Wedding invitations were sent. Mi-Ho handled it like a corporate merger—fast, clean, decisive. But Hana insisted on handwriting each one to the orphanage she had once called home. Each child got a golden envelope, and inside: an invitation to believe in miracles.
Mi-Ho watched her from the study door. "You know this isn't a fairy tale, right?"
She looked up, ink smudged on her fingers. "I know. But it doesn't mean it can't have a happy ending."
He nodded. "Then let's make sure it's one we write ourselves."
She smiled. Not the broken kind. The kind that said: I'm no longer surviving. I'm living.