It started the same way every time.

The scent of burnt tobacco, faint but distinct. The quiet hum of the night, interrupted only by the sound of heels clicking against the cold marble floor. The overwhelming weight in her chest—one that never truly left, only dulled in moments of distraction.

Her mother’s back was always the first thing she saw in these memories.

Tall, poised, draped in elegance. Even when she wasn’t facing Namra, there was an undeniable presence about her. A presence that commanded silence, that kept people at a distance. That same distance Namra had inherited without realizing.

"Don’t let people see your weaknesses, Namra."

She had been young when she first heard those words, but they stayed with her. Because her mother had lived by them, right until the end.

The memory that haunted her most wasn’t a grand tragedy. It wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Almost mundane.

A night like any other. The two of them alone in the vast mansion, yet worlds apart. Namra had come home from school, her uniform still crisp, her backpack still slung over one shoulder. She had stood at the doorway of her mother’s study, hesitant, unsure of why she even wanted to speak.

Her mother sat at the grand desk, cigarette in hand, the tip glowing in the dim light. Papers were stacked neatly before her, a glass of wine untouched at her side. She looked so put together, so untouchable.

Namra had swallowed, then spoke.

"Mom."

A small pause. A barely noticeable tension in her mother’s shoulders. Then, she turned, her expression unreadable.

"Yes?"

That was the moment. That fleeting, fragile moment. The one that refused to let her go.

Namra had opened her mouth, but no words came. She wanted to say something. Maybe ask why they barely spoke anymore. Maybe tell her that she was tired of always feeling like she had to be perfect. That she wanted to be seen, not just as a daughter to be shaped, but as a person.

But she said nothing.

Her mother’s dark eyes studied her for a beat longer, then she gave a small nod—as if that silence was all she needed to hear. She turned back to her papers.

"If it’s not important, don’t linger."

That was the last real conversation they had.

A few weeks later, her mother was gone. She ended herself.

Just like that. No warnings. No goodbyes. No second chances.

And Namra had never been able to forget that moment at the doorway. That second where she could have said something—anything—but chose to stay silent.

Now, no matter how much time passed, the weight of that unsaid conversation sat heavy in her chest. It wasn’t just grief. It was regret.

And regret had a way of never letting go.

---

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet.

Namra sat on the edge of her bed, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting a soft golden hue on the pristine white walls. The space was vast, yet suffocating. It had always been like this—luxurious but empty. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was isolating.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling slowly. The day’s events replayed in her mind like a loop she couldn’t escape. Cheongsan and Onjo’s unexpected video call, the way Sooheon casually handed her a banana milk, his words—those words that lingered longer than she wanted them to.

"Because we’re friends?"

That question haunted her. She had dismissed it, deflected it with her usual indifference. But now, in the solitude of her room, she couldn’t ignore it.

She had never considered Sooheon a friend. Not because she didn’t care, but because she didn’t want to define what they were with a word that felt too simple—too shallow for the connection they had. She had spent too long keeping herself at a distance, convincing herself that it was safer that way. Safer to be alone.

But was it really?

Her fingers curled into the silk sheets. Had she really let go of everything?

Hyosan had been good to her. It was the first place where she felt something close to belonging, even if she had kept her distance. It was where she had met Sooheon. Although it was where she had lived as the daughter of someone powerful, someone people had expectations for.

Then again, Hyosan wasn’t the problem. She was.

She thought moving to Yongtan, starting over, was her way of leaving the past behind. But everything kept pulling her back—memories, emotions she never allowed herself to fully process. The moment she let her guard down, she felt like she was losing control.

She stood up abruptly, her breath uneven. The reflection in the tall mirror across the room stared back at her—shoulders tense, eyes tired. A girl who had spent years running. Running from connections, from emotions, from herself.

She turned away.

No.

She didn’t want to keep doing this.

For once, she didn’t want to run.

Tomorrow, she would stop retreating. She would stop letting uncertainty dictate how she lived. She didn’t know if she could change completely, but she could try.

And that was enough for now.

---

Namra sat on her bed, her back against the headboard, staring blankly at the pages of a book she wasn’t really reading. The soft hum of the night outside did little to quiet the storm inside her mind. She had decided—finally—to stop letting the past chain her down. But as she exhaled, centering herself in the present, a sudden knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

She sighed. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing her father. Mr. Choi stepped inside with his usual measured demeanor—lukewarm, distant, neither cold nor affectionate.

Namra sat up slightly but didn’t bother to look too eager. “What is it?”

“There will be a party here this weekend,” he said simply. “I wanted to inform you.”

She blinked. “A party?”

“Yes.”

Her fingers tightened around the book. She never cared for parties, and she certainly didn’t want to entertain guests in her own home.

“I won’t be attending,” she said flatly.

Mr. Choi regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You live here, Namra. People will expect to see you.”

She looked away. “They’ll live.”

A brief silence stretched between them, neither willing to push nor retreat.

Finally, he sighed. “Do as you wish. But I'm counting on you.” Without another word, he turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Namra let out a slow breath and sank deeper into her pillows. The past was one thing to face—but meaningless social gatherings? That was another battle she had no intention of fighting.

---

The warm scent of freshly brewed tea filled the house, mixing with the faint drizzle outside. Chanmi sat at the dining table, chin resting on her palm, stirring her tea absentmindedly. She could hear her father moving around in the kitchen, humming softly as he prepared dinner.

“Long day?” he asked, setting down a bowl of soup in front of her.

Chanmi shrugged. “Not really.”

Her father sat across from her, watching her with the kind of patience she wasn’t sure she deserved. He was always like this—gentle, understanding, never pushing her to talk but always ready to listen.

“You’re thinking about something,” he said knowingly.

Chanmi huffed. “I think about a lot of things.”

“Anything you want to share?”

She poked at her soup with her spoon. “Just school stuff.”

He nodded, as if that was enough of an answer. “You know, sometimes talking about it helps.”

Chanmi smirked. “Are you my dad or my therapist?”

Her father chuckled. “Can’t I be both?”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. This was why she never felt completely alone, even when things felt repetitive and dull. Her dad had a way of grounding her, reminding her that not everything had to be heavy.

As they ate in comfortable silence, her mind drifted again—back to school, back to the people she barely interacted with.

Anything that crossed her thoughts briefly, but she quickly shoved that aside. Not important.

For now, she was content just sitting here, sipping soup, with the one person who made home feel warm.

Chanmi took another sip of her tea, letting the warmth settle in her chest before glancing up at her father. “How was work?”

Her father looked surprised for a moment, then smiled as he set his spoon down. “Busy, as usual. Meetings, reports, more meetings.” He sighed, but there was a fondness in his tone. “But things are going well. We closed a big deal today.”

She smirked. “So, you’re still the best in the business?”

He chuckled. “I like to think so.”

Chanmi nodded, stirring her soup. Her father was one of the most respected businessmen in the industry, though he never boasted about it. Unlike most people in their circle, he valued time with her more than flaunting his success. It was one of the reasons she never resented his work—because no matter how busy he was, he always made time for her.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he said suddenly. “Mr. Choi is hosting a party this weekend. We’re invited.”

Chanmi raised a brow. “Mr. Choi?”

“The top businessman in the country,” her father reminded her. “You’ve probably heard of him.”

She had. She just never cared enough to pay attention.

“I want you to come with me,” he added.

Chanmi groaned, slumping back in her chair. “A party? Dad, you know I hate those.”

“I know,” he said, amused. “But it’s important. It’ll be good for you to meet people.”

“I meet people every day at school,” she deadpanned.

Her father chuckled. “This is different. Just think about it, okay?”

Chanmi sighed, staring at her soup. A fancy party filled with rich people pretending to be interested in each other. Sounded like the most boring way to spend a weekend.

But if her dad really wanted her to go… she might have to reconsider.