The miscarriage had been silent. Sudden.

Two months pregnant. After three years of trying. Countless fertility treatments. Endless hope.

She discovered the loss alone. In their bathroom. The ultrasound picture still pinned to the mirror—a cruel reminder of the life that would never be.

Jiyong was in Japan. Another tour. Another performance. Unreachable.

Her mother found her on the bathroom floor, surrounded by medical reports and silent tears. The hospital was a blur of white walls and sympathetic nurses.

When he finally returned, weeks later, something inside her had already died.

The rain seemed to understand her pain before she could express it.

Her hands—small, desperate—struck against his chest. Weak at first. Then harder. Each impact punctuated by a sob that seemed to tear from the deepest part of her soul.

"You weren't here," she whispered. Then louder. "You weren't HERE!"

His eyes—usually sharp, controlled—were different. A single tear traced down his cheek. Not dramatic. Just real.

"I know," he whispered. His voice broke. "I know."

For the first time, she saw his own grief. His own loss.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. But this time, the words were different. Broken. Genuine.

Her fists continued. Hitting. Releasing. Crying.

The rain masked their tears.

His hand—usually so precise, so controlled—trembled as he held her.

"I lost them too," he whispered so softly she almost missed it.

Her strikes became less violent. More desperate.

Until finally—

He pulled her close.

Into his arms.

Their bodies collapsed together. No longer fighting. Just... breaking.

He held her.

Quietly.

Completely.

The rain continued.

Washing everything away.