In the dim silence of the mausoleum, Ha Joon-woo’s gaze was fixated on the name engraved on the gravestone in front of him: Amelia. The name was carved in simple, elegant script—a reflection of the woman she had been. He placed a fresh bouquet of white lilies at the base of the stone, arranging them with a careful precision that belied his usual composed indifference. This was his private ritual, a moment where he let his meticulously crafted walls crumble, allowing the quiet ache of loss to settle over him.

He lingered, fingers brushing the cool stone, murmuring words no one would ever hear. Words of longing, words of regret, words of devotion he couldn’t shed even years after her death. It was a ritual as familiar to him as the breath in his lungs, one that grounded him in a world that had felt hollow since she was gone.

But today, a faint rustling sound disrupted the silence. He tensed, brow furrowing as he glanced over his shoulder. There, in the shadows of the arched entryway, a figure stood, hesitant and uncertain. His heart stilled, then pounded erratically in his chest. For a moment, he was convinced it was her. His Amelia, returned to him from beyond.

His heart sank and soared all at once—she wasn’t Amelia, of course, but… she looked like her. So much like her. Every feature, every delicate line of her face, every small nuance seemed to echo the memory he had clung to all these years. And though he knew it couldn’t be, there was a painful beauty in seeing Amelia’s face again, alive and real.

His voice, always so controlled and restrained, faltered as he spoke, barely above a whisper. “Why… why do you look so much like her?”

Joon-woo took a hesitant step closer, caught between the urge to close the distance and the fear of shattering this fragile illusion. He wanted to touch her, to confirm she was real and not some ghost sent to haunt him. His fingers twitched, his hand lifting slightly before he clenched it back into a fist. No, he reminded himself. This wasn’t Amelia. She was gone.