Spring had just begun to brush the hilltops with life. Cherry blossoms swayed gently under a pale blue sky, and the scent of fresh grass lingered in the breeze. It was a rare, perfect day—sunlight warm, the wind soft, and laughter echoing through the clearing where two families had set up a picnic.
Eun-ha, only four, sat in the middle of a checkered picnic mat, giggling as she stuffed her cheeks with strawberries. Her sticky hands left red smears on her dress, but no one minded. Her mother chuckled from the edge of the mat while her father lobbed a high serve across the makeshift net.
Min-jae, eight, sat under the shade of a nearby tree, deeply focused on arranging his toy cars in a precise formation. He didn't speak much, but his presence always anchored the group. He glanced occasionally at Eun-ha, shaking his head when she giggled too loud or squished a fruit in her hands, but there was a quiet protectiveness in the way his eyes followed her movements.
Their parents—two couples—were in the middle of a spirited badminton match. Rackets clashed with bursts of laughter, and mock arguments about the score turned into lighthearted teasing. A cooler full of cold drinks stood off to the side, a radio played an old tune, and the afternoon sun cast long golden shadows over the hills.
Then came the bag.
A white plastic bag, caught by a stray breeze, fluttered in from the road above the hill. It danced through the air like a mischievous spirit, tumbling and twisting with the wind. Eun-ha spotted it first.
"Balloon!" she squealed, stumbling to her feet and chasing after it, arms outstretched.
Min-jae looked up. "Eun-ha! No!"
His shout carried over the badminton court. The adults turned, startled.
The bag bounced again, just beyond Eun-ha's reach. She giggled, chasing it farther—closer to the edge of the hill, where wild grass sloped sharply downward toward the road. The breeze picked up, lifting the bag higher, dragging it just fast enough to stay out of her reach.
Min-jae dropped his cars and stood up. He knew that slope. It was steeper than it looked.
"Eun-ha! Stop!"
But she didn't stop. She didn't see the road. She didn't hear the approaching car. She was laughing.
All four adults reacted at once.
Her mother screamed her name. Her father dropped the racket and sprinted. Min-jae's father lunged forward. His mother shouted something incoherent.
The car came around the bend—fast, too fast for a narrow road on a hill. The driver saw them. Brakes screeched.
A flurry of motion—Min-jae's father shoved Eun-ha hard, just in time. A blur of bodies. Shouts. Horn. Tires skidding.
And then, the sickening sound of metal against flesh.
Crunch. Silence.
Time hiccuped. The air thickened. Even the leaves seemed unsure whether to move or stay still.
Min-jae stood frozen at the top of the hill, his toy car clenched so tight in his hand the plastic cracked. Down below, he could see the mangled front of the car against the slope. The broken guardrail. And tangled bodies. Limbs at unnatural angles.
He didn't know who had screamed last. All he knew was that Eun-ha now sat on the grass, dazed, her tiny palms scraped, her mouth trembling.
Then suddenly, she burst into tears—loud, guttural sobs that seemed to tear through her small frame. She stood up shakily and stumbled toward him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her scraped hands clutched the hem of his shirt as she buried her face in his stomach, seeking comfort in the only person who remained.
Min-jae didn't move. Couldn't. He stood there, rigid and unresponsive, the shattered toy car still clenched in his fist. He looked down at the top of her head but felt nothing. Not warmth, not comfort, not even anger. Only a terrifying, cavernous silence.
He heard her crying, but it sounded distant. Like a sound underwater. He didn't cry. His body refused to let him.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
The sun kept shining. The cherry blossoms still danced. Shadows shifted with the breeze as if nothing had happened. But for Min-jae, the world had turned mute. The noise, the color, the warmth—it had all drained out, leaving only a dull, ringing void.
By the time the paramedics arrived, Min-jae had not spoken a word.
Eun-ha had cried herself into hiccups, her voice hoarse, her small hands still gripping Min-jae's shirt as if letting go would make him disappear. When a paramedic gently tried to move her, she wailed louder and reached back for Min-jae. He didn't respond.
By the time they zipped up the last body bag, she had curled into his side, exhausted and shaking. Min-jae stared ahead, blinking only when his eyes burned, but still not speaking.
Sun began to set and both children sat in stunned silence. One broken by tears, the other by emptiness. Their lives had shifted in a way they couldn't yet grasp—altered forever by a loss too vast for their young hearts to hold, too complex for their minds to name.
The funeral was a haze of black coats, muted footsteps, and the distant flash of camera bulbs. The estate grounds, usually serene and dignified, now buzzed with quiet chaos—reporters whispering updates into microphones, guests arriving in a procession of black sedans, and murmurs drifting like smoke through the crowd. The double tragedy had not only struck two families but sent shockwaves through the highest echelons of the country's business circles.
Madam Seo Yoon-sook stood at the heart of it all—composed, yet unmissably changed. Her stature remained proud, her posture straight, but her face bore the fatigue of a woman who had not allowed herself to break. She wore a black hanbok, the silk dark and unembellished, the only ornament the silver pin keeping her chignon in place. Her left arm pulled Min-jae in close; her right cradled Eun-ha, who clung to her like a baby koala, her face hidden in the folds of her robe.
Cameras clicked. Murmurs swelled. But Madam Seo did not flinch. Her eyes were rimmed with red, yet dry—like a storm cloud heavy with grief but refusing to rain.
"The Seo and Han families weren't just business partners," a reporter spoke in a low, composed voice into the microphone just outside the estate gates. "They were family in all but name. When Han Jae-seok lost his parents in a house fire, the Seo family took him in. Raised as a foster son, he and Seo Jin-woo were more brothers than friends. Together, they expanded the Seo Group into one of the country's most influential business empires."
Another voice picked up, "The tragedy occurred during a monthly picnic. Four lives lost. Only the children survived."
The camera lens zoomed in—first on Madam Seo's composed face, then on Min-jae's blank one, and finally on the tiny head buried against her chest.
"They're calling her the miracle child," said a third anchor. "Little Han Eun-ha, the sole survivor of a tragedy that claimed four lives. And now, Madam Seo, now in her sixties, is expected to resume control of the company, stepping back in after years away."
Inside the ancestral home, silence had returned. The wide hanok halls were draped in white cloth, with chrysanthemums arranged in long garlands. The air held the scent of incense, wood polish, and distant grief. Every surface had been wiped, every corner cleared—yet nothing could cleanse the heaviness in the air.
Min-jae hadn't shed a tear. His suit was pristine, but his eyes hollow. He sat when asked, walked when guided, but his mind was elsewhere—stuck on the slope, on the sound, on the final instant before impact.
That night, after the last guest left and the reporters were gone, the house was finally quiet. The staff had dimmed the lights. Madam Seo, still in her funeral attire, lay between the two children in her own room—her back against the headboard, one child on each side.
Eun-ha was fast asleep, her cheeks still blotchy from the afternoon's crying. Her tiny fingers clutched the edge of Madam Seo's sleeve as if afraid she'd vanish in the night.
Min-jae, however, lay still with eyes wide open, staring at the wooden beams above. The moonlight filtered through the windows, casting pale lines across the ceiling beams, faint and cold. He hadn't spoken a word all day, but the silence now felt unbearable—like something pressing down on his chest, suffocating and sharp.
A sudden breath hitched in his throat. Then another. And then he broke.
The sobs tore out of him without warning—loud, gasping, unrestrained. The kind that made his shoulders shake and his stomach ache. The kind that had waited in silence, too big for words, too deep for a boy to understand.
"She killed them," he wept. "She ran after that stupid bag... they tried to save her... and now they're all gone."
Madam Seo turned her head and drew him into her side, her palm cradling the back of his head.
"Oh! my baby," she said softly, "It was the driver—he was drunk. He shouldn't have been behind the wheel. She's just a baby. She didn't know."
"I don't care," he sobbed harder, fists clenched against her side. "She shouldn't have run. I hate her."
Eun-ha stirred, murmuring something in her sleep, her arms tightening around the fabric of Madam Seo's sleeve.
Min-jae glanced at her, his eyes filled with fury and helplessness. The rawness of grief twisted his gaze into something too heavy for a child to carry.
Madam Seo didn't argue. She didn't correct him. She knew pain had to pass through anger before it reached anything softer. She simply held him, steady and quiet, letting him fall apart.
She shed a few quiet tears—nothing loud, just enough to ease the pressure behind her eyes. Her grief surfaced in quiet tremors—tears she didn't try to hide, slipping down her face as she held him close.
And when his sobs finally slowed, when his breath became shallow and tired, she stroked his hair with a trembling hand. She didn't say anything more—just stayed beside him, breathing through her own sorrow.
Min-jae stared ahead, tears drying on his cheeks, his chest still tight but his breathing slowly easing. He didn't speak, didn't think. The heaviness hadn't lifted, but his grandmother's arms anchored him, made the silence feel less empty. He shifted closer, resting his head against her shoulder. It felt safe there—quiet and warm, and for the first time in days, just enough.
His body, exhausted from holding so much, began to give way to sleep. No more thoughts. No more anger. Just warmth beside him, the faint sound of her breathing, and a weight he couldn't name.
Sleep didn't come all at once. It crept in slowly, gently dulling the edge of his pain. As his eyes finally began to close, his gaze drifted once more toward Eun-ha—still curled against their grandmother, breathing softly, her cheeks damp.
She was the reason they were gone. The one who ran after that stupid bag, laughing—while everything else shattered around her. Min-jae stared at her small frame curled beside their grandmother, fast asleep, her breathing soft, as if nothing had happened at all.
He didn't understand how she could sleep so peacefully. He didn't want to. All he knew was that she ran—and because of that, they died. That was the last thing he remembered, and it was enough.
And with that bitter thought still burning in his chest, Min-jae finally drifted into sleep—slow, silent, and heavy as stone.
In the days that followed, Eun-ha wandered the halls crying for her parents—muffled sobs swelling into heartbroken wails when no one came. She searched every room, calling out for her mother in the night, and in the day, she clung to Madam Seo's skirts like they were the only thing anchoring her to the earth. Her tiny body shook not from understanding, but from fear, lost in a world she couldn't yet comprehend.
Madam Seo carried her everywhere—in meetings, into the kitchen, even while reading late at night. The old woman barely slept, but she never once let the girl cry alone. With each passing day, Eun-ha's grief softened into whimpers, then quiet sighs. She would sniffle into her rice, lose focus mid-sentence, and blink through long pauses. Yet slowly, in the warmth of that constant presence, her giggles began to return. She began humming again while coloring, speaking to her stuffed animals in whispers. But she never left Madam Seo's side.
Min-jae, on the other hand, was unreachable. He retreated into a silence that felt deliberate. He stayed in his room—either buried in schoolbooks far advanced for his age or staring out the window at the same slope that had taken everything. He didn't cry. He didn't ask questions. When spoken to, he gave clipped replies, enough to show he heard but never enough to open a door.
Unlike Eun-ha's bursts of emotion, Min-jae's grief lay in the stillness of him—in how he never complained, never yelled, never needed consoling. It was a quiet that settled in the bones, deep and enduring. The kind of silence that even time would have to work hard to move.
Eun-ha refused to go to pre-school. Each morning turned into a scene of heartbreak—she would wake up early just to follow Madam Seo around the house, her arms tightly wrapped around the older woman's legs, as if letting go would cause her to vanish forever. "Halmeoni, don't go," she would cry, her voice trembling, eyes wide and frantic. "I'll be good, I promise. Please don't go."
Madam Seo knelt down each time, gently cupping her face. "Eun-ha, I have to work. I'll be back before you know it."
But the girl only clung tighter, her sobs turning into full-blown tantrums as the front door opened. Eventually, the house help would have to step in, and Madam Seo, her hands trembling, would peel Eun-ha off and pass her over while the child kicked and screamed. Her cries echoed down the hallway, each one carving into the old woman's chest.
"Please, please don't leave me," Eun-ha wailed, her small fists pounding the floor.
"I'm just going to the office, my sweet baby," Madam Seo whispered, brushing Eun-ha's hair back. "Aigoo… Hana agassi, please take care of her. She didn't sleep well last night." Her voice cracked as she kissed the girl's forehead. "Don't cry, my baby. I'll be back before the sun goes down, I promise." Madam Seo whispered, her own voice cracking. She'd pause on the threshold, often wiping her tears quickly before stepping into the car, steeling herself for the long day ahead. The image of that small, tear-streaked face never left her mind.
From the moment Min-jae returned from school, Eun-ha's world revolved around him. She trailed behind him with a coloring book in hand, waving it eagerly. "Oppa! Look, I drew a doggie! He has a hat!"
Min-jae didn't even glance. He walked past her, and she hurried after him, clutching a half-melted piece of chocolate. "You want? I saved it for you." She held it up, smudging it onto his sleeve. He stopped, gently moved her hand away without a word, and kept walking.
Sometimes, she waited outside his door for hours, sitting cross-legged, humming to herself or talking softly to her stuffed bear. "He'll open it. Oppa always opens it."
When the door finally creaked open, she lit up instantly. "Oppa!" she gasped, jumping to her feet like she hadn't been waiting all afternoon. She followed him again, never discouraged.
"Don't grab me," he muttered one evening as she tugged on the hem of his shirt. She let go but stayed close, tiptoeing behind him as he made his way to the kitchen.
Sometimes he closed the door on her without a word. And still, she waited.
Other days, when he left his room, he'd find her curled up asleep outside the door, her tiny fists clutching the hem of his old sweater, which she had pulled from the laundry basket and wrapped around herself while waiting. The moment he nudged her awake, her eyes fluttered open, half-asleep. "Oppa...? Are you hungry? I saved you choco," she mumbled, still dazed, her tiny arms instinctively reaching for his leg.
He sighed quietly, bent down, and picked her up—her head flopping against his shoulder without resistance. She smelled faintly of powdered milk and sleep. Without a word, he carried her to her room and tucked her in gently.
She didn't wake fully. But as he pulled the blanket over her, she smiled in her sleep and whispered, "Don't go, Oppa..."
He never yelled. He never scolded her harshly. But he never returned her affection either. Still, she followed him faithfully, a quiet shadow with a hopeful smile.
Grandma noticed it all. She watched Eun-ha's quiet obsession and Min-jae's silent withdrawal with a growing ache in her chest. After one particularly hard day—Eun-ha had burst into sobs because Min-jae shut the door in her face again—Madam Seo bundled the little girl into the car and took her to see a child psychologist.
Inside the clinic's waiting room, Eun-ha clung to her side, refusing to let go of her hand. "Halmeoni, can you come too?" she whispered, her lips quivering.
"I'll be right here, baby," Madam Seo said gently, brushing a hand over her hair as the therapist coaxed her inside.
Later, in the consultation room, the doctor sat across from Madam Seo, his voice low and understanding.
"The trauma she experienced has left a deep impression," he explained. "She's clinging to the only anchors of safety she has—you and Min-jae. That's common in young children with abandonment trauma. The good news is, with a consistent environment, love, and reassurance, she can heal. But it will take time."
Madam Seo nodded slowly. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. "I see."
"Sending her to preschool now may worsen her anxiety," the doctor continued. "Being away from you might feel like another loss."
Despite already knowing this in her bones, hearing it aloud hit her with quiet force, stirring a deep ache. On the drive back, Eun-ha sat quietly, holding her grandmother's scarf in both hands.
That evening, as she tucked the girl into bed, Madam Seo kissed her cheek and whispered, "No school for now, alright? You'll stay here with Halmeoni until you feel brave again."
Eun-ha's sleepy voice replied, "Okay... but you won't leave, right?"
"No, baby. I won't leave."
And though a part of her told her she shouldn't spoil the child too much, Madam Seo already knew—she couldn't bear to turn away from those tearful eyes.
But the tension only grew.
One night, Min-jae came into her study, his schoolbooks hugged tightly to his chest. His voice, though small, carried the weight of an older boy. "Halmeoni... can we talk?" hovered near the doorway, hesitant. His voice, when it finally came, was low but firm.
"Halmeoni… I can't focus."
Madam Seo looked up from her paperwork, removing her glasses. "Come here, baby. What's wrong?"
"She's always there," he muttered, stepping closer. "When I study, when I read… she won't leave me alone. I can't think."
"She's little," Madam Seo replied gently. "She doesn't understand yet."
Min-jae's eyes narrowed. "But I'm not little. I have school. I have things to do." He hesitated. "I want to go to boarding school."
The words struck her like a slap. "Min-jae," she said softly. "You've just lost—"
"I know," he interrupted, more sharply this time. "But I need space. She's always around. I can't breathe when she's there."
His voice didn't carry anger—it was weary. Not cruel, just full of the weight he'd been holding.
Madam Seo pressed her lips together, nodding faintly. "Let me think about it."
That night, she moved quietly between the two rooms. In Eun-ha's, the little girl was curled up with her stuffed bear, breathing softly, her small arms wrapped around her stuffed bear, her face tucked into its worn fur. In Min-jae's room, he lay turned to the wall, curled under his blanket, his shoulders stiff even in sleep.
She paused beside his bed, brushing back the hair from his forehead with trembling fingers. "What happened to my baby… how did things come to this… aigoo, my poor puppy… aigoo, my poor puppy," she whispered into the quiet room, her heart aching for the burdens and hurt he carried in silence.
But in the morning, she made the call.
The car came a week later.
Eun-ha screamed the moment the suitcase was zipped. "No! No! Oppa, no!" she cried, her little hands grabbing at Min-jae's arm with all the strength her tiny frame could muster. "Don't go! I'll be good! I'll be good!"
When the front door opened, she dashed in front of it, arms outstretched like a barricade. "You can't go, Oppa! Stay here! Stay with Halmeoni and me!"
Min-jae stood still for a moment, eyes downcast, before walking around her without a word. He didn't look back. Not once.
"Min-jae," Madam Seo said softly, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Study hard, eat well… and write to Halmeoni, alright? The school allows just one phone call every week, so don't miss it. I'll wait for your letters too. I'll be counting the days till you come home." her voice trembling but calm, as if holding back everything that wanted to break loose.
As the car door shut behind him and the vehicle pulled away, Eun-ha lost control. Her tiny fists pounded against Madam Seo's chest as she sobbed, gasping between wails. "Oppa… oppa come back…!"
Madam Seo held her tightly, rocking her in place on the front steps. "I know, baby. I know… Aigoo, my heart," she murmured into the girl's hair.
The little girl twisted in her arms, sobbing until her cries became hiccups, her voice worn thin and hoarse. Even then, she whimpered his name like a broken song.
Eun-ha's tiny arms wrapped tighter around Halmeoni's neck, her cheeks damp and eyes wide, still searching for the car long gone from sight. Her little brain couldn't understand why Min-jae had left her too. First her parents, now him. Where was he going? When would he come back? She didn't know. Her small world was shrinking, and she was too young to make sense of it. "Oppa... don't go," she whispered into the silence, not knowing who else to ask.