Dahlia barely remembered the ride back to Judge Choi's residence. Her steps were slow and trembling as she pushed open the familiar gate of the house she had grown up in after her grandmother's death.
The moment her bedroom door closed behind her, she finally let go.
She stumbled onto her bed—the same bed where a 16-year-old Dahlia used to hide under the blankets, whispering Jaemin's name into her pillow, terrified he'd never return.
Tonight, that memory returned like a blade and a balm all at once.
Her hand shook as she grabbed her phone.
"Dojoon-ah…" Her voice broke the moment he answered. "It's him… it's really Jaemin… he's alive…"
There was silence on the other end—not disbelief, but the weight of everything falling into place.
"Noona…" Dojoon's voice softened, steady. "Slow down. What happened?"
She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to breathe.
"I saw him. His face… exactly the same as the image you generated—just older, stronger, but still him." Her tears spilled, stringing down her cheeks. "He's alive… after all these years… Jaemin is alive…"
Dojoon exhaled shakily. He wasn't surprised, just relieved she finally confirmed what she suspected.
"What happened when you called his name?" he asked gently.
"He denied it." Dahlia's voice cracked. "He said, 'I'm not the person you thought.' Then he ran. He didn't even look back…"
She pressed the phone to her forehead, sobbing quietly.
"I want to know what happened to him, Dojoon-ah… all those years… where he went… what he suffered… why he's living as someone like that now…"
Dojoon closed his eyes, leaning on his desk.
"We'll find out. Together," he said. "You're not alone in this, noona. Not anymore."
And for the first time that night, Dahlia let herself believe him.
Training resumed at the old gym.
Coach Han Insung noticed immediately. The moment she stepped onto the floor, he saw it in the way she tied her hair slower, how her punches lacked focus, how her breathing trembled between routines.
He stopped her halfway through a drill.
"Break," he said firmly.
Dahlia blinked. "Coach, I can continue—"
"No." Insung handed her a towel. "Sit."
They sat on the wooden steps of the gym. He didn't interrogate her, didn't pry, but the silence was heavy, waiting, patient.
He finally sighed.
"I won't force you to tell me anything, Dahlia." He poured a small amount of soju into two paper cups. "But you should know… I can't pretend I don't notice when the child I trained for years is breaking inside."
She stared at the cup in her hand. Then her voice shook.
"He's alive, Coach."
The bottle froze in Insung's hand.
"…Jaemin?"
She nodded, tears forming.
"And he saved me. Twice… He's the one who's been watching me, protecting me. But he's also one of them now. He's hiding from me."
Insung closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked older—the weight of guilt, grief, and helplessness from 15 years ago returning like a ghost.
"That boy…" he whispered. "I never believed he died. I looked for him for years. I never stopped."
Dahlia pressed her forehead to her knees.
"I don't know what to do."
Insung placed a hand on her back.
"Then rest, Dahlia. You're running on fear and hope and heartbreak all at once. You'll collapse at this rate."
She looked up.
"I can't stop now—"
"Yes, you can," he said softly but firmly. "For a day. For a moment. For yourself."
He hesitated, then added:
"Go home. To Hwayang Valley. To the house your grandmother left you. That place… heals you. It always has."
It was almost evening when Dahlia arrived at Hwayang Valley. Mist rolled along the mountains, softening the orange glow of sunset. The wind carried the same familiar scent—fresh pine, river stones, and the faint sweetness of persimmon trees.
Mrs. Kim, the house caretaker, rushed out the moment she saw her.
"Dahlia-ssi! Oh dear, you're finally back!" She cupped Dahlia's hands warmly. "I kept everything just the way you wanted. Nothing changed."
"Thank you, ahjumma…" Dahlia smiled faintly. "Really."
Inside, the house was exactly the same: the worn patterned rug, the floral curtains her grandmother sewed by hand, the old wooden shelves filled with her childhood books.
Upstairs, her room waited like time had frozen.
She stepped inside slowly.
Her old violin case rested on her desk—the one she used to play every evening for her grandmother and, secretly, for Jaemin, who always waited quietly outside the window or sat on the floor listening.
She opened the case. The violin gleamed softly under the moonlight.
Dahlia sat on her bed, the moonlight slipping across her face through the window. She lifted the violin, inhaled deeply, and pressed bow to string.
The first note was soft, gentle, aching.
Her grandmother's favorite lullaby, the same melody she played in high school, the same one Jaemin heard a hundred times.
Her eyes closed as she played, and her heart slowly steadied.
But she didn't know—above her, crouched silently on the rooftop, a shadow listened.
Lee.
Unmoving. Breath quiet. Eyes faintly trembling.
The melody drifted up to him, delicate as snow. And something inside him—something buried, forbidden—shook loose.
For the first time in years, he let himself remember her.