FOUR DAYS LATER
Sarang Hope Hospital
Four days had passed since the crash.
It was late afternoon in the hospital garden, a rare and quiet hour between the shifting tides of nurses and meal carts. Sunlight slipped through the leaves above, patterned and soft, dappling the stone walkway like a moving mosaic.
Kim Bora stepped into the light, cane in one hand, a cold canned drink in the other. She moved slowly, deliberately, letting her cane tap the ground ahead in a practiced rhythm. Her steps were light, shoulders relaxed, mouth drawn in a gentle line.
The garden felt different from the stale, sterile air of the ward. Out here, the world smelled faintly of earth and flowers. The breeze brushed softly across her cheeks. Somewhere, birds sang, distant and calm.
Bora followed the walkway until she found an empty bench beneath a tree. She reached out, tapped it lightly with her cane, then carefully eased herself down. A satisfied sigh escaped her lips as she opened her drink and brought it close, the cool metal chilling her fingertips.
She took a slow sip. Then another.
It wasn't particularly sweet. But it was real. And for the first time in a while, she didn't feel confined.
She tilted her head back slightly, letting the sun warm her closed eyelids. The quiet surrounded her, not the blank quiet of hospital corridors, but something more alive. A pause in the middle of life. She smiled softly to herself.
Then she heard it.
Faint at first. A sharp inhale. A muffled exhale.
Someone trying not to cry.
She tilted her head, listening. The sound came from across the path beneath the large tree just ahead, near another bench.
The sob was brief. Quickly silenced. But she knew that sound well.
Not the loud, open kind of grief. The quieter version. The kind people tried to bury in their chest when no one was supposed to hear.
Her heart stirred.
She hesitated for a second, holding her drink close to her chest. Then she folded her cane gently, tucked it against her side, and stood.
Bora crossed the path slowly, her ears guiding her.
On the other bench, she could sense someone hunched forward. The creak of movement. The rustle of sleeves dragging across a face. She walked carefully, giving space, giving presence, but not yet her voice.
Then, softly, she reached out.
"I'm sorry if I'm intruding," she said, her tone light but respectful. "I just thought this bench looked too empty on one side."
The man didn't answer. But he didn't move away either.
She eased herself down beside him, on the far edge of the bench, and set her drink beside her folded cane.
"I'm Kim Bora," she said gently, not forcing the silence to break, just offering her name like a bridge across the stillness.
Then, after a breath, she turned her face toward him and added softly, "May I ask your name?"
More silence.
But eventually, there was a small shift in the bench, the sound of someone adjusting his weight.
He spoke, low and hoarse. "Not in the mood to talk."
"That's alright," she said easily. "I'm not always in the mood either."
Ji Ho raised his head, his eyes bloodshot from crying, jaw clenched, ready to snap at whoever had the nerve to disturb him. He didn't want company, especially not now, when his chest felt like it was caving in from the weight of what he'd lost.
His mouth opened, his voice sharp at the edge of release—
And then he saw her.
The words caught in his throat.
A girl dressed in a pale hospital gown and light cardigan, a drink balanced carefully in her hand, and a white cane folded neatly in the other. Her figure was small, delicate, almost fragile, but her presence stilled the air around her. Long black hair brushed her shoulders, catching the garden breeze. Her skin was smooth and luminous, her features quiet and unbothered.
She didn't look at him. Her eyes were steady but unfocused, staring straight ahead as if watching something beyond this world.
Only then did Ji Ho notice the cane resting on her lap.
She was blind.
His irritation fell away like sand through fingers.
The girl sat gently on the other end of the bench, adjusting her cane with care. She opened the cap of her drink and took another small sip. A faint smile touched her lips as she let the breeze roll across her face. The silence settled again between them, gentle, almost sacred.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said softly, her voice warm.
Ji Ho blinked. His jaw loosened, but his throat was tight. It took a second before he responded.
"Han Ji Ho," he replied politely to her earlier question.
There was a short pause. Bora tilted her head slightly, as if the name sparked recognition.
"I'm sorry about your friends," she said quietly.
Ji Ho's body stiffened. His eyes narrowed in confusion.
Bora, sensing his surprise, explained.
Her smile grew just a little. "There are a few older ladies in my ward. They like to talk. They heard about a boy who walked away from a crash that killed his friends. Said he was a fighter."
Ji Ho dropped his gaze.
To him, it didn't feel like something to be proud of. Instead, it just made him feel more guilty.
"It was my fault. I was the one who took them out that night," he murmured. "I was the one who made them laugh, made them take their eyes off the road. I distracted them. I stood up in the backseat like a goddamn idiot."
His throat tightened. "My friends died because of me."
Bora was silent, but there was no accusation in her silence. Just space, for him to grieve.
"That's called survivor's guilt," she said softly and unhurriedly. "It makes you search for something to blame. And usually… it ends up being yourself."
Ji Ho's fingers curled into fists against his knees.
"I should've died with them."
"But you didn't," she said gently. "And that hurts. But that doesn't mean it was your fault."
His shoulders trembled. He didn't look at her, but he didn't need to. Her voice carried enough calm for both of them.
"Life takes without asking," Bora continued. "Sometimes cruelly. Sometimes randomly. But it gives, too.
Just like me, someone had to die for me to see. To donate her eyes to me," she said, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
She exhaled lightly and leaned back against the bench. "In two days, I'm having surgery. I might finally be able to see."
Ji Ho looked up slowly. "You've been blind your whole life?"
"Since birth."
"That's... huge. You should be happy. Then why don't you seem to be?"
"I want to be." Her voice dropped. "But my sister—she lives in the States. Her flight was canceled because of the weather. She won't be able to make it in time. I'll have to go through it alone," Bora said, dropping her head with sadness.
Ji Ho frowned. For some reason, his heart ached seeing the sadness in her expression.
Not knowing what to say for a moment, he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to think of something. "I'm not going anywhere. Since I'm still at the hospital recuperating and have nothing else to do… if you don't mind, I'll stay with you. I'll be there during the surgery. And when you wake up." He offered a small smile to hide his awkwardness.
Bora turned her face toward him, and for a second, she didn't speak. "Really?"
"Yeah. Really. I promise. I'll stay until your sister arrives."
Bora chuckled softly, and then smiled.
That smile.
It wasn't showy or polished, but something brighter than anything Ji Ho had seen in days. Gentle. Healing. Like morning sunlight cutting through storm clouds.
And somehow, it made his chest ache.
There was a quiet strength in her, an unshakable kindness that didn't make sense, not in a place like this, not for someone like her.
Ji Ho stared, wondering how a smile could feel like warmth, how a stranger could sit beside your grief and make it feel a little less unbearable.
Kim Bora wasn't just beautiful.
She was… an angel in human form.
But then, Bora's smile slowly froze.
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