The distant hum of a phone call fills the quiet of her room, a sound so faint it could almost be imagined. Ga-yeong stares at the glowing screen, the name "Dad" lingering on it for a fleeting moment before it vanishes, replaced by the steady rhythm of the clock on her bedside table. He didn’t say anything again.

The night outside her window feels heavier than usual, the city lights of San Francisco blinking like scattered stars. She tightens her grip on the worn-out keychain he gave her years ago—a cheap plastic trinket shaped like a crane, its paint chipped from years of handling. It doesn’t match her sleek, polished desk or the expensive books lined up neatly in her new room, but it’s the one thing that reminds her of him.

She wonders why he called. Was he okay? Did he get into another fight? Her mom always told her to stop worrying about him, to focus on her schoolwork, her new family, her future. But how could she, when the silence on the other end of the line felt heavier than any words he might have spoken?

Her stepbrother’s voice cuts through the door, teasing her to join the family for game night. She forces a smile and promises she’ll be down soon, but her gaze lingers on the phone. Part of her wants to leave it all behind—him, the guilt, the worry—and just be a normal teenager. But the other part of her, the part that remembers his awkward laugh and how he used to hold her hand too tightly when crossing the street, can’t let go.

The phone lies still. Her chest tightens. Maybe she could call him back this time. Or maybe she could keep waiting, hoping the next call would come with words.