The Aftermath

The morning was cold.

The streets were louder than usual, filled with murmurs, whispers, the buzz of passing conversations.

But inside the quiet neighborhood, in a home that had once been filled with warmth, everything was silent.

Nari's mother sat at the kitchen table, staring at the steaming cup of tea in her hands.

She hadn't taken a sip.

She hadn't moved in a while.

The news had come in early that morning.

A boy had jumped from a rooftop.

His name had been in the headlines, but she hadn't needed to read them.

She already knew.

Jiho.

Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn't cry.

Because somewhere deep inside, she had been expecting this.

Ever since Nari disappeared, ever since Jiho had shown up on their doorstep weeks ago, pale and shaken, clutching onto memories he never spoke of—

She had known something was wrong.

She just hadn't wanted to believe it.

A soft knock echoed from the front door.

Her husband opened it, murmuring something low, unreadable.

Then, he returned—holding an envelope.

Her breath caught.

It had Jiho's handwriting on it.

Her fingers hesitated over the paper, as if touching it would make it real.

Slowly, she unfolded the letter.

And as her eyes moved across the words, her breath left her body.

---

Dear Eomoni and Abonim,

I don't know how to start this.

Or how to explain why I'm writing at all.

But I need you to know the truth.

It wasn't an accident.

She didn't disappear.

I killed her.

I pushed Nari off the mountain.

---

The letter shook in her hands.

Her throat felt tight.

The words blurred before she could finish reading.

But she had already read enough.

The truth—the thing she had feared the most—was right in front of her.

Jiho had killed Nari.

Her body trembled, something cold curling in her chest.

She should scream. Cry. Break.

But instead—she sat frozen.

Because even as she stared at the confession, even as her world shattered around her—

She still didn't know where her daughter was.

And now, she never would.

-----

The mountains were quiet.

The search team moved carefully through the terrain, their boots crunching against damp leaves, their flashlights cutting through the dense morning mist.

It had been weeks since Nari disappeared.

And now, after Jiho's confession, they had finally come looking for her.

The rescue dogs barked ahead, their noses pressed to the ground. The team followed.

One of the men paused first.

A shift in the air. Something felt wrong.

Then—the stench hit.

The lead investigator lifted a hand, motioning the others forward.

And then, they saw her.

Nari.

Or what was left of her.

---

The body was barely recognizable.

She had been lying there for weeks, her form half-buried under scattered leaves, hidden from sight.

Her once-vibrant skin had turned pale, sunken.

Her limbs twisted unnaturally.

But her face—her face was still turned toward the sky.

And even after all this time, her lips were curled into the faintest, softest smile.

Almost like she had been waiting for them.

The search team stood motionless.

The air felt heavy, the kind of silence that settled when something was deeply, deeply wrong.

One of the men swallowed hard.

"Call it in," he muttered.

A voice crackled through the radio, confirming the worst.

They had found her.

But as the others turned away, as they prepared the site, one officer hesitated.

Something about her expression—it unsettled him.

Like she had known this would happen.

Like she had planned it all along.

The officer stepped back, suddenly cold.

He wasn't superstitious.

But as he looked down at her—he swore she was still watching.

The news spread faster than anyone expected.

First, it was just a quiet rumor. A few hushed voices in cafés, late-night texts between friends.

Then—it was everywhere.

"Did you hear? They found her."

"The missing girl? The one whose boyfriend jumped?"

"Yeah. They say he killed her."

"But… then why did he kill himself?"

The city was buzzing with speculation.

People who had never met Jiho or Nari suddenly had opinions.

Some called it a tragic love story.

Others whispered about a ghost's revenge.

A few, the ones who worked late shifts and walked home alone at night, spoke of something stranger.

Something they had seen.

---

A bartender near Jiho's apartment swore he had served him just days before he died.

"He was talking to someone," the man muttered, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers. "But no one was there."

A night security guard refused to return to work.

"She walked past me," he told his coworkers. His voice was dead serious. "I saw her face. I remember it clear as day. But the cameras—" he swallowed. "The cameras didn't pick up anything."

A college student, out late from a study session, claimed she heard crying.

"I thought it was just some drunk girl," she admitted. "But when I turned the corner, the alley was empty."

Her hands trembled as she spoke.

"But the crying… it didn't stop."

---

Jiho was gone.

Nari's body had been found.

But somehow—her presence still lingered.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like the story wasn't over yet.

And maybe—it wasn't.

The funeral was small.

Nari's parents kept it quiet, private.

There was no public statement, no reporters, no cameras.

Just family, close friends, and the weight of a daughter lost.

The sky was overcast, the wind carrying the last remnants of winter.

As the priest spoke, voices were low, hands clutched tightly together, the air thick with grief.

Jiho's name was never mentioned.

But his presence was everywhere.

No one knew what to say.

No one knew how to mourn a girl who had already been dead for weeks.

---

As the last shovelful of dirt was placed over the grave, a woman stepped back from the crowd.

She had been silent the whole time, standing alone, apart from the rest.

No one recognized her.

No one even remembered seeing her arrive.

She wasn't family.

She wasn't a friend.

And yet, she was here.

Watching.

Her long white dress fluttered slightly in the wind.

She stood perfectly still, her hands folded, her face expressionless.

When the funeral ended, when the last of the mourners turned away, she remained.

For a long time, she simply stared at the fresh grave.

Then, slowly—she smiled.

A quiet, satisfied smile.

Soft. Familiar. Wrong.

She turned, her gaze sweeping across the cemetery, as if searching for something.

Then, she locked eyes with someone.

A young boy, no older than twelve, stood frozen near the entrance, clutching his mother's sleeve.

His breath hitched.

His lips parted—but no sound came out.

Because he had seen her face before.

Not here.

Not in life.

But on the news.

And before he could even think to move—

The woman raised a single finger to her lips.

A silent warning.

Shhh.

Then—

She turned and walked away.

The boy never saw her leave.

One moment she was there.

The next—gone.

Like she had never been there at all.