Seo-yeon didn't move for a long time.
She sat on the bed as if her body were a statue someone forgot to finish carving. The sunlight felt wrong. It shouldn't be warm. It shouldn't be kind.
After death, she expected darkness.
Not morning.
Not birds.
Not the smell of clean laundry.
Not the familiar pattern on the curtains—pale flowers her mother loved because they made the room "feelbrighter."
Her stomach twisted.
Was she dreaming?
She lifted her hand slowly, watching it like it belonged to someone else. The fingers were slim. The skin smooth. No faint scars from work. No dryness from harsh soap and cheap cleaning chemicals.
She swallowed hard.
Her throat felt tight.
She stood up, legs unsteady. The room tilted slightly, like reality was struggling to stay in place.
She took one step.
Then another.
Her feet touched the floor. Cold wood. Familiar cold, not the cold of a stranger's apartment.
She faced the mirror.
The girl reflected there stared back with terrified eyes.
Seventeen.
Her own face, before it learned to go blank.
Before it learned to smile politely while dying inside.
She raised her hand and touched her cheek in the mirror, as if expecting the reflection to vanish.
Warm.
Real.
Her breath turned sharp.
"Idied," she whispered.
She remembered it too clearly to deny. The rain. The headlights. The moment she stepped forward because she couldn't imagine anything worse than continuing.
So why—
A voice cut through the air beyond her door.
"Seo-yeon, areyouawake?"
Seo-yeon froze.
The world stopped.
Her heart didn't race.
It simply… stopped, as if it forgot what it was supposed to do next.
She knew that voice.
Not the way you know a friend's voice, or a coworker's voice.
She knew it the way you knew lullabies you hadn't heard in years. The way you knew the sound of home even after it had burned down.
Her mother.
Alive.
Warm.
Real.
"You'll be late for school!" her mother called again, louder, playful.
Seo-yeon's knees went weak.
Her hand flew to her mouth as if she could physically hold the sob inside.
Fourteen years.
She hadn't heard her mother speak in fourteen years.
In her first life, the last time she heard her mother's voice, it wasn't cheerful.
It was panicked.
It was fading.
It was a sound swallowed by sirens.
Seo-yeon slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor. Her back pressed against it like she could anchor herself to something solid.
Her eyes blurred.
Memory came in flashes, not like a story, but like wounds reopening.
A hospital hallway that smelled like disinfectant.
A nurse saying her name softly, as if loudness would make it worse.
A doctor's mouth moving, words that didn't fit in her brain.
We're sorry.
We did everything we could.
It was too late.
She remembered how the world looked afterward.
Not darker—just emptier.
People were still laughing outside. Still walking dogs. Still eating dinner.
And she stood in the middle of it, suddenly not belonging anywhere.
A gentle knock interrupted her.
"Seo-yeon?" her mother called, closer now. "Why aren't you answering?"
Seo-yeon's throat tightened.
She tried to speak.
No sound came out.
She pressed her forehead against her knees, shaking.
Another knock.
"Seo-yeon? Did you stay up readingagain?"
That line hit her like a punch.
Her mother used to say that, back when reading was still something she did for fun, not survival.
Seo-yeon forced herself to stand.
Her legs were trembling. Her hands were shaking. She reached for the doorknob like it might burn her.
She opened the door.
Her mother stood there in a worn apron, hair tied back messily, holding a towel in one hand like she had been about to scold her for leaving wet footprints on the floor.
Alive.
So alive it was unbearable.
For a second, Seo-yeon couldn't breathe.
Her mother's eyebrows lifted.
"What's with thatface?" she asked, half amused, half concerned. "Baddream?"
Seo-yeon stared at her like she was seeing a miracle and a crime at the same time.
Her lips parted.
"…Mom?"
Her mother blinked, then laughed softly.
"Yes, yes, I'm your mom," she said, teasing. "Come eat. Your father's already complaining."
Seo-yeon's vision shattered.
Tears spilled immediately, heavy and fast. She tried to blink them away but they kept coming, as if her body had been saving them for fourteen years.
She took a step forward.
Then another.
Then she suddenly grabbed her mother and hugged her.
Hard.
Desperate.
As if her arms could rewrite time.
Her mother stiffened, surprised.
"Seo-yeon—what—"
Seo-yeon pressed her face into her mother's shoulder.
She smelled like sesame oil and laundry soap and warmth.
A smell she had forgotten until now.
Her whole body shook.
"Don't go," Seo-yeon whispered.
Her mother's hands hovered awkwardly, then patted her back gently.
"What are you talking about?" her mother asked, voice softer now. "I'm right here."
But Seo-yeon knew.
She knew what her mother didn't.
Seven days.
Seven days until a car accident stole her parents and left her alone in a life she didn't survive—she only endured.
From the kitchen, her father called out, impatient but familiar:
"Why is it taking so long? Seo-yeon! Hurry!"
Her mother sighed.
"You hear that? Your father's in a mood again. Go wash your face. Then eat."
Seo-yeon loosened her grip slightly.
She looked at her mother's face. The tiny lines near her eyes. The warmth. The ordinary life.
Her mother smiled, still confused.
Seo-yeon swallowed hard.
She nodded as if she could speak normally.
But inside, something had changed.
In her first life, she'd wanted to die because she couldn't imagine living.
Now, she couldn't imagine dying.
Not when she had them again.
Not when she could still choose.
Seo-yeon stepped back, wiping her cheeks quickly.
Her mother tilted her head.
"You're really acting strange today," she said, but her tone was gentle. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Seo-yeon forced air into her lungs.
"I'm okay," she managed.
It was a lie.
But it was a starting point.
Because this time—she would learn how to become okay.
She would save them.
She would save herself.
Even if she had to tear fate apart with her bare hands.