Rain hammered against the photo shop's window, warping the streetlights into watery streaks. Neon from the pharmacy sign across the street – KIM'S NOODLES – bled smudged red through the glass. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of old chemicals and damp paper.

The only light came from Y/N’s laptop screen, casting a pale glow on her face as she typed. Words filled the document: an obituary. A devoted teacher, remembered for her kindness... Her fingers moved steadily over the keys.

Beside the laptop sat a forgotten mug of tea, long gone cold, leaving a faint ring on the counter. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with unsorted envelopes of photos and dusty albums. A small framed picture nearby showed her younger self, grinning beside her grandfather in front of this very shop.

Behind the obituary draft, a browser tab lay open: a stark job board website. The cursor blinked patiently in the empty search bar. The rhythmic tap of keys stopped as she finished: ...leaves a legacy of warmth. She saved the file. A soft click echoed in the quiet shop, the rain outside a constant murmur. The space felt still, like a held breath.

Death, she thought, wasn't always the sudden storm. Often, it was this: a slow fading, like the images on unprinted film locked in a drawer, the colors and contours gradually seeping away, unnoticed until someone finally opened the box and found only faint ghosts. The people in those undeveloped moments were already gone, their laughter silenced, their poses forgotten, existing now only as potential images no one would ever see.

The obituary was just the final frame developed, the last clear picture before the light went out completely. Outside, the distorted neon sign bled a watery red across the wet floor. It felt immense, this quiet erasure. Not violent, but vast and inevitable, like the rain washing the city clean night after night, leaving no trace of the day before. She shivered, though the shop wasn’t cold.

The rain hadn’t eased, merely settled into a persistent downpour. Y/N glanced at the time. Her grandparents would be waiting, the old house likely filled with the scent of simmering doenjang jjigae. She pushed back the creaking chair, the laptop screen dimming as she stood. The printer whirred to life behind her, spitting out the freshly saved obituary.

Methodically, she wiped down the counter with a clean cloth, smoothing away invisible dust and the faint tea ring. The rhythmic sweep was calming, a small order imposed on the cluttered space. She reached for the developer trays near the sink, aligning them precisely.

The shop’s bell jangled, harsh against the rain’s murmur. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the distorted neon. Water streamed from the edges of a dark jacket held hastily over his head, shoulders hunched against the weather. He lowered the jacket.

Recognition struck Y/N cold. The sharp jawline, the intense eyes – Jeon Jungkook. The famous director. The man whispered about in news reports and hushed conversations for two years, ever since his wife’s sudden, unexplained death. The man people said murdered her.

He shook water from the jacket, droplets spattering the recently cleaned floor. "Passport photo," he stated, his voice low and direct, cutting through the printer's final whir. "Urgently needed." His gaze swept the small shop, impersonal and focused, landing briefly on her frozen form still holding the cleaning cloth. The damp air suddenly felt charged, thick with unspoken accusations and the sharp smell of rain clinging to his clothes. The printer fell silent, the obituary lying warm in the tray beside her.

A beat of silence stretched, thick with the drumming rain and the low hum of the printer finishing the obituary. The cold recognition in Y/N’s gut warred with the ingrained rhythm of the shop. Customer. Service.
"Of course," she stated, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. She placed the damp cleaning cloth deliberately on the counter, the movement economical. "This way."

Y/N turned away from Jungkook’s presence, a deliberate pivot towards the small, curtained alcove. Her fingers, chilled despite the shop’s warmth, found the light switch. The sudden, harsh fluorescence banished the shadows, illuminating the plain grey backdrop and the worn stool.

"Here," she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. She didn't gesture, merely positioned herself beside the tripod-mounted camera. "Remove the jacket. Sit straight. Look directly at the lens. Neutral expression." The instructions were clipped, procedural, leaving no room for pleasantries or smiles. She adjusted the camera’s height with a soft click, the mechanism smooth under her touch.

Jungkook shed the damp jacket, the heavy fabric landing on a nearby chair with a wet thump. He settled onto the stool, his posture instantly rigid, unnervingly correct. Water darkened the hair at his temples, plastering strands to his skin. He fixed his gaze on the lens, his face settling into the required blankness. Yet, beneath the stark light, a tension thrummed in the line of his jaw, the slight tightening around his mouth – a controlled intensity radiating stillness rather than calm.

Y/N peered through the viewfinder. The bright light flattened everything, erasing nuance. His famous features became stark planes: the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the defined curve of his ear, the unyielding set of his brow. The required neutrality looked less like absence and more like a mask carved from stone. She focused, the camera’s whirr soft. Click. The shutter snapped, loud and final in the small space. The image flashed on the camera’s rear screen – technically perfect, compliant, utterly devoid of warmth. His eyes, captured looking just above the lens, held a flat, impenetrable darkness.

"Hold," she said, the single word cutting the silence. She moved to the laptop tethered to the printer, her back partially turned to him. The keyboard clacked softly as she navigated the cropping software. The stark image filled the screen – his face, enlarged, even more imposing and inscrutable under the digital scrutiny. She adjusted the crop lines with precise mouse clicks. The printer beside the monitor whirred, spooling out the small sheet bearing four identical, small squares of his face.

Her fingers were steady as she picked up the sharp paper cutter. The snick-snick of the blade slicing through the glossy photo paper was rhythmic, precise. She separated the four passport photos, their edges clean, “here”

He took the photos, the brief, unavoidable brush of his fingertips against hers sending a cold ripple up her arm. He slid them into his pocket. Then, the sharp, frustrated pat against his jeans: front pockets, back, sides. A low, guttural curse cut through the rain's drone. "Wallet. Gone. Must be in the damn glovebox." He grabbed the soaked jacket. "Car's down the block. Five minutes. I'll be back with cash."

Y/N's eyes shot to the clock. Panic tightened her throat. "No," she stated, stepping past him towards the counter. "That's unnecessary. Just go." She began gathering her scattered pens.

He didn't move, a solid presence blocking the path to the door slightly. "Unnecessary?" His voice was flat, dangerous. "I don't leave debts unpaid." Water dripped from his sleeve onto the clean floor near her feet.

"Consider it settled." She shoved the pens into a drawer, the sound loud in the tense space. "It's two passport photos. Hardly worth the trip back in this." She gestured sharply towards the window where rain sheeted down.

"It's not about the amount," he countered, his tone hardening like ice. "It's principle. You provided a service." He took a half-step forward, his shadow falling across the counter. "I pay."

The pressure of time pressed down on her. "Your principle is keeping me here," she snapped, her voice rising slightly despite herself. She slammed the drawer shut. "Look." She pointed firmly at the clock. "It's past closing. Way past. I have responsibilities. People waiting." She moved decisively to the main light switch panel by the door – the one he stood near. "I'm shutting down. Now." Her hand hovered over the switches. "So either stand there arguing while I lock up around you, or take the photos and leave." Her gaze was fixed on the switch panel, not his face. The rain drummed an urgent rhythm on the roof.

A tense silence stretched. She could feel the weight of his stare, the damp chill radiating from his clothes. His jaw worked, a muscle tightening. The principle warred with the sheer, stubborn inconvenience of it, the lateness, the downpour.

"Fine," he bit out, the single word sharp and grudging. "But this isn't—"

"Good," she cut him off, her hand still poised over the light switch. "Then go. Before you drown on the way to your car." Her tone offered no opening for further debate. It was dismissal, pure and simple.

Another beat of charged silence. The dripping from his jacket was the only sound. Then, the heavy rustle of wet fabric as he lifted it. She didn't look up. The shop bell clanged violently as he pushed the door open. A gust of wet, cold air rushed in. Only then did she glance sideways. He was already pulling the jacket over his head, a dark silhouette merging instantly with the rain-lashed night, vanishing into the grey curtain without a backward glance. The scent of storm and damp wool hung thickly behind him, clinging to the suddenly hollow air of the closed-up shop.

| 𝐖 |

The rain had lessened to a drizzle by the time Y/N shouldered open the heavy wooden door of the small, well-kept hanok. Warmth and the rich, earthy scent of simmering doenjang jjigae enveloped her, a stark contrast to the chill damp clinging to her coat. She slipped off her wet shoes meticulously in the genkan.

Inside, the main room glowed softly with lamplight. Her grandfather lay propped on a worn but clean near the low table, a thin blanket pulled to his waist. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow but even. Near the compact kitchen area, her grandmother stood at the counter, her back slightly stooped. She wrestled with a stubborn daikon radish, the knife slipping precariously in her age-spotted hands.

"Halmeoni," Y/N said, her voice clear but lowered, the professional detachment from the shop replaced by a layer of quiet courtesy. "I'm home. I'm sorry I'm late."

Her grandmother started, nearly dropping the knife. She turned, worry etching her face. "Aigoo, child! We were starting to fret. Look at you, soaked through! The rain was terrible?"

"It was persistent," Y/N acknowledged, hanging her coat neatly. She moved past the low table where her grandfather now stirred, opening his eyes to thin slits. "Halabeoji," she greeted him with the same respectful tone. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," he rasped, his voice a whisper. "Always tired. The shop...?"

"Closed properly," she assured him, already walking to the small sink. She turned on the tap, the water running warm. Methodically, she washed her hands and forearms, then splashed water over her face, rubbing away the lingering chill and the phantom scent of rain and dark wool. She dried herself thoroughly on a clean towel before approaching her grandmother.

"Let me, Halmeoni," she said, her tone polite but firm. She gently took the heavy knife and the half-chopped daikon from her grandmother's unresisting hands. "Sit with Halabeoji. Warm your hands."

Her grandmother sighed, a mixture of relief and resignation. "Such a stubborn radish," she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. "My fingers aren't what they were. Did you have many customers?" She settled carefully on a cushion beside her husband, reaching over to adjust his blanket.

"A few," Y/N replied, her focus already on the radish. The knife moved with swift, confident strokes, reducing the vegetable to neat, even chunks. The rhythmic thock-thock-thock filled the kitchen space. "Nothing significant. How was your day? Did the florist deliveries go smoothly?"

"Oh, the usual," her grandmother waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes watched Y/N's efficient movements with gratitude. "Mrs. Kim ordered extra chrysanthemums for the temple. The delivery boy was late, of course. But it all went." She paused. "And you? Any... news?" Her voice held a careful neutrality, avoiding direct mention of the job search tabs Y/N knew were still open on her old laptop upstairs.

Y/N scraped the daikon into the bubbling earthenware pot of stew on the gas hob. The savory aroma intensified. "Still looking," she stated simply, her voice even. She rinsed the knife and board. "It takes time." She didn't elaborate, stirring the stew briefly. "Did Halabeoji eat his lunch?"

"He managed some porridge," her grandmother reported, patting her husband's frail arm. "Slept most of the afternoon."

Y/N nodded, checking the consistency of the stew. Satisfied, she ladled generous portions into three deep bowls. Steam rose, fogging her glasses for a moment. She carried the bowls carefully to the low table, placing one before each grandparent. "Eat while it's hot," she instructed, her tone holding that same respectful courtesy, a bedrock of care beneath the practical words. She settled onto her own cushion, the warmth of the bowl seeping into her chilled fingers, the weight of the shop, the rain, and the unexpected, charged encounter finally held at bay by the simple, grounding act of serving this meal

| 𝐖 |

The simple warmth of the meal settled, the empty bowls cleared. Y/N helped her grandmother guide her frail grandfather towards his bedroom, his steps shuffling and slow. Once their door clicked shut down the short hallway, the polite courtesy she wore like armor softened into weary stillness.

Her own room was at the end of the hall, small and spartan. She slid the door closed behind her, the latch engaging with a soft snick. The air here was cooler, quieter. Rain whispered against the single window. She didn't turn on the overhead light. Instead, the familiar glow of a small desk lamp clicked on, casting a narrow pool of yellow light.

The walls weren't bare. Not posters, not photos of friends. Instead, carefully pinned in neat rows, overlapping slightly like faded scales, were sheets of paper. Dozens of them. Hundreds, perhaps. Each one an obituary. Not for strangers processed in her grandfather's shop. Each one began the same way: In loving memory of Choi Soo-ji, beloved mother... The dates of birth and death identical on every sheet. The causes of death varied only slightly in phrasing: after a courageous battle..., taken too soon by..., finally at peace from.... All ending with Acute Myeloid Leukemia. The ink varied – some crisp black printer text, others the softer blue of a meticulous pen. Some sheets were fresh, others yellowed at the edges. Ten years of variations on a single, immutable fact.

Y/N moved with the quiet precision of ritual. She hung her day clothes on a single hanger, folded her underthings into a precise square in the top drawer. Her movements were economical, unhurried, her face impassive in the lamplight. No sigh escaped her, no furrow touched her brow. Her reflection in the dark window showed only stillness.

She sat at the desk, pulling a fresh sheet of paper from a stack. The laptop downstairs held job searches; this space held only this. Her pen hovered for a moment, then touched the paper. In loving memory of Choi Soo-ji... The words flowed, neat and practiced. A different adjective today? Devoted instead of beloved? A slight variation in the phrasing of the illness? It didn't matter. The core remained. The date of death – a decade ago tomorrow – remained.

She wrote without pause, the scratch of the pen the only sound besides the rain. No tears threatened. No remembered smile touched her lips. Her mother's absence wasn't a fresh wound; it was the architecture of the room, the air she breathed. Ten years was a canyon carved by silence. The obituaries weren't expressions of grief; they were its containment. Walls built from words, holding back nothing, because behind them was only the vast, silent space where feeling used to be. She finished the final line – forever missed – signed it with the date, and pinned it carefully onto the wall beside the others, another layer over the old, unhealed scar. The desk lamp hummed softly. Outside, the rain fell on a city that had kept turning for ten years without Choi Soo-ji.

The fresh obituary joined its silent chorus on the wall. Y/N’s gaze drifted from the pinned sheets to a small, lacquered wooden box on the corner of her desk. Its surface was smooth, dark, worn slightly shiny in the center from years of touch. The air in the room seemed to still further, the rain outside fading to a distant hush.

She lifted the box. It wasn’t heavy, but it held a dense, specific gravity. Setting it down before her in the lamplight, she traced the simple brass latch with a fingertip. A breath, deep and slow, filled her lungs. Then, the soft click of the latch releasing.

Inside, resting on a layer of faded blue silk, lay a single envelope. Cream-colored paper, slightly yellowed at the edges. Her mother’s handwriting flowed across the front – her name, Y/N, written with the familiar, slightly looping grace she hadn’t seen in a decade. To be opened when you need me most, it said beneath her name, the ink a faded blue-black.

Y/N’s hand hovered. Her fingers, steady while wielding the knife downstairs, while typing obituaries, while cutting passport photos for infamous men, trembled almost imperceptibly now. She didn’t pick it up. Instead, her fingertips brushed the surface of the envelope, tracing the shape of her name, feeling the slight ridge of the folded paper sealed inside. It felt thin, impossibly fragile. A vessel holding words suspended in time.

The urge to tear it open, a sharp, desperate pull, flared and vanished just as quickly, extinguished by a wave of cold resistance that settled deep in her bones. Need me most. What did that mean now? After ten years of silence? After building walls of words to contain the void? The grief wasn't a wave; it was the ocean floor, cold and immutable. Opening it wouldn't bring warmth. It might crack the carefully maintained ice, and beneath it… what? She didn't remember how to cry. The mechanism felt rusted shut, frozen by years of practiced stillness.

Her hand withdrew. The fragile moment passed. She carefully smoothed the silk around the unopened letter, a gesture as habitual as folding her clothes. The latch clicked shut again, a small, final sound in the quiet room. The letter remained where it had rested for ten years: seen, touched, but unread. A closed door she walked past every single night, its contents a mystery less terrifying than the potential flood waiting on the other side. She turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into the grey gloom of the rainy night, the box a small, dark shape on the desk, holding its silent, unbearable weight.

The darkness in her room was complete now, the box a shadowed lump on the desk. Y/N didn’t lie down. Instead, she slid silently from her chair onto the cool wooden floorboards. The smooth grain pressed against her knees. She hadn't knelt like this in years. Not since the hospital chapel, ten years ago, begging for a miracle that never came.

Her hands rested palm-down on her thighs, fingers stiff. She didn’t clasp them. Didn’t bow her head low. She stared straight ahead into the dark where the wall of her mother’s obituaries hung unseen.

Please.

The word formed in the silence of her mind, stark and simple. No flowery language. No promises. Just the raw, grinding need.

Give me work. Not for herself. For the frail rhythm of her grandfather’s breath down the hall. For the worried lines deepening around her grandmother’s eyes as the florist shop's bell rang less often. For the bottles of medicine lined up on the kitchen shelf, their cost a constant, quiet drain.

The photo shop’s modest income was a fraying rope. Her own savings, dwindling. The job boards offered ghosts of opportunities, vanishing before she could grasp them. Translation work was scarce, contracts fleeting. The weight pressed down, colder than the floor beneath her knees.

Anything. The thought was desperate, yet flat. A transaction proposed into the void. Let me translate legal documents. Subtitles. Tourist pamphlets. Passport applications. Her mind flashed, unbidden, to the stark, compliant passport photos she’d printed hours before – Jeon Jungkook’s unreadable eyes. Anything steady. Anything now.

After a long moment, the cool numbness spreading through her knees, she pushed herself stiffly up. No sigh. No tears. Just the quiet creak of the floorboards and the heavier weight settling back into her chest as she moved towards her bed. The unopened letter in its box, the wall of obituaries, the relentless rain – they remained. And the silence after her plea felt deeper, wider, than the night itself.