really knew—it all pointed to something deeper. Something she had been hiding. And maybe that's why she had kept her distance. Not because she was afraid of the pain, but because she was afraid of him finding out the truth.
The music swirled in the air, tense and uncertain. His fingers moved more fluidly now, the melody picking up speed. He couldn't help but feel that the song was reflecting his emotions—confusion, betrayal, anger—those feelings that had been buried for too long. The deeper he played, the more the pieces began to fall into place.
Ara had been too close to everything. She had been too close to the people who had orchestrated the lies, to the ones who had taken his mother from him. He couldn't bring himself to believe she had been complicit in his mother's death—not entirely—but there were too many unanswered questions, too many moments that didn't make sense. And that song—this song he was playing—felt like a reflection of everything he had failed to see. It was like a confession, coming from deep within the heart of everything he had tried to suppress.
His fingers faltered as he thought of her, standing in front of him, looking just as broken as he felt. She had been part of this story, and now, he was realizing just how much. Maybe it wasn't intentional. Maybe she had never meant for it to go this far. But the truth was undeniable—she had been part of the game, just like the rest of them.
Ji-hoon closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of everything he had learned crashing down on him. He had to confront her. There was no other choice. She needed to answer for her silence, for the way she had kept him in the dark. She had never fully trusted him, had she? If she had, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe his mother would still be alive. Maybe he wouldn't be sitting here, alone, trying to make sense of a world that had torn itself apart.
The song slowed as the last notes of realization filled the space around him. He stopped playing, the silence in the room heavier than the storm outside. He didn't know what would happen when he saw Ara again. He didn't know if he would ever be able to look at her the same way. But what he did know was that the truth had to come out, no matter the cost. The music had played its final note, and now, the only thing left was the sound of the truth crashing through the walls.
He didn't cry when he finally said it out loud.
He just sat there, his fingers resting still on the piano keys, the room eerily quiet except for the breath caught in his throat.
"Ara," he whispered. "You were my mother all along, weren't you?"
He had said it like it was a question, but deep down, he knew it wasn't one. The truth had been clawing at the back of his mind for weeks, maybe even years, but it had finally clawed its way to the surface.
The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was oppressive, thick with memory, with guilt, with grief that had been misshaped and misnamed.
He hadn't remembered her voice clearly after she died. Or maybe he had, and just refused to admit it. He'd told himself Ara's voice reminded him of warmth, of lullabies, of something he'd lost a long time ago. But now he realized it was the same voice. Softer, maybe. Older. More tired. But the same.
He couldn't see her face, not anymore. But he could hear her, and that was enough. His memory had failed him in some ways, but never in the ways that truly mattered.
He clenched his fists on his knees.
"You watched me suffer," he muttered. "You let me believe you were dead."
Ji-hoon stood, unsteady, like the ground had betrayed him. He reached out, one hand to the wall, the other to the edge of the piano. He felt like he was falling.
"You let me become this," he whispered. "This... broken thing. This weapon."
He could still remember the night he stood in flames, setting the building ablaze—the same building where some of the men who had murdered "his mother" used to meet. He had done it for her. For justice. For revenge. For a woman who was never dead to begin with.
"You watched it all happen, didn't you? Hiding behind a name, behind silence."
His hands trembled violently. He took a shaky breath and tried to pull himself together.
And then came the memories—half-shattered, scattered like broken notes.
Ara had always worn that same perfume. The same floral trace that had haunted his childhood bedroom. She had once hummed the very same lullaby his mother used to sing. He thought it was coincidence. He thought the mind was cruel, and that grief played tricks on him. But it wasn't a trick. It was the truth.
She had never left. She had just changed her name.
He thought back to that moment months ago, when he'd touched her face by accident during one of their talks. He had asked her why her skin felt familiar—warm like the person who once kissed his forehead goodnight. She had just laughed.
"You remind me of someone," he had said.
And she had replied, "Maybe that someone is still with you."
Now it made sense. All of it. Every sidelong word. Every excuse. Every disappearance. Every time she had tried to pull away.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. The storm inside him was silent now, deadly in its stillness.
She had been afraid of him, hadn't she? Afraid of what he'd become. Afraid of what he'd do if he found out. She thought her silence would protect him. But all it had done was leave him spiraling, drowning in rage, looking for ghosts to kill.
And he had killed one. Maybe more.
He staggered forward, crashing into the couch. His knees hit the floor. He didn't bother standing.
"I mourned you," he choked. "I mourned you like something holy. I mourned you like my music did. Like every goddamn note that left my hands was a funeral."
His hands curled into the fabric of the couch like he could tear it apart.
"You left me blind. You left me to them."
Ji-hoon had been ten when the accident happened. Twelve when he lost her. Thirteen when he stopped believing anyone could bring her back.
And all this time, she'd been there. In his life. Whispering advice. Listening quietly. Pretending to be someone else while he fell apart just a few steps away.
A sound left his throat. He wasn't sure if it was a sob or a scream. Maybe it was both.
He stayed on the floor for a long time, breathing hard, until there was nothing left to burn except himself.
And then he whispered, in a voice so quiet it barely touched the air:
"Why?"
The room answered with silence.
The door creaked. Someone stepped inside. He heard the shift of shoes on the hardwood, soft and hesitant.
"Ji-hoon?"
Her voice.
Ara. Or was it Mom?
He didn't turn to her. He didn't even breathe.
"I never wanted to lie to you," she said, standing somewhere behind him. "But I had to. I had to disappear, or they would've come after you next."
He shook his head. "So you let me think you were dead."
"I was protecting you."
"By making me believe I lost everything?" he snapped.
She knelt beside him. He felt the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.
"Don't," he said.
"I'm so sorry, Ji-hoon."
"No, you're not," he said quietly. "You're sorry I found out."
She didn't answer. He could hear her breathing, uneven.
"Say something," he demanded. "Say anything that makes this better."
But she couldn't. There was no excuse in the world that could bring back the years they had lost. The nights he had cried alone. The days he had walked with blood on his hands, thinking she was gone, thinking vengeance was all he had left.
"I wrote a song for you," he said finally.
She looked up. "What?"
"Before I found out. When I thought you were dead. It's called Requiem for a Mother." He smiled bitterly. "But now... maybe I should retitle it."
"What would you call it?"
He tilted his head toward the window, where the rain was beginning to let up. "A Song for Ara," he said. "For the lie. For the loss. For the woman who let me become a monster."
And then, finally, he turned his face toward her—toward the mother who had let him mourn her, and had lived in his life wearing another name.
And for the first time in years, Ji-hoon cried. Not from pain. Not from rage. But from the truth finally breaking free.