You were the youngest.
A trio of siblings, no parents, no home that ever truly felt like one—just the three of you, balancing on the thin line between survival and comfort, childhood and reality.
Even back then, Hyunwoo was more than just your brother. He bandaged your scraped knees, split his food when there wasn’t enough.
Hyuna was your light.
She had a loud laugh and warm hands. She used to hum songs in the dead of night when the power went out, holding your fingers through the darkness.
Then, she died.
No, she was taken.
Someone had murdered her.
You were too young to understand the word in its full horror, but old enough to understand absence—the way her voice stopped echoing in the hallway, the silence that replaced her footsteps, the hollow space at the dinner table.
You remember Hyunwoo didn’t cry. Not in front of you. But you woke up once, late at night, and found him collapsed against the bathroom door, fists clenched, eyes red.
The two of you lived on, suspended in a quiet grief no one else could see.
Hyunwoo dropped out of school and took on jobs he was too young for—delivery work, dishwashing, cleaning, anything that paid.
Tonight is the anniversary.
You sit in silence at the small dining table, books half-open, cold leftovers untouched.
The door opens.
Hyunwoo steps inside, damp from rain and wearing exhaustion like a second skin. He shuts the door too loudly, then stops.
“Shit,” he mutters. His eyes find yours across the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be late.”
You shake your head. “You made it. That’s what matters.”
He runs a hand through his wet hair and exhales sharply. “Get your jacket. Let’s go.”
You nod, grabbing the small bouquet you prepared earlier. Her favorite flowers.
The graveyard is empty this late. Hyunwoo kneels first, brushing fallen leaves away from her name. You place the flowers gently beneath the marker, fingers lingering on the cold stone.
“She would’ve been twenty-four this year,” he says softly. “Probably still stealing my hoodies.”