The Unraveling Threads
Seo Yoon hasn't gone home in days.
At first, she told herself it was temporary. Just a few nights away. A break. A chance to clear her mind. She made excuses—she needed time to breathe, she was too exhausted, she didn't want to deal with her neighbours, she wanted to try sleeping somewhere different to see if it helped with the restlessness.
But deep down, she knew the truth.
She wasn't taking a break.
She was running.
She drifted between cheap motels and sauna rooms, pressing a few bills into the cashier's hands without thinking about how many nights she had already done this. A different bed each time, a different ceiling to stare at, different fluorescent lights buzzing in the background of her sleepless nights.
She kept telling herself she was fine. That this wasn't a big deal. That she could go home whenever she wanted.
But somehow, she never did.
The thought of stepping back into her apartment made something in her chest tighten, like an invisible force was pressing against her ribs, warning her that the moment she walked through that door, she would have to face something.
She just didn't know what.
Somewhere along the way, she started avoiding mirrors.
It wasn't intentional.
It wasn't like she meant to stop looking at her reflection.
But whenever she caught a glimpse of herself—whether it was in the streaked bathroom mirror of a motel or the glossy window of a café—she would look away. Quickly. Like if she stared for too long, she would see something she wasn't supposed to.
It made no sense.
She wasn't afraid of herself.
She knew who she was.
Didn't she?
She sits in a 24-hour diner, her hands wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee she has no intention of drinking. The diner is quiet, apart from the low hum of a news broadcast playing from the television mounted in the corner. A few night-shift workers sit scattered at different tables, eating their meals in silence. A couple of students in rumpled uniforms mumble sleepily over textbooks.
Seo Yoon stares at her phone, the screen dark.
No missed calls.
No unread messages.
No one was looking for her.
She should feel relieved.
Instead, she feels hollow.
She takes a slow breath, tapping her fingers against the ceramic rim of the cup.
She tells herself she's only like this because she's tired. That the exhaustion is making her thoughts heavier, her emotions duller, her mind more fragile.
But she knows that isn't it.
The night at the bookstore replays in her head. The way Ji-ho looked at her. The way something about his face had felt too familiar, too wrong.
And then, the missing poster.
Jung Soo-min.
She hadn't meant to think about it. Hadn't meant to let it linger.
But it was still there, at the edge of her mind, refusing to fade.
The name wasn't familiar to her. She had never heard it before. It should have meant nothing.
But the moment she saw it—the moment she saw his face—something deep inside her reacted.
Like recognition.
But that didn't make sense.
It couldn't make sense.
Seo Yoon exhales, dragging a hand through her hair.
She needs to stop this.
She needs to stop thinking about this.
She's making connections that don't exist.
She doesn't remember when she first searched for the missing poster again.
It happens almost absentmindedly, her fingers typing the name into a search engine before she even registers what she's doing.
The same articles appear. The same blurred image of a seven-year-old boy with dark hair and solemn eyes. The same story.
Missing for nineteen years. Case closed. No new leads.
She doesn't even realise she's holding her breath until she exhales sharply, scrolling through the text with slightly trembling fingers.
Nineteen years ago.
She does the math in her head.
Seven years old at the time.
He would be in his mid-twenties now.
Her chest tightens.
The realisation sits heavy on her, pressing against her skin, sinking into her thoughts.
She doesn't move.
She doesn't blink.
Because now that she's seen it, she can't un-see it.
The age lines up. The timeline fits.
Ji-ho.
Her mind immediately rejects the thought.
No.
That's ridiculous.
There's no way.
Even if the numbers match.
Even if the timing makes sense.
It's a coincidence.
It has to be.
She forces herself to close the tab, tossing her phone onto the table as if physically distancing herself from the screen will make her thoughts shut up.
She's overthinking.
She's tired.
That's all this is.
The streets are quieter at this hour.
Neon signs glow dimly in the night, casting fractured reflections on the rain-slicked pavement. Most stores have closed, their shutters pulled down, their windows dark. The only sounds are the occasional whoosh of passing cars and the distant murmurs of people in alleyways, lingering under streetlights.
Seo Yoon walks with her hands in her pockets, head down, shoulders tense.
She's heading nowhere in particular. Just walking. Just moving.
The city around her feels… unreal.
Like she's walking through a dream, where everything is too sharp but too distant, where the air is thick with something she can't name.
The weight in her chest hasn't gone away.
If anything, it's worsened.
Her steps slow.
She doesn't know why.
But something in the air shifts.
It's barely noticeable. The slightest change—the way the silence deepens, the way the shadows stretch longer, the way the back of her neck prickles as if something unseen is watching.
She stops walking.
The realisation creeps into her, slow and suffocating.
She isn't alone.
She glances over her shoulder.
The street behind her is empty.
No footsteps. No figures lurking in the dark.
And yet—
Her instincts scream.
She swallows hard. Forces herself to breathe.
She's imagining things.
She has to be.
She shakes her head and keeps walking.
But the feeling doesn't fade.
It lingers.
Like something is following her.
Like something has already caught up.