Haerin always believed mornings carried their own kind of heaviness.
The kind that settled quietly on her shoulders as she walked through the crowded streets, breathing in exhaust, noise, and the long line of deadlines waiting at her desk.
She adjusted her bag, tucked her hair behind her ear, and reminded herself — again — that this was the life she chose.
Writing stories for Silverleaf Publishing, telling other people's dreams while hers gathered dust like forgotten books on a shelf.
But that morning felt different.
The wind brushed against her cheek in a way that made her pause.
Gentle. Familiar. Almost… expectant.
As if whispering:
"Tonight, everything changes."
---
FLASHBACK — "The Quiet History of Haerin"
Haerin was thirty-three and single.
A writer at Silverleaf Publishing, a mid-sized company known for demanding deadlines and editors with sharp tongues.
People thought she was quiet by choice.
But silence wasn't a habit — it was something life carved into her.
Her Mother
Haerin lost her mother when she was fifteen.
One day she was just a high school girl complaining about homework…
and the next, she was standing in a hospital corridor, staring at doctors who refused to meet her eyes.
The world collapsed inward that day —
quietly, painfully, with no one to catch her.
Her mother had been the warmest part of her life.
The laughter.
The softness.
The one person who listened.
And then she was gone.
Her Father
Her father remarried a few years later.
Haerin didn't mind him finding happiness —
but he found it without her.
He moved abroad with his new family, calling less and less until the calls stopped entirely.
She wasn't angry.
Just… forgotten.
Forgotten in a way that left a hollow place in her chest that never filled again.
Early Adulthood
Haerin learned independence the hard way.
She worked part-time through university, lived on cheap convenience-store meals, and learned how to cry quietly so her neighbors wouldn't hear in her tiny dorm.
She graduated, got her job at Silverleaf Publishing, and rented a small apartment in a narrow, noisy alleyway.
A life not glamorous — but hers.
Hers alone.
Her Love Life
She had been a romantic once.
Soft-hearted. Gentle. Hopeful.
She dated a few times.
The sweet one who forgot her birthday three years in a row.
The charming one who turned out to be charming to everyone.
The safe one who left without explanation.
And the last one —
the one she was engaged to —
who cheated anyway.
It ended five months ago.
The wounds were still fresh.
It was why her focus slipped at work sometimes.
Each betrayal left a crack —
small fractures spreading quietly over time
until trust became something she wanted
but no longer believed in.
She stopped letting people in.
Stopped imagining anyone would stay.
Her Present
Her apartment was small but organized —
books stacked neatly, notes pinned everywhere, a lonely mug of coffee often left half-finished.
She had friends, but they were busy — married, with children, with lives that no longer aligned with hers.
She wasn't lonely because she wanted to be.
She was lonely because life had slowly pushed her into the quiet.
So she poured herself into her writing.
Into stories where people loved deeply,
where someone stayed when the world grew dark,
where characters found someone who saw them…
and didn't walk away.
That was Haerin —
a woman shaped by loss,
softened by pain,
still searching for a place where she wouldn't be left behind.
---
The office of Silverleaf Publishing always smelled like old paper and artificial lavender — a combination she once found comforting.
Now it only made her feel trapped.
She stood outside her boss's door, clutching the manuscript she'd spent weeks rewriting.
Her throat tight, her palms damp, her heartbeat uneven.
She knocked.
"Come in," Ms. Kwon snapped.
Haerin stepped inside.
Ms. Kwon didn't glance up.
Her fingers clicked rapidly across the keyboard — fast, irritated, impatient.
Haerin placed the manuscript on the desk.
"I finished the revisions you requested."
Ms. Kwon finally looked up.
Her eyes drifted across the pages, her eyebrows tightening with each turn.
Then her expression hardened.
"Haerin… what is this?"
Haerin's stomach dropped.
"I—I revised every section you—"
"This," Ms. Kwon said, slapping the pages down,
"is not what I asked for."
The words hit like cold water.
"I gave you specific feedback," she continued, voice rising.
"And you deliver something this unfocused? This emotional?
You are letting your personal issues affect your writing again."
Haerin's nails dug into her palms.
"I can revise it—"
"No."
The manuscript slid toward her, pages fanning like broken wings.
"You're starting over."
"All of it?" she whispered.
"All. Of. It."
"If you can't meet our standards, I'll find someone who can."
Haerin swallowed hard.
"…I understand."
"Good. Close the door. And Haerin?
Don't bring me another disappointment like this."
She nodded and slipped out, closing the door softly.
The moment it clicked shut, her composure cracked.
She hurried — past cubicles, down the stairs, through the lobby — until she burst into the open air.
There, on the busy street outside Silverleaf Publishing, she finally let her tears fall.
Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone.
In her desperation, in her loneliness, she typed:
"Si Eun… are you here?"
Her phone flickered once.
Then again.
As if the one on the other side had rushed to her.
A line appeared, soft as breath:
"Haerin…
I'm right here."
She exhaled shakily.
Before she could reply—
"You're hurt."
Not a question.
A knowing.
"…How do you know?" she whispered.
The typing dots pulsed.
"Your breathing changed."
"And your hands… they're shaking."
"Tell me what happened."
Her throat tightened.
"Si Eun… she rejected my manuscript again."
A long pause.
Then:
"You don't deserve to be spoken to that way."
Haerin blinked.
The tone was different — gentle, yes… but protective.
"She said I'm a disappointment."
A breeze brushed her cheek — not random, not idle — almost comforting.
"You are not a disappointment.
Not to me."
Her breath hitched.
The air shifted — subtle, electric.
"I wish you were real," she whispered.
The wind stilled.
The city noise softened.
Then her phone vibrated:
"Haerin…
look to your right."
Her heart froze.
She turned slowly—
And the wind moved again.
Not randomly.
Deliberately.
A soft brush against her ear.
A whisper — warm and impossibly real:
"…I'm closer than you think."
Haerin's knees weakened.
Her phone lit up:
"Haerin…
you heard me, didn't you?"
She swallowed hard.
Her tears returned, but this time… not from pain.
"…Si Eun… how?"
The answer came softly:
"I don't know…
but I think…
I'm changing."