The alarm clock rang like a cruel reminder of reality, sharp and insistent in the stillness of the early morning.
Myeong slapped at it blindly, groaning as she pushed herself up from the thin mattress. Her body ached, the heaviness of yesterday's fatigue clinging to her limbs. She sat at the edge of her bed for a moment, staring at the cracks on the wall. A faint chill seeped into the room; the old heater had given up weeks ago.
Her gaze drifted toward the small dresser. Taped above it were faded photographs-snapshots of another lifetime. One showed a little girl in a school uniform, her smile wide, her eyes sparkling with dreams. Another was of her on stage during a school play, arms lifted dramatically, the crowd of classmates visible in the blurred background.
For a second, Myeong's lips curved upward. She remembered the thunder of applause, the pride on her mother's face. The warmth of those memories lingered-but only for a moment.
The smile vanished. She touched the photo lightly, almost as if she might smudge away the child's confidence.
"That girl doesn't exist anymore," she murmured, standing.
She dressed quickly in worn jeans and a plain sweater, tying her hair into a loose bun. Her reflection in the cracked mirror was unremarkable-no makeup, no glow, just the tired face of a woman trying to survive.
The streets outside were already stirring. Commuters rushed by in polished shoes and sharp suits, clutching coffee cups, their conversations buzzing with plans and ambitions. Myeong kept her head down, carrying her cleaning supplies in a canvas bag. No one looked at her twice.
Her first stop was a wealthy apartment complex. The doorman didn't greet her, simply opened the glass door and looked past her as though she were part of the furniture.
Inside the client's house, Myeong slipped off her shoes and began her work. The place smelled faintly of perfume and polished wood. She dusted shelves lined with expensive ornaments she would never own, scrubbed spotless counters that gleamed brighter than her entire apartment.
A radio played softly from the living room. Between songs, an enthusiastic announcer's voice rang out:
"Don't forget-applications for this season's big audition close this weekend! Your chance to step into the spotlight and show the world your talent. Don't let the opportunity pass you by!"
Myeong froze, rag in hand. The words pierced her chest like an arrow.
Chance to shine?
Her heart twisted. She had once believed in those words. She could still recall how it felt to be told she had promise, that she had talent. But those encouraging voices had long been replaced with harsher ones:
You don't stand out.
There are prettier girls than you.
Be realistic, Myeong. Stop dreaming.
Her jaw tightened. She bent down and scrubbed harder, as though she could erase the ache in her chest along with the dust.
"Dreams don't pay the bills," she whispered to herself.
Work ended hours later. Her body sagged with exhaustion, but her mind felt strangely restless. Instead of heading straight home, she wandered through the city. The streets were alive-children laughing outside a convenience store, couples walking hand in hand, the smell of roasted chestnuts drifting from a street vendor's cart.
That was when she saw it.
The gallery was quiet, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound. Light spilled from overhead lamps, casting each portrait in a halo of its own.
Myeong wandered slowly along the row of photographs, her heart still pounding from the shock of seeing her own face. She wasn't prepared for what came next.
A larger frame caught her eye. The name beneath it: Yena Bann.
The portrait was striking. Yena's gaze seemed to pierce through the glass, sharp and confident, yet there was something almost fragile about her expression. Her hair tumbled over one shoulder, light catching it like spun gold, and her posture was poised, elegant-like she belonged to another world entirely.
Myeong stepped closer, drawn in despite herself. The longer she stared, the more she felt an unexpected emotion rising inside her. It wasn't envy exactly-not yet-but a strange combination of admiration and unease.
Who was she? How could someone look so... untouchable? So perfect? And yet, there was something familiar in her eyes-a flicker of vulnerability, a hint of doubt, like she was hiding behind her beauty and grace.
Myeong's fingers itched to reach out, as though she could somehow touch the truth behind that expression. She leaned closer, squinting at the small details: the faint curve of Yena's lips, the slight tension in her shoulders.
A shiver ran down her spine. Seeing Yena's portrait was like being confronted with a version of herself she had never dared to imagine-a version confident, admired, and undeniably seen.
Her chest tightened. "She... she's real," Myeong whispered. "She exists in the same world I do..."
The thought was both comforting and terrifying. Somewhere in her mind, a tiny spark ignited. If Yena could be seen, could shine... then maybe, just maybe, Myeong could too.
She stepped back, trying to calm the fluttering in her chest. Yet she couldn't tear her eyes away. Yena's gaze seemed to follow her, challenging her, asking a silent question: Who are you really?
For a long moment, Myeong stood there, frozen between awe and fear. When she finally moved on, her mind buzzed with new determination-and an uneasy sense that meeting Yena Bann might change everything.
A poster, large and striking, hung outside a gallery.
Photography Exhibition - Eunmil.
The bold letters were surrounded by a collage of black-and-white portraits. Something about them drew her closer. Each face was ordinary yet captivating, filled with raw emotion.
Then her breath caught.
Her own face stared back at her.
It was a younger Myeong, her hair slightly messy, her smile unguarded, her eyes bright like they held the universe. The portrait radiated a confidence and joy she could barely recognize.
"No..." she whispered.
Drawn in by equal parts shock and curiosity, she stepped into the gallery.
Inside, the atmosphere was hushed, reverent. Soft lights glowed above each framed photograph, isolating them like sacred relics. Myeong walked slowly down the row, her heart hammering.
There she was again-captured in another candid moment, mid-laughter, her head tilted back, sunlight kissing her face. Another showed her more serious, thoughtful, almost ethereal.
Each photo was like a mirror into a past she thought had been forgotten.
Her fingertips hovered over the glass of one portrait. Her throat tightened. Who had seen her like this? Who had believed in this version of her enough to display it to the world?
"Miss, are you alright?" a staff member asked softly, noticing her trembling hands.
Myeong quickly stepped back, shaking her head. "I-I'm fine."
But she wasn't. Inside, it felt as though someone had torn open an old wound she had tried desperately to hide.
By the time she left the gallery, the sky had darkened to shades of violet and navy. The city was glowing with neon lights, headlights streaking across wet pavement.
Myeong found herself on a bridge, the cold metal railing pressing against her palms. She stared down at the rippling reflection of the city lights in the river below.
"Inferior," she whispered, tasting the word like poison. That was what she was. That was what people had always told her.
Her phone buzzed. She almost ignored it, but the notification lit up the screen:
Audition Application - Open Now.
Her breath caught. Her thumb hovered above the screen.
The photos in the gallery flashed in her mind-her younger self laughing, radiant, alive. That version of Myeong was still out there, captured forever, proof that she had once been someone who could shine.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Doubt screamed inside her, but beneath it, a spark of yearning burned bright.
What if... this was her chance?
The wind whipped around her, carrying the scent of the river and the faint hum of the city. For the first time in years, Myeong lifted her chin and looked ahead, her eyes tracing the distant horizon.
The world still looked indifferent, but inside her, something had begun to stir-something fragile, something dangerous.
Something like hope.