The morning sun spilled across Kim Dan's apartment floor like a pale gold river, slowly creeping toward his bed. He had barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—the way her eyes widened, the softness in her expression, the tired curve of her shoulders as she bent down to care for the child.
For hours, he had turned from side to side, his thoughts tangled between longing and regret.
Now, as dawn brightened the city, Dan forced himself out of bed, splashed cold water on his face, and dressed for the office. His reflection in the mirror looked drawn, but his eyes held a determination he hadn't felt in a long time.
Face it, he whispered to himself. You can't hide from it forever.
By habit, Dan left early. The hallways were quiet, the building's white walls still washed with morning light. As he stepped into the elevator, a soft beep indicated that someone else had entered just before him.
He froze.
It was her.
Han Soo-jin stood at the back, a shopping bag slung over her shoulder, hair tied loosely, strands falling over her cheeks. Her face was pale, eyes lined with dark circles from fatigue, but her posture remained composed.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The elevator's hum filled the silence.
Dan's throat tightened. He forced a polite nod.
"Good morning," he said quietly, his voice low and unsure.
Soo-jin's eyes flicked toward him briefly. "Good morning," she replied, her tone soft, neutral—almost distant, yet not cold.
The doors opened before either of them could say more. She stepped out first. For a second, she paused, as if debating whether to linger. Then, with a careful nod, she continued down the hallway without another glance.
Dan remained inside for an extra beat, the doors sliding closed behind him. He exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly.
That's it, he thought. One word and silence.
But even that single word felt heavier than a conversation. It stirred up old memories—the days when her eyes had been full of warmth, when laughter had spilled freely between them.
Work was a blur. Dan's mind wandered constantly, flashing between office reports and images of her.
At one point, Min-ho leaned over the cubicle wall again.
"Dan, you spaced out again. Everything alright?"
Dan forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… adjusting."
Min-ho frowned playfully. "Adjusting? What, to being promoted or something else?"
Dan hesitated but then shook his head. "Let's just say… life surprises you."
His friend didn't press further, but a knowing look lingered on his face.
Dan spent the next hour typing reports with mechanical precision. His eyes strayed repeatedly toward the window overlooking the neighboring apartment building. Curtains fluttered, silhouettes moved briefly, but he never saw her face again.
By lunchtime, Dan had convinced himself he wouldn't confront her. He would maintain distance, let time take care of awkwardness. Yet the ache remained.
Later that afternoon, an errand forced him downstairs. As he passed the entrance lobby, he noticed the same moving boxes stacked neatly near the side corridor. His eyes followed the flow of furniture inside.
The smell of fresh paint, new wood, and unfamiliar life seemed to drift out of the hallway.
Just as he turned to leave, he heard soft laughter—childlike and full of delight.
Curious despite himself, he slowed his pace.
The building's courtyard, a small square of pavement with planters and benches, was where neighbors often passed through. There, near a stroller, he saw her again.
This time, the child stood on wobbly legs, reaching for a small ball.
Soo-jin crouched beside her, steadying her back with one hand while using the other to guide her fingers toward the ball. Her face, though weary, softened completely. Her eyes sparkled as she encouraged the child.
The child giggled uncontrollably as the ball rolled away.
Dan's chest tightened.
Without thinking, he stepped closer.
"Need help?" he asked quietly.
Soo-jin's eyes snapped toward him, startled. For a brief second, the calm expression dissolved into tension.
Dan immediately regretted the question but held his ground, trying to appear composed.
"It's… no trouble," he added quickly. "I just thought… if you want."
The child looked up at him curiously, as if studying this new figure. Her small fingers clutched her mother's jacket.
Soo-jin's eyes searched his face, her lips tightening. But after a long pause, she nodded once.
"Thank you," she said softly. "It's… appreciated."
Her voice trembled slightly, betraying emotions she tried hard to mask.
Dan knelt beside them, pushing the ball gently back toward the child. She squealed with joy and reached for it.
For a few fleeting moments, the three of them were connected—not as strangers, not as former lovers, but as a fragile, tentative family formed by circumstance.
"Your name is?" Dan asked softly, careful not to intrude.
The child looked up at him, her eyes wide and sparkling. "Seo-yun," she chirped, pronouncing it with a lisp.
Dan smiled involuntarily. "That's a beautiful name."
Soo-jin's face flushed slightly at the compliment, though she tried to hide it. Her eyes darted toward the child, and for a brief second, an unguarded smile appeared—warm, soft, and very familiar.
The child continued to play, ignoring both adults, lost in the joy of throwing the ball back and forth.
Dan's heart twisted.
The memories of long walks and shared dreams collided with the innocence of the child's laughter. He could see how much she had been through—the exhaustion hidden beneath discipline, the grief buried under routine care.
After a few minutes, Dan stood.
"I'll let you have your afternoon," he said softly, unsure whether he was overstepping.
Soo-jin rose slowly. Her eyes lingered on him, searching for words she couldn't find.
"Thank you," she said again, more firmly this time. "For stopping."
Dan nodded. "If you need anything… just knock," he replied, forcing a tentative smile.
She hesitated before responding. "I… appreciate that."
The child, oblivious to the adult tension, threw the ball once more. The two adults exchanged one more glance—equal parts longing, regret, and restraint—before stepping back into their separate worlds.
When Dan returned to his apartment, he sat by the window for a long time without moving.
The sunlight shifted across the floor, but he didn't notice.
His heart was strangely lighter despite the ache that lingered.
She didn't turn me away, he whispered to himself. She… still cares.
Yet another voice inside him whispered, Be careful.
The past was dangerous. Memories could reopen wounds better left untouched.
But as the child's laughter echoed faintly through the courtyard once more, Dan closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him like a balm.
Tomorrow, he knew, would bring more awkwardness, more questions, and more uncertainty.
But for the first time in a long while, he felt ready to face it.