The garden never stopped blooming.
Even when Hana begged it to.
Even when she screamed at the lilies to wither, at the roses to rot, at the stupid hydrangeas to stop reminding her of that awful morning.
They bloomed anyway.
Mocking her.
Vibrant. Alive.
Unlike her mother.
The day her mother died, it had rained the night before — not the soft kind of drizzle that made you want to nap under a blanket, but a storm that shook the windows and rattled the chandeliers.
Hana remembered it all with painful clarity.
She had been ten. Covered in mud. Clutching a drawing of a princess she wanted to give to her mother as a morning surprise.
She never got the chance.
She found her in the rose garden, slumped against the stone bench with her hands curled over her chest, petals stuck in her hair, glass scattered everywhere.
At first, Hana thought she was asleep.
She even giggled.
"Mommy, wake up! You'll catch a cold!"
But when she got closer, she noticed the smell.
And the color.
Her lips were blue.
And her eyes . . .
Wide open.
Everyone said it was a heart attack.
"Sudden," they whispered. "She had a weak constitution."
Hana never believed them.
Her mother was never sick.
Never tired.
And there had been that bottle — the strange, broken vial hidden under the roots of the cherry tree.
She remembered it. Clear as glass.
But no one listened.
What came after was worse.
Months later, her father brought Yuna and her mother — the "family friends" — to live with them.
"Your mother would want us to move forward," he said gently, like he was consoling himself, not her.
As if moving on meant replacing his wife like expired groceries.
As if Hana's grief could be diluted by the appearance of a fragile, doll-faced girl who clutched his sleeve and called him Uncle Haneul with wide, tearful eyes.
Hana noticed it quickly.
How Yuna's mother fluttered around the house like a butterfly, playing the role of grieving friend, then the supportive houseguest, then the nurturing companion.
She cooked.
She soothed.
She smiled too much.
She was everywhere.
Within six months, they married.
The wedding was private.
No guests
No photographers.
Just soft white lilies.
Hana ripped every single one of them out the next day.
====
Yuna was the perfect child.
Obedient. Sweet-voiced. Always with her hands neatly folded in her lap.
She called Hana unni and brought her tea. Asked her to braid her hair.
At first, Hana tried to like her.
Tried to believe this could be family the second time around.
But it was hard to like someone when you felt like you were slowly becoming invisible.
It wasn't sudden.
That's what made it worse.
It was little things.
How her father stopped looking up when she walked into the room.
How he canceled their weekend painting sessions.
How he stopped saying "I love you" before bed.
And how, one night, she overheard him tell her stepmother:
"Yuna reminds me of what it was like when our home was warm."
As if Hana had chilled it.
As if she was the problem.
She found her voice too late.
When she finally tried to speak up — when she shouted that something felt off, that Yuna's mother was poisoning their memories, twisting her father — she was met with tired eyes.
Her father rubbed his temples. "Don't start, Hana. Not again."
And so the rumors began.
That she was unstable.
That she was acting out.
That she was jealous.
====
Years passed.
Her stepmother took over charity events her real mother once organized.
Yuna started attending the elite academy where Hana used to shine — until she was labeled too "aggressive," too "confrontational," too "emotional."
Everything her mother was — grace, power, elegance — Yuna's mother copied and wrapped in soft pastels and sugary smiles.
They were replacing her.
Piece by piece.
Even the garden betrayed her.
The place her mother used to read to her in — under the arbor, where her scent lingered in the lavender bushes — was now where Yuna took piano selfies and filmed innocent dance clips for social media.
And her father liked the posts.
Commented, even.
"Such a talented girl."
Not a single word for Hana.
But she never forgot.
Not the smell of the garden that morning.
Not the broken vial.
Not how Yuna's mother had been out late the night before — claiming she had gone to visit a sick friend.
No one ever found the friend.
No one looked.
As the memories flooded her one evening, Hana stood barefoot in the same garden.
The lilies were still in bloom.
She stared at the bench where her mother had died.
Then knelt.
Pressed her palm to the soil.
"I won't let them erase you," she whispered.
From the shadows near the corridor, someone watched her.
Jin.
Expression unreadable.
He turned before she saw him and walked away.
He didn't care.
She was sure of it.
But she would make him see.
She would make all of them see.
Even if she had to become the villain in everyone's eyes.
Because if they wouldn't give her justice — if they kept choosing the white lotus — then she would stop chasing their approval.
And start hunting the truth.