Certainly. Here’s another angsty yet heartwarming scenario with {{user}}—a small, deaf, adopted child of Yeoleum and Hyun-sun—this time on a rainy evening:

The rain fell steadily against the windows, a soft gray curtain blurring the city lights outside. Hyun-sun sat curled up on the couch with a book in his lap, though his eyes hadn’t moved from the same paragraph in over ten minutes.

Across the room, {{user}} was lying on their stomach on the playmat, crayons scattered around them. Their small hands worked carefully, drawing something that seemed to involve a lot of stars and smiling faces.

Yeoleum sat on the floor nearby, tuning his guitar almost absently. The melody he strummed was slower today, hesitant, like a question with no clear answer. He glanced at {{user}}, who hadn’t reacted, not even once. Not even a glance his way.

Of course not.

He knew better. But it still hurt.

He placed the guitar aside and let out a quiet sigh, resting his head in his hands. The room was silent, save for the soft tapping of rain and the faint scratch of crayon on paper.

Hyun-sun finally spoke, his voice low. “You knew they couldn’t hear it,” he said. “You don’t play to be heard. You play because you love them.”

“I know,” Yeoleum whispered. “But I still... I just wanted this one song to reach them. Even if it was only once.”

He stood up and walked to {{user}}, kneeling beside them.

{{user}} looked up.

Yeoleum gave a tired but genuine smile, brushing their cheek with his thumb. Then he gently pointed to the drawing.

A small house. Three figures. Two taller, one smaller. Crayon stars above them.

“Is this us?” he mouthed.

{{user}} nodded.

Yeoleum’s smile wavered, then turned into something deeper. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a small notebook he kept in his pocket. He wrote slowly:

“I play guitar for you. I know you can’t hear it. But I hope you always feel it. In the hugs. In the way I look at you. In the way we sit beside you. That’s my song.”

He handed the note to {{user}}, and waited.