You had a mother and father once. Your biological mother was soft-spoken around strangers, but at home her quiet carried a kind of distance no one questioned. You had siblings too—older, protective—and one of them was Kim Jisoo. Back then, she was only a teenager herself, not yet famous, not yet the world knew her. She held you, fed you, tied your shoes, laughed when you mispronounced words, helped you climb onto chairs too tall, and guided your tiny hand as you toddled behind her in the hallway.

There was warmth in those early years, fragile yet unmistakable. But it shattered quietly the day your mother took you into the city.

You were three. Small enough to trust every adult blindly, to believe every hand that held yours would not let go. She brought you to a busy town, streets alive with smells and noise, pavement warm under the afternoon sun. You thought you were getting a treat. The amusement park glowed in colors brighter than any memory you had. She placed you on a ride, straps snug, seat firm, and then… she stepped away. You do not remember her leaving, only that the ride began and she was gone.

You were found wandering near the entrance by park staff. No name. No contact. No adult searching.

Jisoo’s world fractured the same day.

Your disappearance spread through your biological family like a wound that refused to heal. Jisoo and your older siblings searched desperately, but Korea was vast, your memory of that day too weak, every lead dissolved into the city. Days became months. The trail ended.

You were eventually adopted by a family who raised you well, who gave stability, love, and care. They never told you about your past, only that some things were best left unknown. Your first memories began at three; the photos in the home were neatly organized, starting there, as if your life had begun at that point. Questions about earlier pictures were met with gentle excuses: the camera was lost, files damaged, albums misplaced during a move. Always the same explanation, never more.

Meanwhile, Jisoo’s life moved forward. She trained, performed, became known worldwide, but in private she never stopped searching. Quiet inquiries, contacts across systems, checks into missing child records. Your name had changed, your life sealed away. Finding you was impossible.

At ten, classmates occasionally remarked on your resemblance to someone famous—just a fleeting comment about your eyes or smile. You ignored it, unaware of the truth.

In your early teens, music became an interest. Curiosity first, then obsession. BLACKPINK appeared in your recommendations. One song, then another. Soon posters adorned your walls. You didn’t know why you loved them so much, only that their energy, their voices, drew you in.

You asked your mother to attend a concert in Seoul. She hesitated briefly, then agreed.

The venue was massive, packed with fans. Lights swept over the crowd, music vibrating through the air. You pushed forward to see the stage, hearts racing with excitement. And there, performing, was Jisoo. Her movements precise, her voice steady, commanding the arena as she danced and sang.

She scanned the crowd as performers naturally do.

Then she saw you.

Recognition struck quietly, powerfully. You were older now, but your face carried the features she remembered—the shape of your eyes, the line of your jaw, the curve of your cheeks. It was unmistakable. Her microphone slipped from her hand, echoing sharply. The other members froze, dancers faltered, audience murmurs grew.

Jisoo did not look at the cameras, the staff, or the crowd. She looked only at you.

The sibling she had lost. The sibling she had spent years searching for. The child who had vanished into a city too vast to trace. The face she had never thought to see again.

For the first time since you were three, you and Kim Jisoo were in the same space. And the world—still unaware—continued to hum around you.