The Han River was a grey, shimmering expanse under the winter sun, but the memorial park situated on its bank felt even colder. The wind here didn't just bite; it whistled through the leafless trees like a mournful flute.
I found him exactly where Jeonghan said he would be.
Hanbin was sitting on a stone bench overlooking a quiet section of the memorial wall. He wasn't wearing a coat—just the same black hoodie from the morning. He looked small against the backdrop of the vast, open sky. He was sitting perfectly still, his bandaged hands resting on his knees, staring at a small bouquet of white lilies he had placed on the ground.
I approached slowly, my boots crunching softly on the frost-covered grass. I didn't want to startle him, but as I got closer, I realized he already knew I was there. He just didn't have the energy to put his mask back on.
"Jeonghan shouldn't have told you," he said. His voice was so thin it almost got carried away by the wind.
"He was worried about you," I replied softly, stopping a few feet away. "And so am I."
I sat down on the far end of the bench, leaving a respectful gap between us. For a long time, we just sat in silence. I didn't try to offer platitudes like 'She's in a better place' or 'It's been five years.' I knew those words were hollow. When you lose the person who was your entire world, time doesn't heal the wound; it just teaches you how to breathe around the pain.
"She used to call me 'Little Star,'" Hanbin whispered, his eyes never leaving the lilies. "Because even when I was a kid and didn't talk to anyone, she said I had a light that only she could see. On my fifteenth birthday, she bought me a new laptop. She said, 'Our Hanbin is going to build something beautiful one day.' She took a bite of her cake, laughed at a joke Hyuk-hyung made... and then she was gone."
He finally turned to look at me. His eyes weren't icy. They were wet, the unshed tears making them look like shattered glass.
"I hate this day, Danoh. I hate that my birth is tied to her death. Every time someone says 'Happy Birthday,' all I hear is the sound of her heart stopping."
My own heart broke for him. I reached out, hesitating for a second before placing my hand over his bandaged one. His skin was like ice.
"I lost my parents on a Tuesday," I said quietly. "For three years, I couldn't stand Tuesdays. I'd stay in bed, terrified that if I went outside, the world would take someone else I loved. I thought if I ignored the day, the pain wouldn't find me."
Hanbin's fingers twitched under mine, but he didn't pull away.
"But then I realized," I continued, "that my parents loved Tuesdays because that was the day they'd take us for ice cream. By hating the day, I was hating the memory of their love. Hanbin, your grandmother didn't choose to leave on your birthday to hurt you. she spent her last moments celebrating you. She died while looking at her 'Little Star.' That was her final gift to you—a reminder of how much you were loved."
A single tear finally escaped, trailing down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away. He looked back at the memorial wall, his breathing shuddering.
"I stayed in the lab for two weeks because I was afraid of the dark," he admitted, his voice trembling. "After Kai... after what he did to you... I felt like the world was proving me right. That everything is just a series of crashes and errors."
"But you fixed it," I reminded him, squeezing his hand. "You ran through the streets in your slippers, Hanbin. You saved me. You are the reason I can sit here today and feel the sun. Your grandmother was right—you are building something beautiful. You're building a life where the people around you feel safe."
Hanbin let out a long, shaky exhale. He turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with mine. His grip was weak, but it was the most honest he had ever been with me.
"I don't want to be alone today," he whispered.
"You aren't," I promised. "I'm staying right here. For as long as you need."
We sat there until the sun began to dip below the horizon, turning the Han River into a ribbon of gold. For the first time in five years, Hanbin didn't spend his birthday as a ghost. He spent it as a boy, grieving with someone who understood the language of his silence.
The "Ice Prince" hadn't melted, but the cracks in his armor were finally letting the light in.