Steam rose from the porcelain cup, curling softly in the still air.
Mr. Han took a slow sip, the faint scent of jasmine drifting through the room.
Across from him, Oska sat slumped on the couch, motionless, his eyes hollow.
Rain pattered faintly against the window—steady, rhythmic, merciless.
Mr. Han said nothing at first. He simply let the silence breathe, letting Oska drown quietly in the storm of his own thoughts.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Oska spoke, his voice low, hoarse, and shaking.
"I killed her," he said. "I killed my own wife."
His hands trembled as he spoke, fingers digging into his knees.
"She asked me to stay, but I refused." His words broke. "I could've done something. I could've helped her, but instead I…"
He couldn't finish.
His voice dissolved into a whisper, then into silence.
Mr. Han put his cup down. The soft clink of porcelain against wood echoed in the dim room.
"Oska," he said gently, "don't do this to yourself."
Oska looked up, eyes red and lifeless.
"I am a murderer, Mr. Han. I don't deserve to live. I deserve to be punished."
Mr. Han sighed, folding his hands.
"No… it was an accident. A tragedy, yes—but not your doing. Fate had already spoken before you ever lifted that knife."
Oska shook his head violently, tears spilling. "Don't say that. Don't talk about fate. Because of my hesitation, she died. I could have stopped the knife before it stabbed her. I could've saved her!"
He buried his face in his palms, sobbing—deep, ugly cries that shook his whole body.
Every sound that left him felt like a confession.
Mr. Han watched silently, his own expression clouded with something darker—guilt.
He waited until Oska's sobs softened, then spoke quietly.
"Oska… there's something you need to know."
Oska looked up slowly.
"I, too, carry a part of this burden," Mr. Han said. "Because I could have stopped all of it… before it ever reached this point."
He paused, exhaling as if the words themselves were heavy to release.
"Stevanie was sick—very sick. I never even imagined that she'd kidnap the housekeepers I hired and hold them in the basement. Yes, that's right, the five kidnapped victims were housekeepers I hired for her. Schizoaffective disorder, they called it. I think it started… six, maybe eight years ago. She's been under psychiatric supervision ever since."
Oska's eyes widened, disbelief washing over his face.
"Then why—why didn't anyone tell me?"
"I should have," Mr. Han said softly. "But I didn't. For that, I'm sorry."
He rubbed his forehead, staring down at the untouched cup of tea.
"In the past month, she stopped going to therapy. She refused her medication. Said she didn't need help anymore—that she had a new plan. A new cure."
"A cure?" Oska asked bitterly.
"Yes." Mr. Han's tone dimmed. "She wanted to find a husband all of a sudden."
Oska blinked, stunned.
"At first, I thought it was harmless. It's laughable. She started meeting people—men from her social circles, businessmen, artists. Most of them were drawn to her. You know how she was—beautiful, magnetic. Men fell for her easily."
"Then why me?" Oska asked, his voice cracking. "If she could have anyone, why me?"
Mr. Han hesitated. His eyes softened.
"Because every man who got close eventually saw what lay beneath her charm… and they ran. No one stayed long enough to see the real Stevanie. And she couldn't bear that rejection anymore. When you came to her office three months ago… she saw something different."
"What do you mean?"
"You didn't love her," Mr. Han said. "You didn't even want to be there. You weren't drawn by her beauty, or her wealth. You were just… desperate. And maybe that's what she mistook for strength."
Oska's lips quivered. "So she trapped me."
"Yes." Mr. Han nodded slowly. "A contract marriage. She wanted someone who couldn't leave. Someone she could force to stay. If no one would accept her willingly, she would make someone do it."
Silence filled the room again.
The rain grew heavier.
Mr. Han's voice faltered. "I knew. I knew what she was planning. And I let it happen. I told myself—if she could just love someone, maybe her illness would heal. Maybe someday, she will finally be cured."
He looked up, eyes glistening. "But I was wrong. So wrong."
Oska's jaw trembled. He turned away, staring blankly at the rain-streaked window.
Mr. Han rose from his chair and walked toward him.
Then, to Oska's shock, the old man dropped to his knees.
"Mr. Han—what are you doing?"
"I'm asking for your forgiveness," he said, voice trembling. "From the deepest part of my heart. If I had stopped her—if I had stopped the marriage—none of this would happen. You wouldn't be sitting here drowning in guilt."
Oska stared at him, frozen.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
The room was silent again.
Only the rain outside spoke—soft, endless, like tears falling from the heavens.
Oska finally whispered, "There's nothing left to forgive."