1.

...ᝰ.ᐟ...

In the deepest recess of a forgotten alley, where daylight had long surrendered any claim to the earth, a little boy stood motionless.

He could not have been older than five.

His small frame was swallowed by the oppressive darkness, the narrow passage pressing inward until it seemed impossible that light—or salvation—could ever find its way inside. Torn clothes clung to his thin body, stiff with grime and dust. Wide, glass-like eyes stared blankly into the dark, reflecting a hollow, ancient terror.

Only his hands betrayed what had happened.

Tiny palms glistened beneath a thick, wet smear of crimson.

Children survive disasters.

Adults survive remembering them.

A voice drifted through the darkness.

"Hyung..."

His head jerked upward.

Silence.

Nothing but endless, suffocating black.

"Are you happy now? Happy living all alone... while we died, hyung?"

His lips parted, but his throat was dry, clogged with the phantom smell of iron.

"No..."

The word dissolved before it was born.

His body refused to obey him. His lungs strained against an invisible, crushing weight as panic flooded every muscle, paralyzing him where he stood.

"No... no... I tried..."

Another voice, closer this time, pressing right against his ear.

"Liar."

Something enormous burst from the darkness.

It moved too quickly to comprehend—a shapeless, predatory mass propelled by an impossible speed.

His legs remained rooted.

His body had already made its choice.

Freeze.

The shadow slammed into his chest, tearing the air from his lungs.

Taehyung awoke with a violent gasp, his body jerking violently against the mattress.

His eyes flew open, his pupils blown wide as they locked onto the ceiling washed in the sharp, invasive morning light.

For several long, agonizing seconds, he could not move a muscle. He was entirely locked in his own skin, chest heaving, his heartbeat thundering so hard against his ribs that it felt like a physical bruising. His instinct screamed at him to fight, to run, to claw at the air, searching for a danger his mind knew was decades away but his body insisted was right beside him.

Slowly, the familiar architecture of his sanctuary began to claw him back from the void.

Mint-green walls.

A sage canopy draped above the tufted headboard.

White carved clouds stretching across the ceiling between softly glowing stars.

Bookshelves.

A study desk.

The plush shag rug on the pale wooden floorboards.

A nightmare was only memory refusing to surrender.

A measured, heavy knock broke the silence, making his shoulders flinch.

"Did you wake up, honey?" a gentle, cautious voice called through the door. "I'm coming in, Taehyung."

The lock of his jaw was painful as he forced his breathing to steady. Dragging the heel of his palm hard across his cheekbones, he brutally erased the cold sweat and moisture, forcing his features to settle. By the time the handle turned, the mask was locked tight.

Kim Ji-ah entered, carrying the scent of fresh laundry and morning tea—the only scents that had the power to pierce through the metallic smell of his childhood.

He sat upright instantly.

Shoulders straight.

Expression carefully composed.

The performance was seamless, a defense mechanism perfected over sixteen years.

But it lasted less than a second under her gaze. Ji-ah stopped. Her eyes lingered on the visible tremor in his frame, the tightness pulling at the corners of his mouth, and the way his dark, masked eyes remained fractionally unfocused, still trapped in the alleyway. She knew the language of his nightmares too well.

She crossed the room, her steps silent on the rug, until she stood over him.

Only when her shadow fell over his bed did his forced composure completely shatter. With a quiet, broken sound, the young man collapsed forward, burying his face deeply against her stomach. His arms wrapped desperately around her fragile waist, his fingers clutching at her clothes with a terrifying, possessive force—as if she were the only physical anchor keeping him from being dragged back into the dark.

Fear is remembered through smell; safety is remembered through warmth.

"I... tried, Halmeoni."

His voice was a raw, strangled whisper.

Her fingers slipped into his tousled, silver hair, her touch slow and grounding.

"You did."

Only those two words. They cut deeper than any empty reassurance.

"You were only a child."

His grip tightened, his knuckles turning white against her clothing. He pressed closer, seeking the heat of her skin to burn away the memory of the cold alley.

"The blood..." he whispered, his eyes staring blankly at the wall. "It wouldn't come off."

Her hand paused, a momentary hitch in her breath, before she resumed her slow, rhythmic strokes.

"It was everywhere."

He swallowed hard, his throat working against the phantom taste of iron.

"My parents..."

The sentence dissolved into the quiet room.

His jaw hardened, his dark eyes darkening further with a cold, focused edge. Grief had long ago learned to disguise itself as anger. Rage demanded action; mourning demanded surrender.

Ji-ah gently tilted his face upward, forcing him to look at her.

"There you are," she murmured, her voice thick with an intense, protective devotion. "My beautiful boy."

Her thumbs brushed over the damp skin beneath his dark eyes, searching his expression with a fierce, almost desperate maternal love.

"No more carrying yesterday before breakfast."

A slow, shallow breath escaped his lungs.

She offered him a small, quiet smile.

"I made strawberry pancakes."

A pause.

"And the biggest strawberry shake this house has ever seen."

The corner of his mouth lifted, a brief, fragile crack in his dark mood.

"That's emotional manipulation."

"It works every time."

"It really does," he murmured, his voice still low, carrying the exhaustion of the night.

"Then go freshen up." She patted his shoulder, her touch lingering for a second too long. "And no arguing."

He exhaled a quiet, defeated breath. "I wasn't going to."

"You were thinking about it."

"...Maybe."

"I know you too well."

She turned and left, her quiet exit leaving the room instantly cold.

The door clicked shut.

Silence returned, heavy and thick.

Routine followed. It was his only salvation.

Music.

Warm water.

Steam.

The sequence unfolded with an obsessive, practiced precision. He turned the vintage chrome fixtures of the clawfoot tub, watching the heavy steam rise and cling to the white marble walls, turning the bathroom into a private, misty tomb.

He didn't just wash; he scrubbed. He massaged the premium oil cleanser into his skin with deliberate, hard strokes, trying to erase the phantom grime of the alley.

Sinking into the hot water, he lathered the Aesop Geranium Leaf body wash over his limbs, letting the sharp, herbal scent of wild geranium overwhelm his senses, fighting the metallic memory of the blood.

He applied a thick, hydrating clay mask to his face, closing his eyes in the heat, waiting until his skin tensed and dried—proving to himself that he was alive, that he was clean, that he was safe.

But the chill under his skin remained.

By the time he stepped from the bathroom, the blond strands of his hair still damp against his forehead, the nightmare had been pushed back into its dark corner.

He dressed in cream trousers, a white Henley beneath a soft green cardigan, and adjusted his cream newsboy cap.

The nightmare would wait. It always did.

—

The dining room smelled of butter, strawberries, and maple syrup, but the warmth of the food felt distant against the lingering chill in Taehyung's chest.

Ji-ah watched him with a quiet, intense satisfaction as he forced himself to finish his second pancake. She leaned her chin on her hand, her eyes never truly leaving him.

"So," she asked, breaking the quiet, "how are the online lectures?"

"They're good."

"Mhm."

"I finished yesterday's assignment.

"Mhm."

"Before lunch."

"Mhm."

The young man narrowed his dark eyes, his fork resting against the ceramic plate. "You're waiting for something."

A small, knowing smile touched her lips. "I was wondering whether any actual studying happened between arranging bouquets."

A low, quiet laugh escaped him. "It did."

"Barely."

"I can multitask."

"So can squirrels."

He placed a hand dramatically over his chest, the mask of the charming, carefree grandson slipping back over his features. "Halmeoni..."

She laughed, the sound filling the space between them, yet her eyes remained fiercely protective.

"And Jimin?"

"He almost drowned another fern yesterday."

"Oh dear."

"I told him one more incident and he's banned from watering plants forever."

Ji-ah smiled, but then her expression shifted, softening into something more serious. "What about Sana?"

"They're both at university today. They'll come by after classes like always."

She nodded, her gaze searching his face. "So you'll spend the morning alone again."

"I don't mind."

That much was true. Solitude had never frightened him.

Only memories did.

He glanced at the clock on his phone. It was getting late. "IU noonim said she'd stop by around ten fifteen."

"Then you'd better get going."

She reached across the table, her fingers lingering as she straightened the collar of his cardigan. Her touch was warm, but it felt like a quiet plea to keep him anchored to the present.

"You belong where flowers grow."

Something inside his chest tightened.

His hands remained motionless on his lap, his fingers still cold. Some wounds stopped bleeding only because they learned how to hide beneath the skin.

He stood up before the silence became too heavy to breathe.

After slipping his silver laptop, sketchbook, and notebook into his canvas backpack, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, his blonde hair brushing against her temple.

"No heavy lifting today."

She rolled her eyes, but her hand briefly squeezed his wrist. "Yes, sir."

—

The florist shop occupied a quiet corner where the city seemed to breathe more gently, a stark contrast to the violence of his inner mind.

Cream siding.

A sage-green awning.

Hydrangeas spilled from wicker baskets while lavender drifted lazily through the crisp March air.

Unlocking the door was a silent ritual he clung to.

The satisfying click of the lock.

The familiar, earthy scent of damp soil and cut stems.

The peaceful, empty stillness waiting inside.

He flipped the sign to OPEN.

The fresh spring breeze wandered through the entrance as he began arranging the day's displays. He worked in silence, his movements precise and quiet.

Wilted petals disappeared beneath his fingers.

Fresh stems replaced bruised ones.

Flowers never hid their wounds.

Humans did.

He opened his laptop behind the counter, setting it beside his neatly stacked textbooks. Morning customers would come eventually, but until then, he had a sanctuary to maintain. Roses to trim.

Lilies to arrange. Assignments to finish.

The brass bell above the door chimed precisely at 10:15 AM.

IU stepped inside, carrying a wooden crate.

"Good morning."

"So punctual," he said, stepping out from behind the counter to immediately take the heavy weight from her hands.

"And so dramatic," she replied, a light laugh escaping her. "It's just a box."

"It's heavy."

"It absolutely isn't."

"It looked heavy."

She shook her head, her eyes scanning his neat attire—the cardigan, the newsboy cap shielding his eyes, the blonde strands of his hair peeking out.

"You've become impossible."

Setting the crate on the counter, he revealed the carefully packed ribbons, premium wrapping paper, and elegant glass vases inside.

"The specialty supplies finally arrived," he noted

"You spoil me."

"I invest in good businesses."

"And mine qualifies?"

"It always has," she said, her tone settling warmly between them. Her gaze drifted briefly toward the tidy, beautiful shop before returning to his face.

"So does your grandmother."

His smile softened, but his eyes remained guarded.

"She made pancakes this morning."

"Then I know she's feeling a little better."

"I hope so."

IU rested one hand lightly against the counter, her expression turning quieter, more observant. "And how are you holding up?"

His answer arrived with practiced, instant ease.

"I'm fine."

A nearly invisible hesitation crossed his features, his jaw locking for a fraction of a second before the mask smoothed over.

She noticed it. He knew she did.

But she chose not to challenge it.

Instead, she reached for a ribbon spool and began helping him organize the shelves without another word.