Rain whispered against the windshield like secrets no one wanted to keep.
It was past midnight. The road was nearly empty; just black asphalt and flickering headlights cutting through the storm-like blades. Then, suddenly, a figure appeared out of nowhere.
Small. Still. Soaked to the bone.
Mrs. Song gasped, her eyes widening behind the steering wheel.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "Stop the car. Stop right now!"
The chauffeur hit the brakes. The car skidded slightly before halting. Without a second thought, Mrs. Song pushed the door open and ran into the downpour. Her silk blouse clung to her skin instantly, ruined by the cold rain, but she didn't care.
There, on the side of the road, sat a girl no older than eight. Barefoot. Shivering. Her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her long, dark hair stuck to her face, and her lips trembled from the cold, yet her eyes stared ahead blankly like she wasn't there.
Mrs. Song dropped to her knees, her heart thudding.
"Sweetheart…" she said softly, pulling off her coat and draping it around the little girl's shoulders. "Where's your mother? Are you hurt?"
No response.
The girl blinked slowly, as if words were foreign to her. Her gaze flicked toward the road as if expecting someone else to arrive… someone who never did.
"She's in shock," the chauffeur said quietly, stepping forward with an umbrella.
"She's freezing," Mrs. Song muttered, wrapping her arms protectively around the child. "We can't leave her here. Not."
That night, the girl entered the grand Song family mansion.
She didn't cry. Didn't ask questions. Didn't even hesitate. She walked through the marbled halls with the same quiet obedience she had on the roadside, like a shadow too polite to exist. She was given hot soup, clean clothes, and a guestroom larger than any space she had ever seen.
Mr. Song called it a good deed.
Mrs. Song called it destiny.
The girl called it nothing.
Because in her world, kindness always came with conditions.
They gave her a name, Raejin.
"I think it suits her," Mrs. Song smiled, brushing her hair with motherly care. "It means 'truth.' That's what she needs right now."
But the truth wasn't something Raejin trusted. Not anymore.
First Days at School
The Songs enrolled her at Haneul Academy; the same elite private school as their son, Jooyoon Song. A rising fencing prodigy, the boy was everything Raejin was not: confident, respected, and undeniably privileged.
The first time they walked in together, Jooyoon acted like Raejin didn't exist. He walked ahead with his leather bag slung over one shoulder, chin tilted in quiet arrogance, as if she were just another staff-child tagging along.
But when no one else was looking, he did glance at her.
That glance wasn't curious. It wasn't welcoming. It was cold.
"Don't touch my stuff," Jooyoon muttered one morning when Raejin reached for the cereal they both liked.
"This isn't your home. Don't get confused."
Raejin said nothing. She'd learned long ago; that you don't fight where you eat.
At Home
She was polite. Grateful.
She got straight A's, thanked the housekeepers, and cleared her dishes even when no one noticed.
The Songs praised her as "exceptional." A child with promise. A girl with a future.
But the praise was cheap.
When Jooyoon won third place in a fencing tournament, he got a brand-new gaming console and a celebration dinner.
When Raejin topped her entire district in mathematics, she got a nod from Mr. Song and a reserved smile from Mrs. Song.
"You're growing so well," Mrs. Song said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"We're proud of you," Mr. Song added.
But neither of them asked how she got home from school every day.
Raejin didn't complain. She never missed a bus.
Sometimes, she would sit on the rooftop after school, legs folded beneath her, watching the sunset dip behind the trees like it was hiding from something. She liked the quiet. In the silence, she didn't feel judged.
Still, there were moments when she wondered…
If I disappeared tomorrow, would anyone come looking?
The Birthday
Her birthday was coming. Not the day she was found, but the date Mrs. Song had decided to mark as her "rebirth."
She didn't mention it. She didn't want a fuss. She just waited quietly, watching the week pass with no sign of anything special. No hints. No candles. No cake.
Just Raejin.
Until the night before.
She was sitting alone in her room, legs dangling from the edge of her bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence pressed in around her like fog.
Then a knock.
Her heart leaped. Maybe…
She opened the door.
It was the maid.
"Ma'am says you should sleep early," the woman said gently. "Tomorrow's a school day."
The door closed. The light clicked off.
Raejin turned toward the window, her reflection ghosting against the rain-dappled glass.
If I vanished tonight… would anyone notice before morning? Would they be worried?
The Surprise
Two months later was Jooyoon's big day, so plans were made but he and Raejin were at school. When returning plans were still in place and she knew not how to act but to help out in the preparation. That night, the mansion glowed with lights and laughter. Jooyoon's birthday was a grand affair; flowers, music, long tables of food, and a sea of expensive gifts.
Raejin stood to the side, unnoticed, until Mrs. Song approached her quietly. She held a small, velvet box.
"I know we missed your birthday," Mrs. Song said softly. "I'm sorry, my dear. Things were… busy."
She opened the box and pulled out a delicate silver bracelet, shimmering under the lights. It was shaped like a vine, twining around a single, leaf-shaped charm.
"I saw it and thought of you," she said, fastening it around Raejin's wrist. "You're growing into such a beautiful young woman."
Then, to Raejin's surprise, Mrs. Song kissed her cheek. Mr. Song soon joined them, drawing her into a warm hug.
"You're part of this family," he said with a smile.
Across the room, Jooyoon watched with narrowed eyes, the smile fading from his face.
Later that night, Raejin sat on the edge of her bed, tracing the charm on her bracelet with trembling fingers. Her chest ached, not from sadness, not from joy, but from something far more dangerous.
Hope.
And hope, she had learned, was the first step toward heartbreak.