I remember that day with a clarity that still catches my breath, even now.
The city streets were buzzing with fans, the kind of chaotic excitement that always followed Yoon Jun‑seo wherever he went. I had watched him countless times—from afar, hidden behind crowds, behind shadows—admiring, yearning, but never daring to step into his light again. Not as me. Not after everything.
Today, I didn't go. I couldn't. Not after the truths between us, not after the lies I had woven into the very fabric of our lives. I had given birth to our daughter and chosen to raise her alone, shielding her from the heartbreak I knew Jun‑seo would feel if he ever realized what I had done—or what I had allowed him to feel.
Instead, I sent her.
She stood small in the mass of fans, her dark eyes wide and bright, clutching a small, carefully folded letter I had written for him. She looked so much like him—his chin, the sharpness of his gaze, the gentle curve of his mouth—and I felt a pang I couldn't hide.
"Go on," I whispered, pressing a hand gently to her shoulder. "Tell him… just this once."
Her little fingers tightened around the envelope as she made her way through the crowd, brave and unaware of the storm she was walking into. I watched from the shadows, heart pounding, unable to move closer, unable to speak.
Inside the envelope was everything I could no longer say aloud.
Jun‑seo,
We may not be able to meet you, not now, not ever. But please know… we are always watching, always supporting you, from afar. Our hearts are with you, even if ours cannot be shared openly.
—Eun‑seo
I had written it carefully, every word weighed, every emotion controlled. Not as Baek Ajin, not as the woman who had manipulated and broken, but as a mother, as the fragment of someone who had once loved him fiercely.
Through the gaps in the crowd, I saw him. Jun‑seo. Calm, focused, signing books for fans, smiling politely, unaware that the world he thought he knew—the world of loyalty, love, and honesty—was already slipping through his fingers.
And then… my daughter's small voice rang out, clear and unwavering.
"Uncle Jun‑seo, this is for you," she said, holding out the envelope with both hands.
For a moment, he looked down, surprised. His eyes softened, scanning the small, brave face in front of him. He didn't know who she was—or perhaps he did, in some instinctive, fleeting way—but he took the letter gently, reading the words that were meant to bridge the impossible distance between us.
I stood behind the crowd, invisible, watching the exchange. My heart ached, torn between pride and sorrow. I wanted to run to him, to tell him everything, to let him see me for who I was. But I couldn't. I had made my choices. I had sent our child to bear the truth I could not.
As he smiled down at her, something in his expression shifted—a warmth, a faint recognition, or maybe just the kindness he always carried. I let myself imagine that he understood, that he knew our hearts were there with him, even if we were not.
And then I turned away.
The rain had begun to fall lightly, washing the city in silver. My daughter followed, her small hand gripping mine as tightly as I had always held onto the remnants of our past.
We walked away together, silent, carrying the truth of a love that had been too fierce, too dangerous, too real to survive in the world we had known. And I whispered softly, more to myself than anyone else:
We will always watch from afar, Jun‑seo. Always.
And with that, I let the memory fade into the shadows of the city.
The city's evening lights blurred through the rain as we walked away. My daughter's small hand still clutched mine, steady and warm, completely unaware of the weight of what she had just delivered.
I kept my head down, pretending calm, but inside, every beat of my heart screamed. Seeing Jun‑seo—even from afar—was like reopening a wound I had tried to bury. I remembered the first time I had met him, the way he had smiled so easily, so genuinely, as if the world couldn't touch him. And now… now, the world had changed both of us.
"She seemed nice," my daughter said softly, breaking the silence. Her dark eyes, curious and perceptive, looked up at me. "Jun‑seo‑ssi… he smiled at me. He seemed happy."
I forced a smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Good," I said, my voice steady. "That's all we want. Him to be happy."
Her small lips pressed together, and she looked thoughtful. "Do you miss him, Mommy?"
I froze, my hand tightening around hers. The truth pressed against my chest like a stone. Did I miss him? Every day. Every hour. But I couldn't tell her that—not now. That would betray the careful distance I had created.
"Yes," I whispered after a long pause. "Sometimes. But we watch him from afar… and that's enough."
My daughter nodded solemnly, as if she understood the invisible rules of our little world. She didn't question why. She didn't need to. And somehow, that trust—her unwavering trust—was more painful than anything else.
That night, after she had gone to bed, I sat by the window, pen in hand, staring at the darkened skyline. I wrote another letter—this one not for her to deliver, but for me to release the words that could never be spoken aloud:
Jun‑seo,
I know we cannot meet. I know that I have caused pain, and I have used you in ways you did not deserve. But I want you to know… we are watching. We are cheering for you. We carry hope for you, even if we cannot be there. My love, twisted as it may be, has never left. Our child… carries a piece of you, a piece of the life we once shared.
I folded the paper carefully, letting the words rest between the pages of my journal. I couldn't send it. I couldn't reach him. But writing it down was a small act of connection, a secret lifeline between us, fragile yet unbroken.
I leaned back, closing my eyes. Two years had changed me. I had survived by manipulation, by strategy, by hiding in shadows. But my daughter… and the memory of Jun‑seo… reminded me that beneath it all, there was still a part of me capable of feeling, of longing, of hope.
And perhaps, somewhere in the quiet corners of the world, he would feel it too—even if he never knew who it came from.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, relentless, washing the city clean. And in the solitude of that moment, I allowed myself to imagine: a world where we could watch, love, and protect, all from afar, safe in the knowledge that some bonds—though unseen—never truly break.
Days passed quietly, almost unnervingly so. The world outside kept moving, fans chattered, cameras clicked, yet my little world remained tightly bound by silence and shadows. But even in that silence, subtle connections were forming—connections I could not fully control.
My daughter had grown bold, curious, and somehow clever enough to navigate the spaces I dared not enter. She spoke often of Jun‑seo, describing his smile, his voice, and the way he signed books for his fans. I listened quietly, letting her words paint the picture, hiding the ache in my chest that came from being absent.
One evening, she pressed a small note into my hand. Her tiny handwriting, careful and earnest, made my heart tighten:
Uncle Jun‑seo, we will always be cheering for you. Please be happy. Love, your little fan.
I read the words over and over. She had written it herself, using the lessons I had taught her—polite, careful, full of warmth, yet distant. It was brilliant. Subtle. Safe. And it made me feel… guilty. Guilty that she carried what I could no longer bear to express myself.
"You wrote this?" I asked quietly.
She nodded. "I wanted him to know… we're thinking about him. You said we can't meet him, but we can still care, right?"
I swallowed hard. My chest tightened. I wanted to tell her that yes, we can care—but it's dangerous. That love can hurt, even at a distance. But she was already wise beyond her years. Instead, I kissed her forehead gently.
"Yes," I said softly. "That's exactly right."
A week later, I watched her from a distance as she delivered the note to Jun‑seo at a small event. I couldn't be there. I couldn't risk the world noticing me, recognizing the woman who had once been everything to him. But from afar, I saw him pause, reading the note.
I thought I saw his expression soften—just a flicker, a quiet warmth in the corner of his eyes. He didn't look around, didn't search the crowd. He just held the paper carefully, as if it were a fragile treasure.
I couldn't breathe for a moment. That flicker—just for a second—felt like a lifeline. A proof that the connection we had shared, the love I had hidden and sacrificed, still existed somewhere, even if only in memory.
And yet, I knew better. Reality had a way of intruding. Jun‑seo didn't know my daughter was my daughter. He didn't know I was the one who had written him letters through her hands. And if he ever did… would he forgive me? Would he understand, or would he see only the woman who had used him, manipulated him, and disappeared?
That night, I sat at my desk, pen in hand, drafting another letter. Not to be sent, not yet. Just a confession of everything I couldn't speak aloud:
We watch from afar, Jun‑seo. Always. And though I cannot be with you, and though I cannot come back, you are never far from my heart. We will always hope for your happiness. My child… carries a part of you. And I hope, in some way, she reminds you of the love we once shared.
I folded the paper carefully, placing it in the envelope I had no intention of mailing. But just having written it—having felt it—was enough to release some of the ache.
I leaned back, watching my daughter sleep across the room. Her chest rose and fell, steady and innocent. A reminder of why I had chosen distance. Why I had survived in the shadows.
And yet, even in the quiet, I felt a subtle shift—an unspoken tension in the air, as if the world was preparing to pull us back together, or tear us further apart.
I didn't know which it would be. But I knew this: even from afar, even in silence, we were still part of each other's lives. And that connection… could never truly be broken.
Now
The city never truly slept, and neither did the web I had woven around my daughter and Jun‑seo. But I had learned long ago that life rarely follows the careful patterns we plan.
That afternoon, a knock on the door startled me. I wasn't expecting anyone. My daughter peeked curiously from the living room.
"It's for you, Mommy," she said, holding the envelope that had been slid under the door.
I opened it carefully. Inside was a note, simple, elegant, yet entirely unexpected:
We know who you are. And we know what you're doing.
No signature. No hint. But I felt the weight behind it, as if the words themselves were a warning.
A few hours later, I saw them in the streets. Two new faces I hadn't encountered before:
Kang Ha‑ri, an entertainment journalist known for uncovering scandals before anyone else even knew they existed. Sharp, observant, dangerous in a subtle way. She didn't just report—she dissected, predicted, and manipulated narratives.
Lee Min‑joon, a seemingly charming photographer who had connections deeper than anyone guessed. Friendly on the surface, but I sensed an underlying calculation in every smile.
Both of them lingered near Jun‑seo's latest public appearance, cameras and notebooks in hand, watching, waiting. And suddenly, I realized: they were indirectly observing me through my daughter.
My heart tightened. I had been careful, but my methods had a footprint. The letters, the secret meetings, even the child's innocent interactions—they were all traceable to someone who knew how to read the subtle signs.
I retreated to my apartment, the city's chaos below me reflected in the darkened windows. My daughter sat quietly at the table, coloring in her notebook. I knew I couldn't shield her forever, but I also couldn't risk losing her trust—or revealing the truth to anyone else.
I picked up my pen again, drafting another unsent letter. Not to Jun‑seo this time, but to myself, a reminder:
They are watching. But we are careful. And we are clever. No one can see everything, not if we control the edges of the game.
Yet even as I wrote the words, a pang of unease passed through me. Ha‑ri and Min‑joon weren't just reporters or observers—they were forces I couldn't ignore. They could uncover, twist, or even weaponize the very connection I was protecting: the one between my daughter and Jun‑seo.
I leaned back, letting the words settle in my mind. The game had changed. It was no longer just about distance and secrecy. It was about survival—against the industry, against the curious eyes, against forces I hadn't anticipated.
And somewhere, hidden in the city's endless pulse, Jun‑seo remained unaware, smiling, signing, living… while the threads of our past—and our child's innocent bridge between us—were slowly being tugged in directions I could not yet control.
I kissed my daughter's forehead, silently vowing: no one would take her from me. No one would destroy the fragile connection we were building.
And if Ha‑ri and Min‑joon wanted to play their game… I would welcome it.
Because I had never lost before. And I would not start now.
The morning light barely touched the city when I realized the game had changed. Ha‑ri and Min‑joon weren't just observers—they were players. Subtle, calculated, and ruthless. And suddenly, every step I took, every breath my daughter took, could be traced, scrutinized, and weaponized.
A message slid under my apartment door. I didn't have to look at it to know who it was from:
We've seen the girl. She's clever. But so are we. Watch carefully.
No signature, no contact information. Just the promise of interference.
I looked at my daughter, who was humming softly as she drew in her notebook. Innocence itself, unaware of the storm building around her. My chest tightened. Protecting her had become a delicate, high-stakes operation.
Later that day, I saw them—Ha‑ri and Min‑joon—at the small bookstore where Jun‑seo was signing books for a few select fans. They weren't subtle. Ha‑ri was snapping photos under the guise of casual photography, Min‑joon keeping his eyes on the crowd, cataloging faces like an investigator mapping evidence.
I stayed in the shadows, watching, calculating. My daughter clutched my hand tightly, unaware of the danger they posed.
"They're watching us, Mommy," she whispered.
I smiled faintly, masking the tension. "Yes," I admitted. "But we're careful, right?"
She nodded. And in that small gesture, I felt a surge of both pride and fear. Pride that she could understand, even a little, the rules of our invisible game. Fear that the world she was walking into might be far more dangerous than she realized.
I thought about Jun‑seo then. Calm, kind, oblivious to the delicate threads weaving between us. How I had once loved him, how I had used him, and how now I was forced to protect the memory, the connection, and our child—all from afar.
Ha‑ri moved closer to the front, aiming her camera with precision. Min‑joon whispered into his earpiece, tracking movement, calculating timing. I knew they were planning their first move—not overt, not direct—but a subtle provocation that could expose us if I wasn't careful.
I exhaled slowly, letting my thoughts crystallize. I needed to anticipate them. Outmaneuver them. Protect my daughter. And, quietly, maintain the secret bridge between us and Jun‑seo.
A plan began forming, one that would use their own arrogance against them. A whisper of misdirection, a small, untraceable gesture from my daughter—enough to draw their attention, but never enough to reveal the truth.
I leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Remember, we move carefully. We let them think they're ahead, but we're always one step ahead."
She nodded again, her dark eyes shining with trust.
And for the first time in days, I felt the thrill of control return. The game had escalated. The players were clever, but so was I.
The battle lines were drawn, unseen but unbreakable. And when Jun‑seo passed through the crowd, smiling at a fan, completely unaware of the storm, I realized: no one—not Ha‑ri, not Min‑joon, not even him—would ever truly understand what I had to protect.
Because in the shadows, I was still Baek Ajin. And I had never lost a game yet.

The city felt different now. The noise, the flashes of cameras, the whispers of fans—it all used to overwhelm me, but now it fueled me. Every step I took, every interview I gave, every performance on stage, was a calculated move toward reclaiming the life I had lost.
Two years had passed. Two years of silence, absence, and reflection. The heartbreak had left scars, but it had also left clarity. I had learned what mattered—and what could no longer define me.
My career wasn't just about fame anymore. It was about control, precision, and creating something that couldn't be taken from me. I worked harder than I ever had, accepting roles that challenged me, giving interviews that revealed depth rather than superficial charm. Slowly, deliberately, the world began to notice.
Fans returned—not just the casual admirers, but those who had truly believed in me, in the art I created. My popularity grew, not overnight, but with a steady, undeniable force. And through it all, I carried the memory of someone I couldn't reach—someone I had lost, yet couldn't forget.
It wasn't just Ajin. It was more complicated than that. A small, secret part of my life had remained hidden from me, a thread I didn't know I had—a child, a connection I hadn't been allowed to see. And yet, sometimes in the quiet moments, I felt the weight of absence, a sense of longing I couldn't explain.
During one signing event, a small, handwritten note was slipped into my hands. I glanced around. No one looked familiar. My assistant shrugged, equally puzzled. The note read:
We are always cheering for you. Keep going.
No signature. No clue. But there was something about the handwriting—careful, deliberate, familiar in a way that tugged at the corners of my memory. A pang hit my chest, fleeting and confusing.
I pocketed the note, continuing the event as if nothing had happened. But my mind lingered on it long after the cameras had left, long after the fans had gone. Who had written it? Why now? And why did it feel… like a thread connecting me to a part of my past I had tried to forget?
Even as I rebuilt my career, my steps were measured, cautious. I knew the industry was filled with whispers, rumors, and the constant threat of exposure. But I had learned to navigate that world, just as I had learned to navigate the feelings I could not yet name.
At night, when the city lights stretched out like a constellation of opportunities and dangers, I allowed myself a single indulgence—thinking of the moments I had shared, the words left unsaid, and the child whose presence I could only guess at.
I wasn't bitter anymore. I wasn't broken. I was building, growing, rising—not just for the world, but for the pieces of my life that had been hidden from me, waiting in the shadows.
And somewhere, in the quiet corners of the city, I knew the story wasn't finished. That the threads I had lost were still moving, still pulling. And maybe, just maybe, they were leading me back to the truth I had been denied.
Because rebuilding wasn't just about career or popularity. It was about finding the pieces of life that mattered… and discovering who I really wanted to become.
I didn't expect her to be there. Not at the quiet little bookstore tucked between high-rise buildings, where most people came to browse, not to be noticed.
The bell above the door jingled softly as I entered, scanning the shelves for the latest novels I had been asked to review. And then I saw her—small, deliberate, clutching a folded note, sitting on a stool near the poetry section.
My heart skipped, a strange mix of curiosity and unease twisting inside me. I approached slowly, careful not to startle her.
"Hello," I said, my voice softer than I intended.
She looked up, dark eyes steady and unflinching. "Hi," she replied. Her tone was calm, but there was a weight to it, a confidence that made me pause.
"Are you… looking for someone?" I asked, nodding toward the note in her hands.
She shook her head. "Just wanted to give you this," she said, extending it toward me.
I took the note carefully, my fingers brushing hers for a brief second. A spark of recognition—or was it memory?—rippled through me.
We are always cheering for you. Keep going, and don't forget to smile.
Simple words, but they landed heavily in my chest. I looked at her, searching for any clue—any hint of who she was—but her expression remained neutral, unreadable.
"Who… gave you this?" I asked again, though I had a sinking feeling I already knew the answer.
"No one you know," she said, almost too easily. "Just someone who cares."
Her honesty—or her carefully measured words—stirred something deep within me. A quiet ache, a memory I couldn't fully place. The connection felt familiar, too familiar, and yet entirely out of reach.
I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket. "Thank you," I said softly. "I'll keep it safe."
She nodded and quietly moved toward the back of the store, disappearing between the shelves before I could even ask her name.
I stood there, the echo of her presence lingering. The bookstore suddenly felt empty, too quiet, like it had absorbed her energy and left me alone with the questions I couldn't answer.
Who was she really? Why did the briefest contact with her stir memories I thought I had buried? And why did I feel this strange pull, as if a piece of my past was reaching out through someone I didn't fully understand?
I left the bookstore, the note burning in my pocket. The city outside was alive, bustling with people who didn't notice me, who didn't know the tiny thread connecting me to something—or someone—far beyond my understanding.
And somewhere, hidden in the quiet, I felt the faintest hint of a story that was just beginning to unfold.
The next few days were unsettling. Every time I walked through the city, attended a small event, or even paused at a café, there seemed to be little reminders of her—of the girl. A note slipped quietly under a table, a small sketch left where I would find it, or simply a fleeting shadow that disappeared before I could follow.
I tried to ignore it, told myself it was coincidence, imagination—but deep down, a part of me resisted denial. Patterns don't form by accident. Someone was deliberately sending these small messages, guiding me, testing me—or maybe even trying to reach me.
I thought of her—the woman I had lost, the one I could no longer reach. There was no name on these gestures, no signature, but every instinct in me screamed that they were connected. That they were coming from a place I couldn't yet see.
During rehearsal one evening, I found another note tucked inside a folder I used for my scripts:
You're doing well. Keep moving forward.
Simple. Encouraging. Delicate, almost as if written for someone fragile—but I didn't feel fragile. Yet reading it sent a shiver down my spine. The handwriting was careful, deliberate, like it belonged to someone who had learned to hide pieces of themselves for a long time.
I held it in my hand, turning it over, searching for clues. Something in the flow of the letters—the slight curve of the "k" and the tiny flourish on the "y"—stirred a distant memory, a fragment I couldn't place.
My mind drifted back to the little girl, the one I had met at the bookstore and at the fountain. There was something about the way she moved, the way she held herself… uncanny. Like she carried a part of someone I once knew.
I couldn't shake the feeling that she was more than just a random messenger. That someone—someone I had loved, someone I had lost—was orchestrating these encounters from the shadows. And with every small interaction, the invisible threads were being tugged, drawing me closer to a truth I wasn't ready to face.
I walked home that night with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. The city lights shimmered on wet streets, mirroring the confusion in my heart. I was rebuilding my life, my career, my identity—but beneath it all, I felt the stirrings of a connection I hadn't realized I still craved.
Somewhere, in the distance, I sensed the quiet presence of the one I couldn't reach. A presence guiding, protecting, testing. And though I didn't yet understand the full story, I knew one thing: the past wasn't gone. It was alive, moving in the shadows, waiting for me to notice—and waiting for me to respond.
And I knew, without a doubt, that I would.
I had been following the small, subtle patterns for weeks—notes, glimpses, fleeting encounters—and slowly, the sense of familiarity had grown into something undeniable. There was a presence guiding me, a deliberate hand orchestrating these tiny threads.
And then it happened.
I arrived at a small café to review some scripts, a quiet place I often used to think. Sitting at a corner table, sketchbook open, was the little girl again. But this time, she wasn't alone.
A woman was with her—a stranger at first glance. But the moment our eyes met, something inside me froze. The face was hidden beneath a soft scarf, the features obscured, yet there was a weight, a presence that hit me like a punch to the chest.
I didn't recognize her fully. But the posture, the subtle tilt of the head, the way she moved—everything screamed familiarity. My heart thudded in my chest.
The little girl handed me a folded note. I unfolded it carefully.
We're closer than you think. Watch carefully, and you'll find the truth soon.
Simple. Cryptic. And chilling.
I looked at the woman again, trying to discern who she was. Something about her aura, the way she observed me—calm, controlled—struck a chord deep in my memory. It was Ajin. I was sure of it. But how? Why now?
The twist hit me fully when the woman removed the scarf briefly, revealing her eyes—same sharpness, same fire I had loved and lost. But she wasn't here for confrontation. She was here to manipulate the situation, silently, using our daughter as the bridge.
I realized then the truth: the little girl wasn't just a messenger. She was a carefully placed link, a way for Ajin to stay close to me, to influence me, without revealing herself. Everything I thought was random—the notes, the fleeting encounters, the subtle nudges—had been orchestrated.
And worst of all… I didn't know whether to feel relieved or betrayed.
I stared at them, my mind racing. The life I had built, the careful rebuilding of my career and identity, now collided with a past I had thought was gone. The threads I had been following weren't leading me to a random admirer—they were leading me back to Ajin.
And in that moment, I knew one thing: nothing would ever be simple again.
Because the past I had left behind was alive, moving in secret, and holding the power to rewrite everything I thought I knew about love, trust, and family.