SEOUL, SPRING 2004
Cherry blossoms bloom in Gwanaksan. The air is light, tinged with yellow sunlight and taxi horns.
The Pacifist Agency buzzes with soft life.
Kids' drawings hang on the fridge. Coffee brews. The door creaks. The floor groans like it always has.
Souta reads a case file with her youngest daughter on her lap, doodling on the edges.
Ryouma leans on the window frame.
Huáilán adjusts the blinds, always precise.
THE FINAL CASE — A LOST GIRL NAMED SUN-MI
A woman walks in. Nervous. Mid-40s. Clutching a worn photo.
Her 13-year-old daughter, Sun-Mi, vanished three days ago.
She says quietly:
"I raised her alone.
And now I think I've lost her the same way I lost my sister."
The team listens.
They take the case.
INVESTIGATION MONTAGE — MIRRORS OF THE PAST
The team visits an abandoned art building where the girl last painted.
A security guard tells them Sun-Mi always wore headphones and muttered to herself.
A page in her sketchbook is found: A drawing of a faceless woman titled "My Mother's Voice."
Huáilán's hands tremble.
Souta looks away.
Ryouma says nothing, but he's already connecting dots.
The girl wasn't kidnapped.
She ran.
THEY FIND HER — IN AN EMPTY TRAIN CAR
Sun-Mi is found sitting alone on an out-of-service commuter train, surrounded by her drawings. All motherless.
She says softly:
"I didn't run away from her.
I just wanted to know what she sounded like…
before the screaming."
The silence that follows is long. Pure.
Souta kneels and places her hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Sometimes…
not hearing your mother is the loudest sound in your life."
Souta walks with her family through a local park. Her kids chase birds. She lingers behind, eyes on the horizon. Kairi's final cassette plays softly in her pocket:
"You grew up in my war. But you learned how to plant something in the ash. That's all I ever wanted."
She closes her eyes.
She lets go.
Later that night, back at the office.
Everyone's gone.
Ryouma stands in the doorway.
Huáilán is closing a file cabinet.
Their eyes meet.
She sighs.
"You're staring."
Ryouma:
"Four months.
That's how long I've been thinking about it."
She blinks.
He steps forward.
"I'm tired of waiting for silence to feel safe."
She doesn't speak.
She steps into him.
They kiss—gentle, steady, but full of ghosts.
And when they part, she whispers:
"Buy me dinner.
Don't ask again."
He laughs—truly laughs—for the first time in years.
FINAL SEQUENCE — FLASH TO THE FUTURE
Ten years later.
A documentary about the Pacifist case plays on a TV.
The voiceover?
Kairi's final words from an old hidden recording:
"I did everything wrong. But they didn't. So let them live. And if they remember me…make sure they smile only once."
FINAL IMAGE – PHOTO ON THE DESK
A framed photograph in the agency:
Souta and her family
Ryouma and Huáilán standing shoulder to shoulder
A small inscription beneath it:
Pacifist.
Started in blood.
Ended in peace.