The alarm rang at exactly five.
A thin, insistent sound that cut through the darkness before the sun even considered rising.
Kang Eun-ji reached out without opening her eyes and pressed the button. Silence returned immediately, obedient. She sat up slowly, the movement practiced, automatic—her body waking before her mind did. Years of repetition had taught her this hour well.
Her feet slipped into the soft slippers waiting beside the bed. They were always there. Everything in her life had a place.
She stood and walked toward the bathroom, her nightwear plain, her steps steady. Tiredness lingered on her face, not sharp or dramatic—just worn in, like a familiar ache she had learned not to question.
The bathroom light clicked on, flooding the small space with a muted yellow glow. Eun-ji turned the shower knob. Water spilled down in a steady rush, steam rising almost instantly.
The mirror fogged over before her reflection could fully form, as if even it didn't wish to see her this early.
She stood there, fully clothed, watching the steam climb and disappear.
Waiting.
When she returned to the hallway, dressed in fresh clothes with damp hair clinging to her neck, the apartment was still asleep. The silence followed her into the kitchen, where she began her work.
Rice cooked. A pan warmed. Side dishes took shape under her hands—kimchi, small portions measured without thought. Her movements were quiet, efficient. This was a language she spoke fluently.
The house depended on this silence.
Later, the calm fractured.
Min-jae's voice carried from the bathroom, rough with impatience."Eun-ji! Where's my towel?"
She didn't sigh. She didn't answer. She simply picked one up and walked to the bedroom, placing it in his hands like an offering.
"You always move it," he muttered.
She was already leaving.
Eun-ji moved down the hallway past framed family photographs and neatly lined slippers—evidence of a life that looked complete from the outside. The sound of running water followed her like an accusation.
In her daughter's room, a warm study lamp glowed over scattered textbooks and highlighters. Kang Seo-yeon lay curled beneath her blanket, earbuds in, face half-hidden.
Eun-ji knelt beside her and touched her shoulder gently.
"Seo-yeon. Time to get up."
"Ten more minutes," her daughter murmured, voice thick with sleep.
"You said that yesterday," Eun-ji replied softly. "You'll miss class."
In her son's room, chaos reigned. Posters clung to the walls. Jerseys lay abandoned. A game controller dangled off the bed.
Kang Ji-hoon lay sprawled across the mattress, mouth open, lost to sleep.
"It's morning," Eun-ji said. "Get up."
"It's still dark inside my soul," he grunted.
She pulled the curtains open without mercy. Light flooded the room. He groaned.
Back in the kitchen, steam curled from the rice cooker. Lunchboxes were packed neatly, wrapped in patterned cloth, lined up like soldiers ready for duty.
Then the voices came—overlapping, demanding.
"Eun-ji! Where's my tie?""Mom! My laptop charger is gone!""Mom, where's my bag?!"
Eun-ji stopped mid-step.
One hand rested on the table. Her eyes closed—not in frustration, not in anger, but in a moment of stillness so brief it could be missed entirely.
Then she moved again.
She found the tie. She searched the rooms. She answered without raising her voice.
In her daughter's room, she reached for the charger, lifting it from beneath a pile of books, placing it silently into Seo-yeon's hands. She lifted the hoodie from the chair, found the backpack tucked beneath it, and handed it to him with a quiet sigh.Ji-hoon grinned, clutching it to his chest. "You're the best, Mom."
And just like that, the morning continued—as if nothing had happened at all.