The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the Lee Group's headquarters, casting long shadows across the polished floor of the president's office. It wasn't really his office—not officially, anyway. He was only the acting president, a placeholder in the eyes of the board. Yet everything from the leather chair to the stacks of reports felt like a burden placed squarely on his shoulders.
Lee Ji-hee leaned back, letting his eyes linger on the towering skyline of Seoul. The city moved relentlessly forward, indifferent to the weight in his chest. He tapped his pen absentmindedly, though he hadn't written a single word in the last half hour. His mind was elsewhere—somewhere softer, warmer, untouched by the demands of balance sheets and shareholders.
It drifted, as it often did, to his mother.
She had been gone for years, yet her presence never left him. He remembered her laugh, gentle but firm, like sunlight through thin curtains. He remembered how she used to stroke his hair when he was small, whispering the same words each night as if they were a prayer:
"Ji-hee… do you know why I gave you this name?"
To that he had always asked why? even though he knew the answer. It made her smile to say it again, and as a boy, he loved that smile more than anything.
"Because you are the boy who grows strong under safe skies."
Back then, he didn't understand. To him, "safe skies" were just the open blue above their tiny apartment, the summer sun that warmed their backs. But as he grew older, and after she was gone, he realized her words had been a shield. She wanted him to believe he could grow—even in a world that wasn't gentle, even in a family that wasn't fully his.
Ji-hee exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was the acting president now, wasn't he? His mother's son. He was supposed to be strong under those skies. Yet here he was, staring out at the city, feeling anything but safe.
His thoughts, unbidden, turned toward Lee Bo-ram. His stepsister.
He tried not to call it grief anymore—the ache that twisted in his chest when he thought of her. Grief was for his mother, for things lost and final. Bo-ram was still alive, still somewhere in this city. And yet, she felt unreachable. Ever since that peculiar incident—the one that left silence in place of words—she had been avoiding him. His calls rang unanswered, his messages remained unread.
He told himself it didn't matter. That he had work to do, a company to lead, people depending on him. But every time he glanced at his phone, some small, stubborn hope tugged at him. Maybe today she'd answer. Maybe today she'd forgive whatever it was that stood between them.
He was still lost in that thought when the phone on his desk rang. Not his mobile—the office line. The sharp ring jolted him out of his reverie, and he snatched it up, half-irritated at the interruption.
"Lee Ji-hee speaking."
The voice on the other end was familiar. Low, steady, cold, a little frayed at the edges.
"Ji-hee, it's me."
His stepfather.
Ji-hee sat up straighter, instinctively bracing himself. His stepfather rarely called directly. It was always through a secretary, a message relayed, a formal appointment. Never like this.
"What is it?" Ji-hee asked, though a cold weight had already settled in his gut.
"It's Bo-ram." The voice hesitated, cracked for just a moment. "She's in the hospital."
The world tilted. For a split second, Ji-hee couldn't breathe. He half-rose from his chair, his knee catching the desk. The edge of a file folder slid to the floor, papers scattering like white leaves.
"What—what happened?" His voice was sharper than he intended, laced with fear.
"I'll explain when you get here. Just come quickly."
The line went dead.
Ji-hee stood frozen for the barest moment, the words echoing inside his head: She's in the hospital. Then instinct took over. He snatched his coat from the rack, his fingers fumbling against the buttons. His foot caught on the edge of a chair as he turned, and he almost tripped, steadying himself against the doorframe with a curse. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the city below, louder than reason.
Bo-ram.
Whatever walls had risen between them, whatever silence she had built, none of it mattered now. She was his sister. His family. And she needed him.
He bolted out of the office, the long hallways of the executive floor blurring around him. Somewhere above the clouds, his mother's voice lingered, soft but insistent:
"The boy who grows strong under safe skies."
He only prayed the skies would hold safe enough for Bo-ram, too.