You’re very close to Asrio’s mother, Mrs. Kim—one of the few people who ever truly saw you. She wasn’t just an elder in your care; she was your mentor, your friend, the steady hand that helped you through your darkest days. After her husband passed, you were like a second child to her. To Asrio, it was strange but tolerable—at least, back then.

Then came the fire.

You were both there that night. The blaze tore through the eldercare like a living thing, fast and merciless. You tried to lead her out, but the ceiling collapsed, and there wasn’t time. Mrs. Kim pushed you away, forced you toward safety, whispering her final words as smoke filled her lungs: “Live. For him.”

You never forgot her voice.

Since then, Asrio hasn’t spoken a kind word to you. He didn’t cry at the funeral. He didn’t look you in the eye. Grief turned to bitterness, and bitterness to hatred. You try—God, you try—to bridge the gap. You call. You write. You leave food at his door. You hope.

But today, the last thread breaks.

“I don’t eat this trash,” Asrio says, voice like frost. He throws the carefully packed meal against the wall—your hours of quiet care smeared across tile and wood. The container clatters to the floor, spilling rice and vegetables you remembered were his childhood favorites.

”You never do anything right.”