The soft chime above the café door rang as Yoon Seo-ah stepped inside.
She immediately spotted Nari sitting by the window, a notebook open in front of her and two half-finished pages covered in handwritten notes.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting," Nari said as she hurriedly stood up.
Seo-ah laughed and slid into the seat across from her.
"Well, look at you. Our great writer is finally here."
Nari rolled her eyes dramatically.
"Please. If I were a great writer, I'd be rich by now."
The two women burst into laughter.
For a while, they talked about everything and nothing—books, work, random gossip, and the small details of life that made difficult days feel lighter.
After finishing their snacks, Seo-ah stirred her coffee thoughtfully.
"Nari."
"Hm?"
"Why do you always write about home?"
Nari blinked.
"What do you mean?"
"Your novels. They're always about people searching for home. Not a house. A person."
For a moment, Nari was quiet.
Then she smiled.
A cheerful smile.
The kind she always wore.
The kind that made people think she was doing just fine.
"You know…" she began softly.
"When someone spends enough time feeling misunderstood, they become very interested in understanding others."
Seo-ah listened quietly.
"When someone spends enough time feeling alone, they become fascinated by connection."
Nari's fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup.
"And when someone spends enough time searching for home, they start writing stories about people trying to find one."
Seo-ah felt her chest tighten.
Nari continued.
"Home is usually a person."
"A place where you don't have to perform."
"A place where you don't have to earn your right to stay."
"A place where you can finally exhale."
Her smile widened slightly.
"So I always ask myself…"
She looked out the window.
"If there is still time left, can I still find where I belong?"
The question hung between them.
Light.
Yet unbearably heavy.
Seo-ah lowered her gaze.
"Then why do you write about it so easily?"
Nari laughed.
A bright laugh.
Almost convincing.
"Maybe because writing about home is easier than finding one."
For a brief second, Seo-ah saw something lonely behind her friend's eyes.
But it disappeared just as quickly.
Nari leaned forward suddenly.
"Enough about me."
She pointed at Seo-ah.
"You should buy coffee for Dr. Kang."
Seo-ah nearly choked.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Nari."
"I'm serious."
Seo-ah shook her head immediately.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Nari."
Her friend grinned.
"You smile whenever you talk about him."
Seo-ah grabbed a napkin and threw it at her.
Nari only laughed harder.
By the time they parted ways, Seo-ah somehow found herself carrying two cups of coffee on her way to the hospital.
⸻
The emergency department was unusually busy.
Doctors moved quickly through the halls.
Nurses exchanged reports.
Monitors beeped steadily.
Then a child arrived.
The boy couldn't have been older than eight.
Bruises covered his arms.
A swollen mark darkened the side of his face.
Two police officers accompanied him.
The child refused to let anyone touch him.
Every time an adult moved too suddenly, he flinched.
Whenever someone spoke to him, he apologized.
For everything.
"Sorry."
"Sorry."
"I'm sorry."
The words spilled from him automatically.
As though breathing.
As though existing itself required an apology.
Kang Ji-hoon stood frozen.
Nobody else seemed to notice.
But he did.
Because he used to do the same thing.
The same flinching.
The same shrinking.
The same apologies.
The same fear.
Something inside him shifted.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Louder.
Further away.
The smell of disinfectant filled his nose.
And then....
Memories.
Fragments.
A belt hanging on a wall.
A child covering his head with trembling arms.
Footsteps approaching.
A voice crying,
"I didn't mean to."
Ji-hoon blinked.
The emergency room vanished.
For a moment, he wasn't looking at the child.
He was looking at himself.
He reached for a chart.
His hand shook.
He frowned.
Tried again.
The shaking worsened.
"Doctor Kang?"
A nurse looked at him with concern.
"Are you alright?"
Ji-hoon stared at his own trembling hand.
No.
He wasn't.
Not today.
Not with this child.
Without another word, he handed the chart to another doctor and walked away.
Fast.
Trying to maintain his composure.
Trying to remain Doctor Kang.
Trying to remain someone who had survived.
His footsteps echoed through the hallway.
Then he reached the bathroom.
Locked the door.
And finally—
The shaking became impossible to hide.
He gripped the sink.
His knuckles turned white.
Water splashed against his face.
Cold.
Sharp.
Real.
Yet the memories refused to leave.
His breathing became uneven.
"You are twenty-eight."
He stared at his reflection.
"You are not there anymore."
His voice trembled.
"You are safe."
Again.
"You are safe."
Again.
"You are safe."
But his body didn't believe him.
Because trauma doesn't care how old you are.
And pain doesn't disappear simply because time passes.
⸻
When Seo-ah arrived at the hospital, she immediately sensed something was wrong.
She asked a nurse where Ji-hoon was.
The answer led her to a quiet corridor.
And then she found him.
Sitting alone.
Head lowered.
Hands trembling.
For a moment, she simply stood there.
Watching.
Understanding.
Because broken people recognize broken people.
Slowly, she walked over and sat beside him.
Neither spoke.
Neither asked questions.
The fluorescent lights hummed softly above them.
Minutes passed.
No explanations.
No apologies.
Just silence.
The kind that didn't demand anything.
The kind that stayed.
Seo-ah placed the coffee beside him.
Then she reached for his trembling hand.
Gentle.
Careful.
As though asking permission.
Ji-hoon's shoulders shook.
For the first time that day, he stopped pretending he was okay.
Seo-ah squeezed his hand lightly.
"You don't have to carry it alone."
The words were barely above a whisper.
Yet somehow they felt louder than anything else.
And in that quiet hospital corridor sat two people trying to heal while carrying winters of their own.