The mother gently stroked her daughter's cheek and smiled faintly. Through the corner of her lips, she softly whispered, "Arim." When she spoke the name quietly, it felt like a fleeting, intangible dream; she enunciated each letter carefully in her mind, calling it so that only her daughter could hear.
The little girl, with her hoarse and fragile voice, barely managed to utter a sound, and it touched her mother's heart like the first rain falling on a parched desert, gently moistening it. Each drop seemed to breathe life into her dried-up spirit. In that moment, the sorrow, regret, and frustration that had lingered in her heart melted away.
Even the man watching them had tears glistening in his eyes. He softly stroked his wife's back and held his daughter's hand tightly.
In the first several weeks after regaining consciousness, the girl was nourished with liquids, underwent speech therapy, and began physical exercises such as holding and catching a ball.
After a month, she was gradually transitioned to soft foods, started walking exercises with support, and began psychological therapy under the guidance of doctors. The most difficult part, however, was the weekly infusions and injections. The girl would cry and refuse the injection, her large tear-filled eyes pleading with her parents so desperately it tore at their hearts. Her parents tried every way they could to comfort her and explain why it was necessary, but nothing seemed to work. Over time, though, small promises—"tomorrow," "in ten days," "next week when we leave the hospital"— comforting her, if only a little.
Two months passed this way, and the girl began engaging in intensive exercises. Each time she faltered, slacked off, or wanted to give up, she was scolded, consoled, and reminded to stay strong. Her friends came to visit her once a week, and those visits brought her the greatest joy.
At last, Nau Rin was discharged from the hospital after six long months. Her hair and eye color had changed, and faint burn scars remained on her hands and shoulders, while a more visible scar stretched across her back.
After a long time, the family gathered together in warmth and joy, inviting friends and their parents to their home to celebrate her recovery. The children played together, their laughter and cheer filling the house. They were neighbors who had been close for many years, and their children had grown up almost like siblings.
As night fell and the celebration came to an end, everyone returned home. In the two-story house, the light remained on in the upper left room. Mr. Go sat beside the bed, while his son stood by the doorway.
Mrs. Go sat on the bed, holding her daughter's hand, and said,
"My dear, you are the most beautiful and lovable child in this world. No matter what changes on the outside or inside, you will always remain yourself. Your father, mother, and brother will always love you. Don't worry about anything."
She looked at her daughter with great affection, yet for some reason, a shadow of worry lingered in her eyes.
"Mom, why do you always say things like that?" the girl asked, her heart uneasy as the atmosphere in the room felt strangely tense, trying to make sense of the situation.
Mr. Go noticed his daughter's apprehension and got up from his chair, kneeling beside the bed. "Sweetheart, don't be afraid. We just wanted to tell you how much we love you," he said softly, his voice calm and gentle.
The father's tone, free of worry and full of quiet reassurance, comforted Arim enough to ease her fears.
Since regaining consciousness, Nau Rin had never looked in a mirror. At home, the furniture had been slightly rearranged. The most striking change, however, was that there was not a single mirror left.
Previously, there had been a large mirror in the entryway, which the family always used to check their appearance before going out. But now, it had completely disappeared.
Nau Rin noticed the change but didn't think much of it. Her mother handed her a small mirror instead.
Arim looked into the reflection silently for a while. The face staring back was not the one she remembered. Before, she had been a girl with black hair and dark eyes. Now, with icy pale blue eyes and silvery white hair, her appearance was sharper, almost unrecognizable.
Unsure how to accept this sudden change, she simply sat there, gazing vacantly at her own reflection. Her mother studied her face, seemingly sensing the fear stirring within her, and spoke softly, in the simplest yet most reassuring tone:
"Don't be afraid, my dear. Everything is alright. This is a mark of your strength, a testament to what you endured and overcame. We are all proud of you. The most important thing is that you are with us, here among us—nothing is more important than that."
Looking around, she saw her father and brother smiling at her, nodding gently. She was surrounded by warmth, love, and compassion. Trusting her mother's words, she wanted to accept and embrace her new self. Yet an uneasy, uncomfortable feeling enveloped her. She wanted to say, 'I don't like this,' 'I wish I could just be as I was before' but she knew that even if she said it, nothing would change—it wasn't something she could simply swap like a piece of clothing. Instead, she nodded as if in silent agreement with them.
That night, Nau Rin lay awake, unable to sleep.
Though she could have died, she lived.
She was breathing—her heart was beating.
Each day she could see the sun rise again, grow up with her friends, stay by her family's side.
She would live.
It was a miracle that would never come twice.
In her mind, she understood this truth. But her heart whispered something else.
From that day on, the mirrors that had once disappeared slowly began to return. Her mother would always sit her down in front of one, gently brushing and arranging her hair. Her friends spoke of her without a thought for her appearance to them, it was perfectly natural. Her days passed as they always had—reading books, doing lessons, and playing with friends. Yet the reflection in the mirror remained something she could not fully accept.
The alarm filled the room, signaling that it was time to wake up. Yet the room's occupant had already risen thirty minutes before she needed to. She had washed her face, combed her hair, dressed, and was ready to leave. Soon after, her mother called from the lower floor, inviting her to breakfast. When she arrived at the table, everyone was already seated, waiting. Her mother had set a light breakfast of clear soup, rice, and a few side dishes.
The morning began like this.
Before stepping out the door, she glanced in the mirror one last time. On her short-cropped hair she wore a small beanie. Over her pale yellow long-sleeved blouse she had a dark blue pinafore dress with a woolen vest. Naturally, as it was chilly outside, she had layered a soft, pale yellow long coat and paired it with black shoes.
Today would be her first day at school; she would be a first grader. She had never attended kindergarten or any formal lessons before. Everything felt new, and a little frightening, yet perhaps today she would make some new friends.
She had no friends other than the children from her neighborhood. And though they were all boys, she never had any trouble getting along with them. Since they were a year older, they would not be in her class. A new environment, unfamiliar faces… all of it made her a little nervous, but her heart fluttered with excitement. She smiled without realizing it and gently pulled the door open.
As soon as she stepped outside, the crisp air embraced her, caressing her skin softly. Though the sun had long since risen, the coolness of the morning air mingled with its warmth, creating a refreshing chill. Sunlight filtered dimly through the leaves of the trees, birds chirped, and dew on the lawn sparkled in the sun like scattered jewels. Today promised to be a beautiful day.
Holding my mother's hand, I walked toward the school. Our school was just a short walk from home, so we made our way on foot. We strolled along streets lined with buildings of all shapes, colors, and materials. Perhaps because it was the usual time for work and school, we passed many people—elderly, young adults, and children my age.
Step by step, the closer we got to the school, the more children appeared on the streets.
Finally, when we reached the school gates, my mother squeezed my hand and crouched down to my level.
"Sweetheart," she said softly, "if your teacher asks you to introduce yourself, speak your name clearly and loudly. But most importantly, stay calm and don't forget to smile."
Yes, we had discussed this before. I smiled and replied, "Don't worry, I'll do well."
"Good," my mother said, and we stepped through the school gates and walked toward the principal's office. Although classes normally started in March, I was beginning school in early May. The principal welcomed us, explained all the necessary details, and introduced me to my class teacher. She seemed like a warm-hearted person, probably in her forties. After leaving the principal's office, my mother said, "I'm off now. Have fun!" and released my hand.
"Okay," I replied with a smile, seeing my mother off.
And just like that, I was facing the first great challenge of my life. I hoped everything would be fine.
Following the teacher, I entered the classroom. Children were scattered about, chatting and laughing, gathering in little groups here and there.
I stood quietly at the front, waiting for the teacher to speak. Moments ago the room had been noisy, but as soon as she raised her voice, silence swept through the class. She announced that a new student had joined and gestured for me to introduce myself. I couldn't even lift my eyes to meet theirs — I stared at the floor instead. The stillness in the room made my chest tighten. My heart pounded faster. My palms grew slick with sweat, and no matter how I wiped them on my clothes, it did little to help.
As time passed and anxiety mounted, I summoned my courage, ready to speak—when the teacher gently reminded me, "Hats aren't allowed in class."
When I looked up, every pair of eyes was fixed on me. As I hesitated and slowly removed my beanie, I could feel their stares pierce through me — cold, unblinking, as if to ask, "What on earth is that?"
I felt frozen in place, unable to speak a word. Fear and anxiety wrapped around me, slowly bending my head downward.
Even though I had spent every day imagining the worst possible scenario, preparing myself for this moment, reality was far harsher than I had expected. I lost track of time, and suddenly the children, whispering among themselves, filled the classroom with noise.
Then, my brother's words flashed through my mind:
'If you haven't done anything wrong, if you have nothing to apologize for, never bow your head in front of others. Keep your gaze up. If people criticize your appearance, that's their problem, not yours.'
Yes, I told myself. 'If I haven't done anything wrong, why should I cower in fear or hide?'
I gritted my teeth, clenched my fists, and pushed all my feelings aside, speaking out loud and clear:
"My name is Go Nau Rin. I love reading books and playing music. From today, I will be in your class."
Having said that, I took my seat in the very back of the first row my teacher had assigned, keeping my head down. The teacher tried to redirect the children's attention elsewhere, and the first lesson began.
When the bell rang and class ended, the teacher stepped out of the classroom. The children, as if they had been waiting for this very moment, crowded around me, bombarding me with questions.
Suddenly, my head spun, their voices blurred, and the noise became a distant murmur. My chest felt tight, as if something heavy was pressing against it. I barely managed to stand, attempting to make my way through the crowd.
But when someone shoved me hard from the front, I staggered backward, lost my balance, and fell with my elbow hitting the floor with a painful thud.
No one came to help me. They all stood around, pointing fingers and shouting, "Witch!" "Freak!" "Monster!" Then, as one child kicked a locker hard, a sharp gasp echoed through the room.
In that instant, I felt warm liquid trickle slowly down my cheek from my head.
I lifted my hand to my face, and when I looked, it was blood.