Two days later
By the time I stepped out of the café, the city had already drowned in quiet. The streets shimmered under the streetlights, slick with rain, every reflection fractured like memory itself.
My jacket clung to my shoulders, my breath visible in the cool night air. I walked without direction, letting the rhythm of my shoes on the wet pavement drown out the noise in my head.
I should've gone home.
But home didn't feel like a place anymore-just a room where I left versions of myself that couldn't sleep.
The image of that little girl in the yellow raincoat wouldn't leave my mind. The curve of her smile, the way she hopped between puddles-it was too specific to ignore.
I told myself it couldn't be her. It shouldn't be her.
But what if it was?
What if fate was cruel enough to let me see her without being able to speak?
I reached the small bridge that overlooked the Han River, the same spot I used to visit whenever I finished a draft. It used to be our place-mine and Ajin's. Back then, before the fame and the fear, we'd sit there until dawn, talking about dreams that felt too big for our hands.
Now, it was just me.
I leaned against the railing and took out my phone. The screen glowed faintly in the mist.
No new messages. No calls.
Except one unsaved number, from hours ago. Missed call.
I frowned, tapping it. The line rang twice before a soft voice answered.
"...You finally picked up."
My pulse stopped for a second.
The voice was female, low but steady-one I hadn't heard in years yet could still recognize in a heartbeat.
"Ajin?" I breathed.
There was silence. Then a quiet exhale, almost like a laugh, but too tired to be real.
"You shouldn't say my name like that," she said, her tone calm but distant. "It still sounds like you mean it."
I swallowed hard. "Why did you call me?"
"I didn't," she said softly. "She did."
"She?"
There was a faint rustle on the other side of the line-fabric shifting, a car door opening. Then a tiny voice came through, small and curious.
"Daddy?"
I froze. Every drop of rain seemed to stop midair.
My throat burned, but no words came out.
Ajin's voice returned, quieter now. "She found your old book in my things. The one with the dedication you never showed anyone."
My heart sank.
That book.
The one I'd written in secret, the one no publisher ever saw-
For the one who never stopped being my ending.
Ajin continued, "She kept asking who it was about. I told her it was just fiction."
A pause.
"But she wanted to call you anyway. Just to hear what a writer sounds like."
Her words were so careful-like each one might break if she spoke too fast.
"Ajin..." I whispered. "You didn't have to-"
"I know," she cut in gently. "But she did."
Another silence. Then the small voice again.
"Mom said you write stories that make people cry. Is that true?"
I smiled despite the ache in my chest. "Sometimes. But not on purpose."
"Then write a happy one next time," she said, her tone simple, pure. "Mom doesn't like sad endings."
I didn't realize I was crying until I felt the salt mix with the rain.
Ajin stayed quiet on the line, and for once, that silence didn't hurt.
It just... existed, like something neither of us could name.
"I'll try," I said softly. "For both of you."
Then the line clicked.
Call ended.
The city around me hummed again, but my world felt still-like everything had paused to let me breathe.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and looked out at the dark water below. The rain had stopped, but the air smelled like something new-like a beginning trying to find its way through an ending.
And for the first time in years, I smiled without pretending.

The line went dead, and the hum of the car filled the silence.
Rain slid down the windshield in thin, trembling rivers, catching the streetlights like faint gold threads.
I stared at the phone in my hand, the screen still glowing with his name.
"Mr. Yoon Jun-seo."
I'd changed his contact years ago-no heart, no nickname, just letters.
Even so, seeing it again made something inside me tighten.
In the back seat, Hana was still smiling, swinging her little feet.
"Mom," she said brightly, "he sounded kind."
My chest ached. "Yeah," I whispered. "He is."
She turned toward the window, tracing shapes in the fogged glass.
"Do you think he'll write a happy story next time?"
I didn't answer.
Because I already knew he would try-and that was what scared me.
Every word Jun-seo wrote had a way of peeling open old scars. If he wrote a happy story, it would mean he'd finally learned to forgive me.
And I wasn't ready to live in a world where forgiveness was real.
The driver glanced back through the mirror. "Ma'am, should I drop you at the apartment?"
I nodded, forcing my voice steady. "Yes. The back entrance, please."
The apartment lights were dim when we stepped out. The city smelled of wet dust and night blossoms.
Inside, I helped Hana out of her raincoat, her laughter soft and unbothered.
"Go wash up," I told her gently. "I'll make you some cocoa."
When she disappeared into the bathroom, I finally allowed myself to breathe-long, trembling breaths that tasted like salt and regret.
My fingers shook as I set the phone down on the counter.
One missed call earlier. From him. Before I had gathered the courage to dial back.
I almost hadn't done it.
But Hana had found his old dedication in that unpublished manuscript-the one I'd kept hidden at the bottom of my desk drawer, even after I swore I'd erased him from my life.
For the one who never stopped being my ending.
I'd laughed when I first read it years ago. Laughed until I cried. Because I thought he'd meant it as irony-how we ended, how everything collapsed.
But tonight, when Hana read it aloud in her small, wondering voice, it didn't sound like irony anymore. It sounded like longing.
I walked to my writing desk and sat down. The room smelled faintly of paper and rain.
My laptop blinked awake, the half-finished draft still on the screen. A headline from a gossip site glared at me from another tab:
"Former Actress Ajin Park Reportedly Blacklisted - Industry Contacts Cut Ties."
I closed it before the ache returned.
They thought I'd fallen.
Maybe I had.
But I'd learned that sometimes falling was the only way to land somewhere honest.
Hana's laughter echoed from the bathroom, and for the first time that night, I smiled without forcing it.
I opened a new document and began to type-no title, no plan, just words.
Once, there was a woman who tried to control everything she loved, until everything she loved walked away.
But love, it seems, has a strange habit of returning-sometimes in the voice of a child who doesn't know the history written in her own name.
I paused. My fingers hovered over the keys.
Maybe he would read this one day.
Maybe he would know that I'd never truly let go-that every choice I made, even the cruel ones, were just ways of protecting the parts of him I couldn't bear to see destroyed.
Outside, the rain softened into mist.
I heard Hana's footsteps padding down the hall.
"Mom?" she called, holding her stuffed bear. "Can you read me a story tonight?"
I turned in my chair and smiled. "Of course."
She climbed onto my lap, warm and small, and looked up at the empty screen.
"Is that your story?"
"Yes," I whispered. "But maybe this time, it'll be a happy one."
She grinned. "Then make sure everyone says sorry at the end."
I kissed the top of her head and whispered back,
"I'll try."

(From Jun-seo's perspective)
The morning came quietly-no alarm, no rush, just the pale light slipping through half-closed curtains.
For the first time in months, I hadn't dreamt of the noise, the applause, or the empty rooms.
Only a small voice.
"Then write a happy one next time."
I opened my eyes slowly, half-expecting the phone to ring again, but the room was still.
The city outside murmured softly-cars passing, rainwater dripping from balconies, the world pretending nothing had changed.
But I had.
That one call, that single word-Daddy-had rearranged everything inside me.
I sat up, running a hand through my hair. The desk across the room was littered with papers, unfinished drafts, and old rejection letters I'd never thrown away.
I moved toward it, almost cautiously, like I might scare off the sudden clarity I felt.
When I opened my laptop, last night's words glowed faintly on the screen.
Some stories begin after the ending.
I smiled faintly and started a new document.
Title: The Story of Us, Unwritten
The first few lines came slower than I expected, like they'd been waiting for permission.
There once was a writer who believed endings were permanent-until a voice reminded him that even silence has a heartbeat.
Each sentence felt lighter than the one before, as if some invisible weight had been lifted off my chest.
It wasn't just a book anymore. It was a promise-to her, to the little girl whose voice was still echoing in my head, and to the part of myself that had finally stopped pretending not to care.
Halfway through typing, I heard a knock on the door.
It was soft, hesitant. Not the usual courier or assistant.
When I opened it, my editor stood there, eyes wide and cautious.
"Jun-seo," she said, voice uncertain, "you might want to sit down for this."
I frowned. "What happened?"
She handed me a tablet, a headline glowing across the screen.
"Former Actress Ajin Park Confirms Return - Rumors Suggest a New Script in Progress."
For a second, my heart forgot how to beat.
She was writing again.
"Apparently, she's planning a book-something autobiographical," the editor added. "And there's speculation it's about... you."
I didn't answer right away.
I just stared at the photo attached to the article-her walking through the rain, holding her daughter's hand, head down but not defeated.
She looked older. Calmer.
But the fire in her eyes-it was still there.
The same one that terrified and saved me once.
My editor hesitated. "Do you want me to handle the press, or-?"
"No," I said softly, eyes still on the photo. "Let them talk."
She nodded and left, closing the door behind her.
I turned back to my screen.
If she was writing her story, then maybe... this was how we'd finally speak to each

(From Ajin's perspective)
The call ended, but the silence it left behind was louder than anything I'd ever heard.
For a long moment, I just stood there-hand still trembling, phone pressed against my chest as if I could trap the warmth of that tiny voice before it faded away.
Mina's laughter still lingered in the air, soft and innocent, like a melody that didn't know it had broken someone's heart.
My heart.
I sank slowly onto the couch, the weight of the world pressing into my shoulders. The city outside the window blurred behind thin streaks of rain, and my reflection stared back-tired eyes, a hollow smile. The kind of woman who'd learned how to look composed even when everything inside her was unraveling.
I should've hung up sooner.
I should've never let her talk to him.
But when Mina whispered "Daddy?"... the word had slipped past all the walls I'd spent years building.
It wasn't just her voice-it was the ache that came after.
Because for one fragile second, I'd remembered what it felt like to be whole.
I reached for the notebook on the table-my old, worn one with faded pages and half-written thoughts. The same one I used to hide behind when he and I still shared stories instead of silence.
When I opened it, a dried petal fell out. A reminder of a past I had promised myself to forget.
There once was a story we both began... but neither of us knew how to end it.
I read that line, one I had written years ago, and something in me broke all over again.
Outside, thunder rumbled softly, and Mina's voice called from the other room, "Mommy, are you crying?"
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. "No, sweetheart. Mommy's just... thinking."
"About Daddy?"
The question hit harder than I wanted it to. I closed my eyes. "Maybe a little."
There was silence for a few seconds, then a tiny giggle. "Then you should smile too, Mommy. Daddy sounded happy."
I pressed my palm over my mouth, choking back the sob that almost escaped.
"Okay, baby," I whispered, voice trembling. "Mommy will smile."
When she ran back to her toys, I stared at the page again, the ink blurring under my tears.
Maybe Mina was right.
Maybe it was time to write again. Not for the fame, not for the noise or the approval of strangers-
but for the story that never got its ending.
The one we both left unfinished.
I picked up my pen and began to write, the words coming slowly at first, then faster, like they'd been waiting all this time.
If love had an echo, it would sound like this-soft, persistent, impossible to forget.
And as the rain kept falling, I realized this wasn't goodbye anymore.
It was the start of something neither of us could have written alone.
(From an external, tense third-person perspective)
The evening lights of Seoul flickered through the rain-soaked glass of a rooftop bar. Inside, three people sat in silence, their faces half-hidden by cigarette smoke and resentment.
"Do you still think she'll get away with it?" Jao's voice was low but sharp - like glass breaking softly.
He had once been Ajin's closest ally, the one she'd promised fame, the one she'd used as a stepping stone to climb higher. And when her lies caught up, she vanished-leaving him to take the fall.
"She's already getting sympathy again," muttered Hana, an actress who once lost a major project because of Ajin's false rumors. "Playing the single-mother card works too well for her."
Across from them, Minhyuk scrolled through his phone. "The industry loves a comeback story. But what if we gave them a different one?"
Jao leaned forward, his expression dark. "You mean... give them the truth?"
Minhyuk smiled coldly. "The version she doesn't want anyone to remember."
There was a long pause - the kind that hums before a storm.
They all knew the cost of crossing Ajin. Even after her fall, she still had connections, whispers that reached powerful people. But the anger that had festered over the years was stronger than fear.
"I heard she's been writing again," Hana said, her tone dripping with disdain. "Probably another sob story to win pity."
Jao's eyes flickered - somewhere between guilt and hate. "She's not the same person anymore," he said, though he didn't sound convinced.
"People like her don't change," Minhyuk replied coldly. "They just rewrite their own sins into fairytales."
He turned his phone toward them. A tabloid article glowed on the screen - an image of Ajin leaving her apartment with her daughter, face hidden behind a mask. The caption read:
'Former Writer Ajin Han - Quiet Return to Literature?'
"Let's make sure she doesn't get to rewrite this one," Minhyuk said.
The plan began that night.
Emails. Old contracts. Edited voice clips. Every thread of deception Ajin had ever spun was being pulled loose, slowly, deliberately.
Jao stared down at his untouched drink.
He wanted to feel satisfaction - but all he felt was a hollow ache. Because he remembered the Ajin from before the lies. The girl who used to write about dreams and heartbreaks and endless skies.
"Do you think she'll fight back?" Hana asked.
"She always does," Jao said quietly. "But this time, she's alone."
Meanwhile, far from that rooftop bar, Ajin sat by her window - unaware of the storm gathering with her name on it.
Mina was asleep, clutching a small stuffed bunny, her soft breaths filling the quiet apartment.
Ajin looked down at her unfinished manuscript.
The title stared back at her, bold and fragile:
"Letters to the One I Can't Hate."
She didn't know that before the ink could dry - the past she buried was already digging its way back to her.
(From Ajin's perspective)
The morning light was dull, cloudy - the kind that didn't bother to shine.
I poured myself a cup of coffee, scrolling through my phone absently as Mina hummed from the living room, stacking her blocks into a crooked tower.
Everything felt... normal. Until it didn't.
My phone buzzed again, this time with a message from an old editor.
"Ajin, have you seen this? You should respond before it gets worse."
My chest tightened. I clicked the link.
A familiar headline flashed across the screen - my name in bold letters, splashed over images I'd long buried.
"Former Writer Ajin Han Accused of Manipulating Colleagues and Faking Story Credits."
Underneath were screenshots. Emails. Private conversations twisted into evidence.
The words hit harder than any physical blow could.
At first, I couldn't breathe.
Every line felt like a ghost clawing out of my past - one I thought I'd locked away for good.
I closed my eyes, forcing calm. No panic. Not again.
But when I opened them, the comments section burned bright with judgment:
"She ruined people's careers."
"Typical. Playing the victim again."
"Wasn't she the one who broke Jao's contract?"
My fingers trembled. The mug in my hand clattered onto the counter, spilling coffee across the floor.
"Mama?" Mina's small voice came from behind me, startled.
I quickly knelt beside her, wiping my hands. "It's okay, sweetheart. Mommy just... dropped it."
She stared at me with those innocent, wide eyes - the same eyes that looked too much like his.
I forced a smile. "Go play, baby."
When she left, I slumped against the counter. The air felt too heavy.
It wasn't just one article. Within an hour, more appeared - videos, threads, interviews from people I hadn't spoken to in years. Jao's name was everywhere. Hana. Minhyuk. Even old assistants.
The people I'd once trusted - or used.
They had every reason to hate me. And now, they did. Publicly.
My phone rang again. Another call from the publishing house. I didn't answer. I couldn't.
I knew this feeling too well - the slow unraveling of a career, the whispers turning into storms. But this time, I didn't have the strength to fight it.
For the first time, I wondered if maybe... I deserved it.
I walked to the window. Outside, the city moved on, indifferent to the ruin of one person.
Mina's laughter echoed faintly from the next room - bright and unbothered.
And in that sound, I found a strange kind of calm.
Let them say what they want. Let them tear apart my name.
Because no matter what they remembered of Ajin Han - the liar, the manipulator, the scandal - none of them knew who I'd become now.
And none of them knew about Mina.
I closed the blinds and sat down at my desk, flipping open the notebook.
"They think they've ended my story."
"But I haven't even begun the next chapter."