She had been ignoring it. For weeks.
The file still sat in her drawer, hidden beneath receipts and folded printouts she no longer remembered printing. She hadn't dared touch it since the night she stumbled on it. Not because she forgot it existed—because she hadn't. Because it had been living beneath her skin ever since.
The first time she heard the song again, it came from a stranger's ringtone. Just a fragment.
Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.
She had nearly dropped her coffee cup. Her throat closed. Her palms turned cold. But she had laughed it off, pretended. Told herself it was just a coincidence. Just a children's rhyme. Just some old melody.
The second time, she wasn't so lucky.
It was raining. She had just stepped out of the bus when a woman passed her humming—softly, absently. It was barely a hum. Just enough for the syllables to register in the back of her mind like a needle pressing into flesh.
Her knees nearly gave out.
Tonight, it came again. From nowhere. From everywhere. She couldn't trace it. Couldn't explain it. It wasn't outside her window. It wasn't from her neighbour's television. It was inside her. And this time—
—she broke.
Seo Yoon stood in the centre of her apartment, barefoot and breathless, clutching the same file to her chest as though it might catch fire. Her fingertips were red, indented from how tightly she held it. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. Something inside her had ruptured.
Her chest heaved. Her vision blurred.
"I'm not her," she whispered. "I'm not her. I'm not her. I'm not—"
She didn't finish. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, the papers falling from her hands like feathers, scattering across the hardwood.
Then she screamed.
A scream so raw it tore something from her throat. It sounded less like a voice and more like something breaking open.
Her notebook was open. Blank.
Until it wasn't.
She snatched a pen and began writing. Ha Eun-ji.
Again. Ha Eun-ji. Again. Ha Eun-ji. Again. Again. Again. Again.
Each letter became more frantic. More crooked. More desperate.
She tore the page out. Crumpled it. Then another. And another. And another. The floor filled with shredded, ink-soaked pages like white noise against the silence of her breakdown.
"I don't remember her. I don't—" she hissed, her voice rising to a scream. "I don't know her!"
She shoved the file across the floor. Pages scattered like broken wings. She kicked the desk. Flung the chair aside. Her breath came in ragged gasps, hands clutching at her scalp, trying to tear the noise from her skull.
She clawed at her arms, shaking. The pen snapped in her grip. Ink bled into her fingers. She didn't notice.
Her face twisted as a fresh wave of nausea rose. She stumbled toward the bathroom, crashed against the doorframe, and vomited violently into the sink. Bile and sobs choked her.
The mirror caught her reflection. Her eyes swollen. Hair tangled. Face wet and colourless.
"Who the hell are you?" she asked the glass.
She didn't recognise her own voice.
"Who the hell am I?"
She pressed her palms to her ears. The song wouldn't stop.
Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.
It played like a memory she didn't consent to. A memory with no shape. Just a melody and the shadow of a woman's voice. Singing. Gently. Sweetly. Terrifyingly.
A lullaby that felt like a threat.
Her entire body shook. Her heart was too fast. She curled up on the floor, arms over her head, rocking back and forth.
"I'm not her. I'm not her. I'm not her—"
But the walls didn't agree. The floor didn't agree. Her own breath didn't agree.
In the kitchen, the kettle she had forgotten to turn off whistled.
Steam filled the air.
Every nerve inside her body screamed.
She bolted upright, staggered through the apartment, pulling open drawers and cupboards like a woman possessed. Not looking for anything. Just needing to do something. To distract. To act. To move.
She knocked over a glass. It shattered. She stepped on it without noticing. Blood trailed behind her. She didn't feel it.
All she felt was the pounding in her skull. The song. The name. The ache.
Ha Eun-ji.
She was drowning in a person she didn't know.
A person she had once been.
She dropped to her knees in the hallway, paper fragments around her, clutching one in her fist.
Ha Eun-ji.
"Why does it feel like I'm dying?" she whispered.
She gripped the counter and screamed again.
"All I ever fucking wanted was to live my fucking life!" she cried out, voice hoarse and cracking. "Get a job—work the job I've been dreaming to fucking do all my life—and this? This is what I get?"
She pounded the floor with both fists. "I studied so fucking hard! I got all the grades! I did everything right!"
Her voice rose into a sobbing scream. "But it was rejection after rejection! Only to get a job I never fucking wanted—to find these stupid fucking files—and now I don't even know who the fuck I am!"
Her throat burned. Her head spun.
"Who am I? Who the fuck is she?"
She stood again, stumbling back into the main room.
"Why is that goddamn song being hummed or sung every single fucking place I go?" she cried. "Why?! Why can't I just live in peace?!"
She ripped open drawers. Threw books across the room. Tore at her clothes.
"Why must my life be like this?! What did I do wrong?! Who did I kill in a past life that this is what I get?!"
She fell back onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, barely able to breathe.
"Why me... why is it fucking me... why did I lay here every fucking day rotting, dreaming and fucking wishing to get the job I always wanted—why did I have to go through this?!"
Her voice dropped into a shattering whisper.
"Why... why... why..."
She curled into herself, eyes wide and vacant.
Then—
She reached for her phone.
Her hands trembled violently as she unlocked her phone. Her breath hitched. Her thumb hovered over the dial icon, eyes wild, movements frantic. It wasn't logic. It wasn't thought. It was desperation clawing through her.
She jabbed the search bar. Typed in a name.
Euncheonscription.
Her fingers slipped on the screen. She pressed the wrong digit. Swore. Pressed again.
The auto-voice clicked on.
"Thank you for calling Euncheonscription, Seoul's premier book café. To report an employee absence, press 1. To inquire about recruitment, press 2. For general store inquiries, press—"
"FUCKING PICK UP!" Seo Yoon screamed at the phone, voice shrill, ragged. "Pick up, pick up, pick up, please!"
Her thumb mashed every button. Her legs gave out. She slid down the wall, sobbing into the phone.
Then—a click.
"Yeoboseyo? This is Euncheonscription, Manager Shin Ga-young speaking. How can I help you today?"
Seo Yoon choked. Literally choked on her breath. Her throat spasmed, tears spilling over her cheeks like a flood uncontained.
"Yyeo-Yeoboseyo," she stuttered, voice rasping, breaking. "I... I need—"
"Miss? Are you okay? Please try to breathe, you're shaking. Can you tell me what's wrong?"
"I-I need to speak to—" Seo Yoon coughed hard, curling her hand over her mouth, "an employee. Please. Please. Employee Yoon Ji-ho."
There was a pause.
"Oh... uh ne (yes), he's in the back. Please hold on."
Seo Yoon pressed the phone tighter against her ear, as if the plastic and metal might keep her from unraveling completely.
The seconds dragged like hours.
Then:
"...Yeoboseyo?"
That voice.
Calm. Soft. Flat.
"...Yeoboseyo?"
Seo Yoon couldn't breathe.
"Please," she whispered. Then louder, more urgent. "Please. I need to see you."
A silence.
"Oh. It's you."
Then a sigh. "You're lucky I'm on break in twenty minutes."
"ANIYA (NO)!" she gasped. "No, no—twenty minutes is too long"
She was shouting again. Tears clouding her vision, her free hand knocking over a lamp as she stumbled back to her feet.
"Please, Ji-ho—please—"
"Seo Yoon-ssi..." his voice lowered. "What's going on?"
But she couldn't answer.
The words collided. Collapsed. Shattered.
She hung up.
And then she ran.
Meanwhile, Ji-ho stood still, phone still pressed to his ear.
That... was weird.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at the shelves in front of him.
"Everything alright?" Manager Shin asked, watching him from behind the counter.
He blinked slowly. "I think... someone's having a breakdown."
"Friend?"
Ji-ho hesitated. "Not exactly."
Manager Shin tilted her head but didn't press. "Break in twenty. You okay to hold up 'til then?"
He nodded once. "Ne (Yes)."
But he wasn't.
Seo Yoon burst into the bakery like she was outrunning death itself. Her hair was tangled, her coat half-buttoned, her eyes swollen from crying. The waitress behind the counter looked up, startled.
"Eat in or takeaway?" she asked cautiously.
"Eat in. Table for two," Seo Yoon gasped.
She stumbled to a corner table near the window. The late-afternoon sun painted her in gold and shadow. Her legs bounced beneath the table. Her fingers twitched at her side. Biting her nail, she tapped her foot uncontrollably.
When the waitress returned to take her order, Seo Yoon could barely string the words together.
"Coffee..Iced coffee," she muttered. "Strong. Whatever's the strongest."
Minutes passed. The air in the bakery buzzed around her. Chatter, the clink of plates, the hiss of steaming milk. And underneath it all—whispers. People glanced at her. She could feel their eyes. Their murmurs.
The waitress came back with her coffee, placing it gently on the table.
Seo Yoon gasped so loudly that the waitress nearly dropped the glass. A hush fell over the bakery.
"Sorry," Seo Yoon whispered. "Sorry. I—I didn't mean..."
The waitress smiled politely, awkwardly, and walked away.
Seo Yoon wrapped her hands around the cup. Steam fogged the lenses of her glasses. Her knees still bounced.
Where is he? Where the fuck is he?
Her breath shortened. Her vision blurred. Her heart was racing again.
People were still looking.
She tried to still her body. Sat back. Inhaled deeply. Pretended to be normal. Pretended to be sane.
Then—the bell above the door chimed.
She shot up. "Ji-ho-ssi! Over here!"
Gasps. Whispers. She had shouted.
Ji-ho blinked at her, visibly startled. Mortified. He hesitated near the counter, muttering an order for an iced coffee. Then he approached the table slowly, awkwardly.
"You didn't need to yell," he said softly, glancing around at the onlookers.
"I—I didn't mean to," Seo Yoon said, breathless, eyes wide. "I just—sorry."
He sat down, stiff, posture guarded. "You okay?"
"No. No. I'm not okay."
She took a long, frantic sip of her coffee, nearly choking on it. Her fingers trembled against the ceramic.
"I'm not okay," she repeated. "I don't know what's happening to me."
Ji-ho tilted his head, cautious. "Seo Yoon-ssi... slow down. You're scaring people."
"I don't care," she snapped, then winced. "Sorry. I don't mean to—I just—"
She dropped her head into her hands.
"I'm losing my mind."
Ji-ho watched her, uncertain. "What's going on?" he asked, quieter.
"I need you to listen to me," she said, suddenly snapping her head up. "Please. Just—listen."
"I'm listening," he said.
"I found a file. Weeks ago. I wasn't supposed to see it. I didn't even know what it was at first. I—I didn't want to know. But it had a photo. A name. Ha Eun-ji."
Her voice cracked. Her chest heaved.
"I thought it was a mistake. A glitch. I ignored it. For weeks, I ignored it. But then it kept showing up. That name. That girl. That goddamn name wouldn't leave me alone."
She choked back a sob.
"I looked at it again last night. And I couldn't stop looking. Her face—Ji-ho, her face was mine. But younger. Bruised. Cut. Like she'd been in a fight with the world."
Ji-ho's brows furrowed. "Wait. What are you saying?"
"I am Ha Eun-ji." Her voice trembled, rising. "Her date of birth—June 7, 1999. Her blood type—O. Everything matched. It's me."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "And what was the file even doing there?"
"I don't know. It was hidden in a back archive. Death certificate. Date of birth: June 7, 1999. Age at time of death: 9. Cause of death: Car accident. Case status: Closed within 48 hours. No autopsy. No investigation. Nothing."
Ji-ho swallowed. "So she—so you—were declared dead seventeen years ago?"
"Yes." She was almost shouting now. "And I don't remember anything before university. Nothing about being a child. Just... gaps. As if I didn't exist until I got accepted into a course."
He stared at her. "And you're just realising this now?"
"I've been avoiding it," she snapped. "Wouldn't you?"
"You still haven't told anyone about this?"
She shook her head. "Who would believe me?"
"The police. A lawyer. Someone."
"And say what?" Her voice cracked. "That I remember a name I shouldn't? That I think I was abducted as a child and blocked it out? That a children's song gives me seizures and I don't know why? They'd lock me up."
Ji-ho stared at her.
"No," she said, laughing bitterly. "Not even that. They'd send me to a fucking psychiatric centre. I've seen it happen. I've written the reports. They'd take one look at me and send me in."
His jaw tightened. "You sound serious."
"I am serious."
"And what do you want me to do?" he asked gently.
She stared at him, desperate. "I don't know."
He didn't reach out.
Because Ji-ho wasn't ready.
But he stayed.
From across the street, Jung Hyun-seok spotted them through the bakery window.
The bell had chimed maybe a minute earlier. He hadn't meant to stop walking, but his eyes had caught something. Someone. Two someones.
Ji-ho.
Seo Yoon.
He stayed behind the crosswalk, tucked into the side of the building where no one would notice him. People walked past him. The signal changed from red to green and back again. But he didn't move.
Inside the glass, he could see her leaning forward at the table, coffee cup trembling in her hands. Her mouth was moving fast, frantic, as if trying to get out everything before her lungs gave in.
Ji-ho was still. Rigid. Listening, but not leaning in. Not touching her. Just present.
That told him everything.
Hyun-seok didn't need to hear the words. He could feel them. The panic. The unraveling. The collapse. He had seen it before—in his wife. In himself.
He kept his distance, but his eyes were glued to Ji-ho.
What is she saying to you, Soomin-ah?
He watched his son carefully. The slope of his shoulders. The way his hands gripped his cup too tightly. The twitch in his jaw when he didn't know what to say. Every gesture carved itself into Hyun-seok's memory like a chisel into stone. A lifetime ago, he had memorised those expressions. Learned what every smile meant. Every flinch. Every sigh.
Now, he studied them like foreign language flashcards.
But it was him. His son. Still him.
He closed his eyes. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but he could feel it. The desperation. The ache. Her face was contorted in something between grief and fury, her mouth moving too quickly, tears streaking down her cheeks. She clutched at the table like it might fly away from her.
Seo Yoon.
No.
Ha Eun-ji.
He remembered her file. Every line. Every lie. Presumed dead at nine years old. Date of birth: June 7, 1999. Blood type: O. Cause of death: traffic accident. No autopsy. Case closed within 48 hours. Her name buried beneath an improper misconducted report. But he'd found it.
She had family. A father—Ha Tae-jin. A mother—Lee Su-young. An older sister—Ha Min-ji.
He remembered staring at the photographs. It was all there.
And now here she was.
Shaking. Screaming without sound.
And his son.
Sitting across from her.
Listening.
His chest tightened. He wanted to go inside. He wanted to drag them both out of that bakery and away from whatever was chasing them.
But he didn't move.
Because he thought this wasn't the right time.
Not yet.
So he stayed.
Watched.
Waited.
Inside the bakery, the hum of chatter clung to the air like steam from fresh pastries. The clink of utensils, the low murmur of conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine—it was the familiar rhythm of a quiet late afternoon.
But in the far corner, nestled beside the fogged window, two customers sat with their cups untouched. Ji-ho and Seo Yoon. Surrounded by the illusion of calm, their table thrummed with a different kind of energy. Desperation. Disclosure. Recognition.
Three tables away, a woman with neatly pinned hair lifted her cup to her lips. Eun Hye-won.
Beside her, Jang Min-jae stirred his tea, eyes focused on nothing and everything at once.
They had been there the entire time.
Silently.
Watching.
Listening.
As Seo Yoon cried, as Ji-ho asked questions, as memories threatened to claw their way to the surface—the couple sat in perfect stillness, like background furniture. Their clothes unassuming. Their presence invisible. Their attention, however, was razor sharp.
"She's spiralling," Hye-won worriedly whispered, her lips barely moving.
Min-jae didn't blink. "Jagiya (Honey), She sounds so hurt and heartbroken, that poor thing"
A beat of silence passed.
Then Hye-won faintly smiled softly, almost maternally, and set her cup down.
"Shall we?"
Min-jae rose first. His chair scraped lightly against the floor, unnoticed by the nearby patrons. Hye-won followed. They didn't rush. There was no need. They passed the counter, thanked the cashier, and made their way toward the door.
And just before they exited—
The couple began to hum.
Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.
Softly.
In perfect harmony.
Ji-ho's hand froze around his coffee cup.
Seo Yoon stiffened like a wire snapped taut.
Her pupils dilated. Her hands jerked back from the table as if scalded. Her breath hitched.
No.
The melody. That song.
Not again.
The humming grew faint as the door chimed behind them, the couple stepping into the afternoon sun.
But inside, Seo Yoon was already breaking apart.
"Stop it," she whispered.
Her fingers dug into her scalp.
"Stop it, stop it, stop it."
Ji-ho leaned forward, unsure if he should reach out. "Seo-Yoon. Seo Yoon. Seo Yoon-ssi?"
"WHO'S SINGING THAT SONG?!" she screamed, loud enough for him, but just below the threshold that would alert the rest of the bakery.
Her voice trembled. Broke. Shattered.
"Why the fuck do I keep hearing it? WHO IS SINGING IT?! Why does it keep following me?! Who is it?! Why can't it stop—why won't it fucking stop?!"
Ji-ho blinked.
Then froze.
The melody. The same melody she had described earlier. The one he'd tried to forget. The one that had been haunting him in quiet moments. In the street. At home. In his dreams.
It was the same.
It had always been the same.
Seo Yoon trembled, her hands shaking so hard the coffee spilled over, the cup rattling.
"They were here,"she whispered. "They were right there. Weren't they? The ones who were singing that damned song! Weren't they fucking here?"
Ji-ho slowly turned his head.
No one.
Just like that.
No trace.
No shadow.
Just the echo of their tune still reverberating through the cage of his ribs.
He didn't speak. Couldn't.
Because she was right.
They had been here.
And suddenly, something inside him whispered: They always were.
Outside, the couple walked slowly down the path lined with late-blooming camellias. The air smelled like cinnamon and car exhaust. Nothing about them stood out. Nothing about them ever did.
They walked close together, hand-in-hand, side by side. They shared glances, the kind passed between two people who'd lived one long, unbroken moment for years. When Min-jae softly laughed at something Hye-won whispered, she swatted his arm playfully. Lightly. Like they were any other couple heading home from a bakery.
Their feet crunched against the pavement.
Their humming had long stopped.
They were quiet now. At peace.
But someone saw them.
From across the road, standing half-shadowed beneath the awning of a corner pharmacy, Jung Hyun-seok watched them walk.
He hadn't noticed them leave the bakery. Not at first. His eyes had still been on the window, on the two figures huddled at the table within. But something—some twitch in his gut—had made him turn.
And there they were.
Two strangers. A man and a woman. Smiling at each other like the world had never done them wrong.
They didn't see him.
Not at first.
But as they passed by the mouth of the alley he was half-hidden in, Eun Hye-won looked up.
Her eyes met his.
And she smiled.
Polite. Warm. Empty.
Jang Min-jae followed her gaze and offered a polite bow.
"Annyeonghaseyo," he said softly.
Like they were neighbours.
Like they were nothing at all.
Hyun-seok bowed back.
But didn't respond.
He couldn't.
Because suddenly, his breath had caught in his throat. Not from fear.
But recognition.
I know them.
His mind reeled.
The smiles. The eyes. The way they walked.
It hit him like cold water against his skin.
The flyers.
They were the ones who accepted the flyer.
Years ago. A rainy afternoon. Most people ignored him. Pretended not to see. One couple stopped. Smiled. Took the paper gently from his hand.
They hadn't asked questions. They hadn't pitied him.
They'd just smiled.
He had thought it kindness.
"...Dangsini chatkko inneun goseul chajeusigil baramnida. (I... I hope you find what you're looking for.)" They said to him.
A rare moment of compassion in a city that had grown tired of his grief.
But now—
As he stood frozen in the alleyway, watching their backs retreat down the street, that same smile burned behind his eyes.
A smile that didn't belong in a bakery.
A smile that didn't belong on people who watched others shatter.
A smile he now realised he had mistaken for mercy.
His stomach turned.
His fists clenched.
They had seen his Soo-min.
They had seen Ha Eun-ji.
They had known.
And they had smiled.
He leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, but not from exertion.
From the weight of memory.
From the realisation that they were always there.
Even when no one else was.
Even when the world moved on.
They never had.
And now...
Now they were walking away again.
Smiling.
Like nothing had ever happened.
Hyun-seok's voice was a whisper. Cold. Broken.
"It was you."