The weekend came faster than Minjae expected, but it brought little comfort.
He tried to fill the hours with chores. Scrubbing the bathroom. Vacuuming every corner. Rearranging books he didn't have time to read.
But no matter how loud the music or how hot the water, the silence between messages always crawled under his skin.
It wasn't the waiting.
It was the knowing—that she could be anywhere. Watching. Listening. Closer than he realized.
He kept checking the peephole before opening the front door.
Nothing.
Still, he couldn't shake the feeling.
📲💬
You didn't take your umbrella.
It might rain tonight.
💬
The message came just as he stepped outside for groceries.
He looked up at the cloudless sky.
No rain. Not a breeze.
But out of pure instinct—or fear—he turned around, walked back in, and grabbed his umbrella.
It rained twenty minutes later.
Hard.
⸻
Kang Mirae sat at her desk, reviewing an author's latest manuscript, but her focus kept drifting.
She pulled out her phone and tapped into a private app, one built by her own contacts.
A secure feed popped up. A small list of devices her brother's phone had connected to recently.
Nothing new.
Still, her gut twisted.
Minjae had been different lately. Less talkative. Distracted. The kind of distracted that meant something deeper—something darker.
She tapped into the street cam outside their apartment.
No anomalies. No loiterers.
Just an umbrella by the door.
She frowned.
They only owned one. She had taken hers.
Whose was this?
⸻
Back at the café, Minjae's manager had asked him to work a double shift. Someone called in sick.
He agreed, if only because staying home felt worse.
The café closed at 11, but he stayed behind to mop and clean the equipment. Everyone else had already left.
At 11:43 PM, as he was locking up, he noticed something on the counter near the register.
A photograph.
Just one.
It was him—taken from a distance. He was walking home, headphones in, completely unaware.
His breath caught.
He flipped the photo.
On the back, in small, neat handwriting:
"You looked sad that day. I stayed behind."
He looked up. Out through the café glass. Nothing but reflections of the streetlights.
He didn't run this time.
He walked. Slowly. Carefully. Umbrella in hand. The photo clutched tight.
Every step echoed like a question.
How close had she been when she took that?
And how many others had she taken?
⸻
Seo Yoonji exhaled softly as she watched him vanish around the corner.
She stood on the rooftop above the opposite building, the camera in her hand still warm.
A scarf hid the lower half of her face, though no one would recognize her here anyway.
Not like this.
Not with her hair loose. Not without the heels, the voice, the title.
She wasn't the CEO right now.
She was the girl behind the lens.
The shadow that loved him from afar.
Her fingers brushed the inside of her coat pocket. A small leather-bound book rested there.
The old pages were filled with sketches. Clippings. Pieces of him. Moments only she remembered.
Tonight, she'd add one more.
The photo she'd left him wasn't the only one.
No…
There were hundreds. Thousands.
But that one—
That one was special.
Because he had looked up.
Right after she took it.
Almost like he'd felt her.
⸻
Back at home, Minjae placed the photo inside his desk drawer. He didn't show it to Mirae.
He didn't know why.
Maybe part of him wanted to protect her.
Maybe part of him didn't want to let go.
But most of all, he just didn't know what to say.
📲💬
Why do you keep doing this?
💬
The reply came hours later.
📲💬
Because you don't remember me.
💬
He stared at the screen. The letters burned.
📲💬
Who are you?
💬
📲💬
Someone who never forgot you.
💬
He couldn't breathe for a second.
📲💬
We were never close. But I was always near.
You smiled at me once, on a rainy day.
💬
His fingers hovered.
That could be anyone. High school? University?
But why now?
📲💬
What do you want from me?
💬
A pause.
📲💬
Everything.
💬
He didn't sleep that night.
⸻
The next morning, a new envelope was taped to his bicycle's handlebar.
Inside:
A black USB drive.
No label. No message.
Just the drive.
Minjae brought it inside, locked his door, and booted up his laptop.
The contents: one folder. Titled simply: "YOUR DAYS."
Inside, dozens of subfolders.
Each one dated.
Each one labeled by location—"Café," "Bus Stop," "Park Bench," "Library," "University Side Gate."
Photos.
Short clips.
Audio.
All of him.
Nothing compromising.
Just… intimate.
Too intimate.
Moments even he barely remembered.
The way he tilted his head when reading. The rhythm of his steps when he walked home.
A video of him helping a stray dog drink water in an alley.
Private moments. Unshared smiles.
He sat frozen. Skin crawling.
Then the last file:
📁 VIDEO_2019_1022_BIRTHDAY.WAV
He clicked.
It was audio. Just audio.
A girl's voice. Whispering.
"Happy birthday, Minjae.
You didn't know, but I watched you blow out that candle.
You didn't wish for me…
But I wished for you."
The sound of a match striking. A faint birthday song.
Then silence.
Minjae closed the laptop slowly.
And for the first time since the messages began—
He felt truly afraid.
⸻
[End of Chapter 3]
⸻
📒 A/N (Author's Note):
The web is tightening around Minjae—and yet, our mysterious observer has yet to reveal her face. The story continues to build in psychological intensity, establishing a layered portrait of obsession, memory, and emotional vulnerability.