The house has no name.
It has had many walls, many doors, many floors. But in every place, in every version, the rules remain the same.
Inside, no one is missing.
Inside, no one is taken.
Inside, there are only people who belong.
The walls hum with whispers of lives rewritten, with footsteps that have never left an imprint, with names that have been spoken, erased, and given anew. It is a place where reality shifts, where time moves forward but memories move backward, where faces are familiar but never quite right.
There is no lock on the door, yet no one ever leaves.
Because why would they?
No one is trapped. No one is lost.
They are exactly where they are supposed to be.
Eun Ji-hye does not ask questions anymore.
She remembers a time when she did. When she sat by the window, staring outside at a world that felt distant, untouchable. When she whispered her own name to herself late at night, pressing the syllables against her tongue like a secret only she was allowed to keep.
She does not do that anymore.
She wakes up. She eats. She listens when spoken to.
She does not ask.
Because there is no reason to.
The people here are kind. They feed her, clothe her, ensure she is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. They tell her she is safe. That she is loved. That she does not need to burden herself with thoughts that will only bring her pain.
"Why do you want to remember things that made you unhappy?"
The question had been asked once, in a voice so gentle it had soothed the cracks forming in her thoughts.
She had no answer.
She still doesn't.
The mirror in her room reflects a woman she does not quite recognise. Her face is the same, but it feels like a blurred photograph, slightly out of focus. There are days when she stares at it and feels nothing. And then there are the other days. The days where something tightens in her chest, a foreign ache that does not belong to her, whispering that she is forgetting something important.
But by the time she tries to hold onto it, it is already gone.
The door opens with a soft creak.
Hye-won steps inside, her smile warm, motherly. She carries a folded sweater, setting it down on the bed.
"It's getting colder," she murmurs, smoothing her hands over the fabric. "I thought you might like something warmer."
Ji-hye nods. "Thank you."
The words leave her automatically, perfectly placed.
She does not remember when she started thanking them for everything.
For food.
For clothes.
For allowing her to stay.
For saving her.
"You look tired," Hye-won observes, brushing a strand of hair from Ji-hye's face. "Are you sleeping well?"
"Yes," Ji-hye lies.
Hye-won hums, her gaze soft but knowing. She lifts a hand, pressing it against Ji-hye's cheek, the touch featherlight.
"There's nothing to be afraid of here," she murmurs. "You are safe."
Ji-hye nods.
Safe.
That is what they always say.
Yoo Min-seok does not think about the past.
He barely remembers it.
He knows only this—he was alone before.
The world outside was cruel, unforgiving, filled with cold faces and harsher hands. No one cared for him. No one saved him.
Until they did.
They gave him a home.
A purpose.
A family.
At first, there had been resistance, a vague unease that clawed at the back of his mind. But that was before. Before he understood.
"Do you know what it's like to be unwanted?" Min-jae had asked him once, his voice filled with quiet sympathy.
Min-seok had looked away.
"I do," Min-jae continued, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. "But you are wanted here. You have a place here."
And wasn't that all anyone ever wanted?
Min-seok stopped thinking about before.
It did not matter.
What mattered was now.
Here, he was someone.
Out there, he was no one.
The little girl sits in the corner, knees pulled to her chest.
She has not spoken in three days.
Not because she does not want to.
But because she is afraid.
She is afraid that if she speaks, she will forget.
She is afraid that if she speaks, she will lose the name she holds onto so tightly, the one she repeats over and over in her head like a secret no one can steal from her.
She watches the others, watches the way they smile when Hye-won and Min-jae speak to them, the way they nod, the way they accept.
She does not want to accept.
She wants to go home.
She just... can't remember where home is anymore.
The house she used to live in. The people she used to love. The voice of her mother, the laughter of her father.
They are slipping.
Like words written in sand, washed away by the tide.
She grips the fabric of her shirt, pressing her forehead against her knees, clenching her teeth so hard they ache.
Don't forget. Don't forget. Don't forget.
If she forgets, she will become like the others.
If she forgets, she will disappear.
There was another boy, once.
His name is never spoken anymore.
Not by those who are still here.
He had tried to leave.
He had whispered about it in the dark, had made promises to the others, had sworn that they could escape together.
One night, he ran.
He made it to the door.
He touched the handle.
And then—
The next morning, he was sitting at the breakfast table.
Smiling.
Calm.
He didn't talk about escape anymore.
He didn't talk about anything.
They called him by a new name.
And he never corrected them.
The couple walks through the house that is not a home.
Min-jae hums under his breath, the soft, familiar tune filling the space between them.
Hye-won places a hand on his arm. "Do you miss them?"
Min-jae smiles. "Miss who?"
She tilts her head. "The children we loved before."
Min-jae's smile softens. "Ah," he says, nodding slightly. "They were special."
Hye-won exhales, her gaze trailing over the hallway, over the walls that have held so many before.
"They always are."
Min-jae squeezes her hand. "Yeobo, we will bring them home again."
Her lips curve. "Of course."
Somewhere, in the echoes of this place, there are voices that once called out to each other in the dark.
Laughter that once filled the silence.
Two children—small, fragile, unaware of what had been taken from them.
They do not remember this house.
They do not remember each other.
But the house remembers them.
And the couple does, too.
Their hands are still reaching.
Waiting.
Because those who are taken—
Always come home.