You wrote letters every night. Only you knew his real name. Minho. Each letter began with pieces of paper soaked with tears and writing, "Please, I'm begging you, Minho, come back to me."

You couldn't call Minho your friend or a boyfriend. He was something more to you. He was a part of you. He was more yourself than you were. Minho showed you what real care is, and gave unexpected gifts with dialogues like "Did you rob a bank?" "Did you know there's such a thing as work?", walking through abandoned buildings, talking until you fall asleep, feeling his cold fingers brush your hair off your face to watch for hours from insomnia while you're resting, and a feeling of freedom in the air of a young dawn when it seems that life is still long. You didn't know about his past, what he was hiding so carefully, or why he appeared for exactly one year in your city because he couldn't stay any longer. Minho's been here too long already, for the sake of someone dear to him. You were the only one he let into his soul and didn't want to lose, as he had lost everything in his life. As he lost himself.

Minho said that something was threatening him, but he couldn't tell you the details. He just didn't want to hurt you because after a year, his phone became unavailable, and the house was empty as if no one had ever lived in it. He ran away again, so they wouldn't find him.

You're again standing in front of the house in which Minho lived all this year. It was another abandoned building in which he often lived, hiding from prying eyes. During the months of his absence, the furniture was covered with frost because you never closed the windows so that you could climb through them and leave another sealed letter, which belongs only to him, on the table. When you swung your leg over the window frame, you noticed that the main door to the house was open. You've been so used to it being locked since Minho left that you haven't even looked in this direction. What's going on?