The house lay in dim shadow, the only light a faint glow seeping from the kitchen. There, Mrs. Go stood with her hair loosely tied up, her silhouette soft against the pale hum of the room. Facing away, she rinsed the rice in a steady rhythm before pressing the cooker's button. Then she opened the refrigerator, gathering ingredients and arranging them neatly on the table.
A creak echoed from the staircase.
In her school uniform, Nau Rin descended the stairs.
Mrs. Go turned, surprise flickering across her face. Nau Rin explained briefly that she had something to finish at school and needed to leave early. Then she headed straight for the door.
Flustered, Mrs. Go hurried to the refrigerator, searching for something—anything—to give her. She found a loaf of bread she had bought days ago and forgotten, along with a carton of milk. Clutching them, she followed after her.
"You shouldn't leave without breakfast. At least take this and eat on your way," she said, pressing them into Nau Rin's hands.
"I will. Don't worry," Nau Rin replied, already stepping outside.
The chill of the night still lingered in the air. Cars and leaves alike were coated in dew, the street hushed and hollow, with only the occasional vehicle drifting past like a fading shadow. The pavement held the dampness, breathing a quiet stillness into the morning.
By the time she boarded the bus, the seats were nearly full.
Workers in dark blue jackets leaned their heads against the windows, dozing, their heavy boots knocking softly against the floor with each jolt of the ride. In the front seats, two elderly women in bright clothes whispered to each other, their voices dissolving into the low, constant hum of the engine.
Nau Rin stood near the door, gripping the overhead rail, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery beyond the glass.
At the school gate, the security guard stood half-asleep, yawning repeatedly, his eyes barely open. Inside, the building was silent. No one else had arrived yet.
She moved quickly.
Slipping into her classroom, she stepped onto a chair to remove the camera hidden near the fuse box above the door, then retrieved the one fixed to her own wooden locker. Finally, she returned to the school entrance and took down another tiny, button-sized camera she had concealed in the shadow of a locker there. After stowing away her indoor shoes—shredded into a mess of useless rags—she wiped the locker until it was spotless.
Taking out a thin steel wire, she tied it to the inside handle of the door and threaded it horizontally across the interior of the locker. The wire slipped through a narrow gap in the hinge, emerging on the outside, where she guided it along the side wall and tucked it into a hidden seam where the locker met the rear wall, fastening it tight.
She tested it.
The door didn't budge. Even when she pulled harder, it only shifted slightly, the makeshift lock holding firm. But when she pressed half her body against the door, rising onto her toes and reaching behind to pull the wire—it opened.
Satisfied, she placed the cameras into a small cloth pouch, hid them back inside her locker, and locked it before leaving.
When she returned to the classroom, there was still nearly an hour before lessons began. She hung her bag on the hook by her desk, the small lock clinking softly as it swayed.
For a while, she tried to review her lessons.
But the quiet was too deep.
Before long, sleep claimed her.
When she opened her eyes again, a few students had already arrived.
She crossed the open yard at an unhurried pace and paused beneath the shade of a tree, settling there for a moment. From the gymnasium, its doors left ajar, came the sharp rise and fall of an argument. She cast a brief glance inside—members of the volleyball and basketball teams stood facing off, voices tense, likely over a conflict in their schedules. It didn't interest her much. Turning away, she headed back, and just as she stepped into the classroom, the teacher entered, bringing the lesson to life.
—
In the brightly lit room, a laptop screen flickered on, and a video began to play. The footage was clear, vivid, and tightly woven with movement. Several figures appeared within the frame. When it ended, she quietly transferred the file onto a flash drive, then erased the camera's memory without hesitation. The drive disappeared into the lowest drawer of her locker, which she locked with care.
For a moment, she sat in thought.
When she glanced out the window, darkness had already fallen.
She slipped beneath her warm, familiar blanket, and her eyes grew heavy almost at once. Sleep came quickly, pulling her into its depths before she could resist.
The next day, she arrived early again.
But not as before.
A maintenance worker was drilling into her locker, installing a proper lock, while her homeroom teacher stood nearby, supervising. When the work was finished, Nau Rin handed the spare key to the teacher.
After they left, she remained alone.
She wandered slowly through the entrance hall, her gaze drifting from one locker nameplate to another, studying each in quiet detail.
Classes carried on, blending into one another.
By the time the long break came, the cafeteria was overflowing with students. It seemed as though nearly the entire school had gathered there. From the moment she entered, she remained alert, her eyes scanning her surroundings before she finally took her seat.
As usual, the four of them sat at the table, eating heartily and chatting with easy familiarity.
Time drifted past.
She stood by the corridor window, gazing out as she watched certain figures from the crowd below—observing their every movement, even the faint flicker of their laughter, as though that single moment unfolded just for her.
That evening, Nau Rin stood in the kitchen, preparing fruit tea, when the nine o'clock news began to play on the television. She carried her cup to the living room and sat down on one side of the sofa. On the other side, her father was already settled comfortably.
From the TV, the news anchor's voice rang out:
"The Suwon City Government has officially approved the redevelopment project for Dongjin-dong. Covering approximately 8,000 square meters, the project includes over twenty aging villa residences, playgrounds, laundromats, and a range of small and large restaurants. Demolition is scheduled to begin next week."
Her mother set a plate of light snacks on the table, then sat down in the middle of the sofa.
"Lately, there's been so much construction," she said with a quiet sigh. "Anything old just gets torn down."
"Yeah. In a few years, this place might be completely unrecognizable," her father replied, lifting a piece of watermelon from the plate and popping it into his mouth.
Nau Rin, sipping her tea, spoke softly,
"It's nice to see things being renewed… but it's a little sad, too, watching the old disappear."
Her mother nodded in agreement.
"It is. That restaurant—we used to go there sometimes. The food was always so good."
Their conversation faded there, dissolving into the quiet of the room.
Sometime past midnight, the sudden flare of light and the sharp ringing of her phone shattered the stillness.
Nau Rin jolted awake.
Still caught in the heaviness of sleep, she reached blindly across the table until her fingers found the phone. She brought it to her ear—but no voice answered. Only the faint, steady sound of breathing filled the line.
Her eyes focused slowly on the screen.
Private Number.
"Who is this?" she asked.
No response.
Just that same, quiet breathing.
A flicker of unease crept through her. She ended the call—but moments later, the phone rang again.
This time, she turned it off completely and set it down, a little farther away.
It's probably just a wrong number, she told herself.
But even after half an hour, she couldn't fall back asleep.
That sound—
that breathing—
kept resurfacing, slipping into her thoughts again and again.
Finally, she turned on the desk lamp. A dim, warm glow spread through the room, easing the darkness just enough to calm her.
Only after some time had passed did sleep slowly find her again.
When she turned her phone back on as she left the house that morning, a message was waiting—from a number that read only 0000.
Are you walking to school right now? Don't look at the person behind you.
She turned instinctively.
Of course, no one was there.
Later, as she sat outside the school, letting the air pass quietly around her, another message arrived.
"Did you eat alone? From the table next to you, you looked pretty pathetic."
Taehyun had taken the day off. Seohun had an assignment to finish before the next class. Minho had stayed behind in the classroom to eat with his girlfriend, sharing the lunch she had brought.
So Nau Rin had eaten alone in the cafeteria.
And after that, the messages kept coming— filled with ridicule and quiet cruelty. At night, the calls returned too, slipping in like a whistle through the dark.
"Wherever you are, it always smells bad."
"Everyone's sick of you. What do you even think about when you're alone?"
—
When her phone rang again, Nau Rin didn't flinch.
She turned her music up—loud—and pressed the phone's mic directly against the speaker's blast before answering the call. A faint sound came through, something like a stifled groan.
She lifted the phone to her ear and spoke calmly:
"Did that startle you? I was expecting your call—but you're late today. Not very punctual."
On the other end—
Silence.
"…Try not to disappoint me tomorrow."
Before hanging up, she added, almost lightly,
"Oh, and… I like it when you stay quiet."
Then she ended the call first. Her expression remained cool and impassive, save for a trace of a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She looked utterly bored, like a queen staring down a minor inconvenience.
At that exact moment, her door opened, and her parents stepped inside, startled by the sudden noise.
"What happened?" her father asked, concern creasing his face, while her mother nodded anxiously beside him.
Nau Rin answered calmly,
"I was trying to sleep, but a mosquito kept bothering me."
Her father frowned slightly.
"And blasting music helps with that?"
A small, playful smile curved at her lips.
"I thought I might blow its eardrums out."
He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head.
"Well… as long as it's nothing serious."
Her mother added gently,
"If there are mosquitoes, light some incense before you go to bed."
With that, they left, closing the door behind them.