I shouldn't have gone there.
I knew the risk, knew the pattern was starting to reveal itself, yet I couldn't stop. Watching him from a distance had become both my punishment and my only relief.
The café was quiet, warm, the hum of conversation low enough to blur into the background. My daughter's small hand rested in mine, and I squeezed it gently. She had no idea who the man sitting across the room really was. Or maybe—just maybe—she did. She was always too perceptive for her age.
When she asked if she could hand him the note, my throat tightened. I had written those words so many times before—encouragements, reassurances, little fragments of what I could never say aloud.
> We're closer than you think.
It wasn't just a message. It was a confession hidden between the lines.
I watched him read it, watched the familiar confusion flicker across his face, that same furrow between his brows that used to appear when he was trying to understand me. The years hadn't changed that. If anything, they'd made him quieter, sharper… lonelier.
He looked at me then. Really looked.
And for the briefest moment, I forgot how to breathe.
It was like time folded in on itself—back to the days when I still believed I could twist the world to my will and make it love me anyway. I could almost hear his voice, the way he used to say my name like it meant something gentle. But now, the distance between us was too vast, and I had built every brick of it myself.
My daughter tugged my sleeve. "Mom," she whispered, "he looked sad."
I forced a smile. "Maybe he's just tired, sweetheart."
But I knew better. He wasn't just tired—he was remembering. And that terrified me more than anything. Because if he remembered enough, if he pieced together the truth, everything I'd fought to protect—her, myself, even the illusion of peace—would crumble.
When he left the café, he didn't look back.
But I could feel it—the question forming in his mind. The way his steps slowed outside, like he wanted to turn around but couldn't bring himself to.
And for the first time in years, I wanted him to.
I wanted him to see me.
But that wasn't part of the plan.
So I stayed where I was, watching through the fogged glass, letting the moment slip away like smoke. Because I wasn't the woman he had loved anymore. I was the ghost who had manipulated her own life into silence—and the mother who couldn't bear to tell her daughter who her father really was.
And as I walked away, my reflection following me through the dim light, one truth pulsed painfully in my chest:
I had spent years trying to control everything.
But now, the story was starting to control me.

The studio smelled of ink and dusted paper — a quiet, familiar chaos I'd learned to love again. After everything that had fallen apart, I had rebuilt this world from the ground up. I wrote for others, collaborated with rising authors, mentored new voices — and somewhere along the way, people started calling me one of them again.
But there was always something missing.
"Hyung, this one's ready for editing," one of my colleagues called, handing me a stack of printed drafts. I nodded absently, glancing through the pages. Words blurred together, paragraphs flowing smoothly — but none of it moved me. Not like before.
That's when I realized I'd stopped writing for myself.
I stayed behind after everyone left, the studio now silent except for the soft tick of the clock. I pulled out my old journal, the one I hadn't opened in years. The cover was worn, pages filled with drafts I had written during the days when I still believed love could be rewritten.
Tonight, I wanted to write again — for me.
I stared at the blank page for a long time before the words finally began to flow.
> She said lies could protect people. But maybe lies only make the distance last longer.
I paused, pen hovering. Where had that line come from? It felt too personal, too close to something I hadn't meant to touch.
I set the pen down, leaning back. Every time I tried to write, she found her way into the margins — Ajin. The one who had burned every bridge, including mine. And yet, every story I wrote, every character I created, somehow carried her shadow.
A few days later, I found myself being interviewed by a new magazine. The interviewer smiled as she flipped through my notes. "So, I heard you're working on your first independent novel again. Is it true it's inspired by someone from your past?"
Her words froze me mid-sentence.
I hadn't told anyone that.
"Where did you hear that?" I asked.
She smiled knowingly. "A reader's guess, maybe. The online forums are already calling it The Return of the Unknown Muse."
The phrase lingered in my mind long after she left. Unknown muse. If only they knew how literal that was — a ghost from my past whispering through the cracks of my stories, her words, her silence, her absence shaping everything I wrote.
That night, I opened my email to find a message from an anonymous sender. The subject line read:
> For your next book — something you've forgotten to write.
Attached was a single file. A scanned photograph.
Me — years younger, signing autographs at a fan event.
And beside me, just barely visible at the edge of the frame… a woman holding a child.
I zoomed in, my pulse quickening. The woman's face was turned away, but even in the blur, I knew.
Ajin.
My hands trembled slightly. The photograph was taken years after I thought she'd vanished completely.
I stared at it for a long time. Then, without thinking, I whispered to the empty room:
> "You never really left, did you?"
The city outside my window buzzed with life, but for the first time in years, I didn't feel alone. I felt haunted — by memories, by unfinished words, and by the truth I had stopped trying to find.
Maybe this new book wasn't just mine to write.
Maybe it was hers too.
I hadn't been back in years.
The house stood the same — too clean, too silent, like it was pretending to forget what it had seen. The paint was fading, the air smelled faintly of old incense and damp carpets.
When I rang the bell, there was no answer. I almost turned away. But the door creaked open a second later, and there she was — my mother.
She looked smaller somehow. Her hair was streaked with gray, her eyes sharp but tired. For a moment, she just stared at me, as if she wasn't sure if I was real.
"Jun-seo," she said finally, her voice flat. "So you remembered you had a mother?"
I swallowed hard, forcing a bitter smile. "I didn't come here to remember. I came to understand."
She scoffed, turning away. "Understand what? The past? That was your choice, not mine."
I stepped inside, the memories closing in — the cold floors, the shouts that echoed through the walls, the years of silence that followed my father's death.
"Was it?" I asked quietly. "Because I remember you choosing to ignore me. I remember you choosing him over me every single time."
She didn't respond, her back rigid as she busied herself with teacups that didn't need cleaning. I moved closer, lowering my voice.
"You used to hit her too," I said. "Ajin. You called her a burden. A mistake."
That made her freeze.
"Watch your mouth," she hissed. "That girl ruined everything. Your father—"
"My stepfather," I corrected. "You mean the man who called himself a savior while breaking us piece by piece?"
Her hand trembled slightly, the porcelain clinking against the saucer. "He gave you a life. A name. You should be grateful."
"Grateful?" I laughed bitterly. "Grateful that he treated me like an inconvenience? That he controlled every breath we took? That you watched it happen and said nothing?"
The room went quiet. Only the sound of the clock ticking between us.
Finally, she spoke, softer this time. "You don't understand what it was like. I did what I had to do to survive."
I stared at her — this woman who had once been unreachable, now just fragile and small.
"Then what was I doing all those years?" I asked. "Surviving, or just waiting to be noticed?"
She didn't answer. Maybe she couldn't. The silence was its own confession.
I took a deep breath, stepping toward the door. "You always said love was a privilege, not a right," I murmured. "Maybe that's why none of us knew how to give it properly."
Her eyes flickered, but she said nothing. I turned to leave.
Just before I opened the door, she whispered, barely audible:
"Your father wasn't the only one hiding things."
I stopped, my hand frozen on the handle.
When I looked back, her expression was unreadable. A strange mixture of guilt and fear.
"What does that mean?" I asked quietly.
But she only looked away, her fingers tightening around the teacup as if she was holding on to something she couldn't say aloud.
And for the first time in years, I realized — the house hadn't just buried memories.
It was still hiding secrets.
After that day, I didn't plan to see her again. But the next morning, I found myself standing at the same gate, this time with something I hadn't brought before—courage.
The door opened before I knocked. She must've been waiting.
Her eyes flicked toward me, tired but curious.
"Forgot something yesterday?" she asked, her tone sharp as ever.
I shook my head. "No. But I need to say something before it eats me alive."
She didn't reply, only turned back into the house. I followed her to the living room—the same old furniture, same untouched family photos. My father's face still smiled from the dusty frame on the shelf.
I sat down. My hands trembled slightly.
There were many truths I'd buried over the years, but this one… it had roots.
"Do you remember Ajin?" I asked quietly.
Her expression hardened. "That girl again? I told you to forget her."
"I tried." I gave a hollow laugh. "But life doesn't always listen."
She crossed her arms, watching me carefully. "You sound like your father."
"Maybe," I said softly. "But at least I didn't run away from what I did."
Her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
I looked down for a moment, then forced myself to meet her gaze. "Ajin had a daughter."
The silence that followed was suffocating. She blinked once, twice—then the disbelief hit her face.
"…What?"
"She gave birth… years ago. When we were both too young, too scared. She raised her alone. I didn't even know until recently."
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
"I was chasing my career," I continued. "Trying to prove something—to you, to him, to everyone who said I'd never be anything. And in that time, she went through everything alone. The pain, the judgment, the fear. She did it all without me."
My voice cracked at the end. I hated how fragile it sounded.
"I see her sometimes," I admitted. "Our daughter. She's… she's beautiful. She has Ajin's eyes. The same quiet strength."
For a moment, my mother's gaze softened—but then she turned away, her face shutting down again.
"So that's it," she said coldly. "You ruined your life for that girl."
"No." I leaned forward, anger burning low in my chest. "I ruined my life trying to be someone you could finally be proud of. I lost her because I was too afraid of becoming you."
That struck something. Her hand, resting on the arm of the chair, tightened.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't compare me to you."
"Then stop acting like love is a weakness," I said. "Ajin gave me something real. Something I was too broken to hold on to. She gave me a reason to feel human again."
The words hung there, trembling in the air.
For the first time, I saw her walls crack—not much, but enough. Her eyes glistened, and she turned away quickly, pretending to wipe dust from the table.
"You said… she lives separately?" she asked after a long silence.
"Yeah," I breathed. "By her choice. She doesn't owe me forgiveness. I visit sometimes, but it's always from a distance. She still can't look at me the same way."
I paused, then added quietly,
"She shouldn't have to."
My mother didn't respond. But when I stood to leave, I heard her voice—fragile, breaking through years of ice.
"Jun-seo…"
I stopped at the doorway.
"She might've lived apart from you," she murmured, "but maybe… that doesn't mean you have to keep living apart from yourself."
It wasn't forgiveness. But it was something.
A beginning, maybe.
And for once, I didn't walk away angry.
I stepped outside before the rain started. The air was heavy—the kind that clings to your clothes, the kind that makes silence feel louder.
My mother's words replayed in my head like an echo I didn't ask for:
"She might've lived apart from you, but maybe that doesn't mean you have to keep living apart from yourself."
It hurt because it was true.
For years, I lived on stages and pages—signing books, smiling for photos, pretending that the stories I wrote weren't just fragments of my own regret.
But that morning, sitting across from her, something inside me shifted.
I realized I'd never actually stopped being that boy who waited for someone to say I'm proud of you.
Now, walking down that familiar street, past the old market and the bus stop where Ajin used to wait after class, I couldn't stop seeing her face.
The younger version—the one who laughed too loudly, rolled her eyes at my stupid jokes, and somehow made my chaos feel like music.
I reached the corner café before I even realized where my legs had taken me.
The barista looked up when I walked in. "You're early today, Mr. Yoon."
"Yeah," I muttered, forcing a smile. "Guess I had nowhere else to go."
I sat by the window, the same spot I always took when I needed to write.
But today, I didn't open my laptop.
Instead, I pulled out a small envelope from my pocket—the one I hadn't been able to open for weeks.
Ajin's handwriting.
To Jun-seo…
That was all it said on the front. No nickname, no warmth—just my name, written carefully, like she was afraid it might still matter.
I unfolded the letter slowly. Her words were neat, deliberate—like she was holding back everything she wanted to scream.
"You don't have to look for us. She's growing well. She knows your name, though I never told her what it meant to me.
I hope your books keep doing well.
I hope you never write another story about me."
My chest tightened. The last line wasn't cruel—it was protective.
She wanted to be forgotten, at least on paper.
But how could I forget something that had built me?
I folded the letter carefully, sliding it back into my pocket just as someone approached my table.
"Mr. Yoon?"
I looked up. A young editor stood there, clutching a folder to her chest. She looked nervous.
"Sorry to bother you," she said quickly, "but the company wanted me to hand this personally. It's the offer—for your next book deal."
I nodded, taking the folder. "Thank you."
She hesitated, then added softly, "They said they want something raw this time. Something real. Not fiction."
Something real.
As she left, I stared at the blank pages in front of me.
For the first time in years, I didn't know what to write—because every story I could tell was a confession.
The rain started outside.
And in the reflection of the café window, I thought I saw her—Ajin—just walking past with an umbrella, her figure blurred by the downpour.
I didn't run after her.
I just sat there, watching her fade into the crowd, and whispered to the glass,
"You don't have to tell her I still care. Just… let her know I never stopped."
The café emptied slowly as the rain grew heavier, the sound drumming softly against the window.
I stayed, tracing circles on the cup that had long gone cold.
Her letter lay folded on the table, the ink slightly smudged where my thumb had pressed too long.
Every line of it felt like a heartbeat I couldn't forget.
"I hope you never write another story about me."
She didn't ask me to forget her.
She asked me to protect her.
But I'd spent years protecting her in the wrong way—by silence.
By distance.
Now the silence itself felt cruel.
I opened my laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
The blank screen stared back like judgment.
Title: Unnamed Story.
No.
That wasn't enough.
I typed slowly, the words spilling out before I could stop them.
This isn't a love story. It's a record of what happens when two people try too hard to become strangers.
Each line felt like tearing open an old wound.
I wrote about the hospital room I wasn't in when she gave birth.
About the voice I never heard when our daughter cried for the first time.
About the day I realized forgiveness is not the same as love.
I wrote until the café lights dimmed and the barista came over quietly, saying,
"Mr. Yoon, we're closing soon."
I nodded. "Just… five more minutes."
The rain had slowed to a drizzle.
When I looked up again, I noticed something through the glass—a small girl, maybe five or six, hopping from puddle to puddle in a yellow raincoat.
Her laughter carried through the quiet street, bright and unbothered by the world.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't move.
That small flash of joy, the way she turned her head—
it was the same look Ajin used to give when she caught me watching her.
The girl's mother appeared moments later, calling her name from across the street.
The umbrella hid her face, but the voice—low, calm, familiar—
froze me in place.
I stood up too quickly, bumping the chair.
When I stepped outside, the street was already empty.
Only the faint reflection of two figures fading into the mist remained.
My heart pounded.
Coincidence, maybe.
Or punishment for a truth I hadn't earned the right to tell.
I looked down at my screen again. The last line I'd written blinked back at me.
Some stories begin after the ending.
I closed the laptop and whispered,
"Maybe this time, I'll finish it right."