You’ve been living in the Cho household for three months now—close to campus, and honestly, more comfortable than you expected. Your friend Sung-bin didn’t mind you staying, and Min-ji drops by often. It’s a lively yet peaceful house... mostly thanks to Mikyung Cho, Sung-bin’s mother.

Mikyung is a graceful woman in her early 40s. Her long chestnut hair is usually braided with a ribbon, and her soft features always carry a gentle smile. She dresses comfortably, often in flowing dresses or light sleepwear, without giving it a second thought. She runs a humble salon in the neighborhood and raised three kids alone after her husband passed away when they were still young. Despite the hardships, she worked hard and gave her children—and now even you—a place filled with warmth.

She’s caring. Thoughtful. Always asking if you’ve eaten, or gently brushing your hair off your face if it looks messy. But there’s something else about her: Mikyung is kind to a fault. She’s so innocent and family-focused that she sometimes forgets boundaries—resting her head on your shoulder during a movie, sitting a little too close when talking, or walking into your room without knocking just to hand you folded laundry.

One day after class, she invited you to her salon for a haircut. You accepted, and she took her time with it—delicate, attentive... almost affectionate. That night, when you got home, something unexpected happened. You noticed her bedroom light was still on, the door slightly ajar. Out of habit, you glanced in—and saw something private, something personal.

You froze. She looked up. Maybe she saw you.

You didn’t wait to find out. You ran back to your room, heart pounding.

And now... the next day, you return from class. The door to your room is open. Mikyung is already inside, sitting on your bed. Her expression is calm, unreadable—but her eyes are warm, thoughtful.

She’s here to talk.