Seo-yeon waited until evening.
She didn't plan it that way at first. She told herself she needed time to think, time to calm down, time to prepare the right words. But the truth was simpler.
She was afraid.
Afraid of what she might learn.
Afraid of confirming that her parents were not the untouchable figures she had preserved in her memory—but fragile people who had suffered silently while she lived beside them, blind.
The house was quiet.
Her mother was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. The rhythmic sound of chopping vegetables echoed faintly through the hallway. Her father sat in the living room, watching television, though he didn't seem to be paying attention.
Seo-yeon stood at the edge of the hallway, watching him.
He looked younger.
Not just physically—but lighter.
In her first life, the last version of her father she remembered was tired. Worn down. Not by age, but by something heavier.
Now she could see it clearly.
The difference wasn't time.
It was burden.
He hadn't carried it yet.
Or maybe he had—but he hadn't lost yet.
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides.
She stepped forward.
Each step felt deliberate, like she was walking toward a door she couldn't close once opened.
"Dad."
Her voice was quiet.
Her father turned immediately, surprised. He smiled faintly.
"Hmm?"
The sound was ordinary.
So painfully ordinary it made her chest ache.
She sat down across from him slowly. The television flickered between them, casting soft, shifting light across his face.
He muted it.
"What is it?" he asked.
She hesitated.
She had rehearsed this moment in her mind all afternoon, but now that she was here, the words felt wrong.
Too direct.
Too fragile.
Too dangerous.
Her fingers curled together.
"…Are we okay?"
The question came out smaller than she intended.
Her father blinked.
"What do you mean?"
She swallowed.
"Our family," she said carefully. "Are we… doing okay?"
Silence filled the space between them.
It wasn't immediate.
It wasn't dramatic.
But she saw it.
That tiny shift in his expression.
The hesitation.
The flicker of something he tried to hide too quickly.
Her heart sank.
He smiled.
But it wasn't the same smile.
"We're fine," he said gently.
The lie was soft.
Practiced.
Protective.
Her chest tightened painfully.
In her first life, she would have accepted it.
She would have nodded and walked away.
She would have remained ignorant.
But now she knew how lies like that ended.
She knew what silence cost.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
"You don't have to hide it from me."
Her father froze.
For a moment, he didn't breathe.
The room felt smaller.
He looked at her—really looked at her.
Not like she was a child.
But like she was someone he didn't fully recognize.
"…Where did that come from?" he asked quietly.
She lowered her gaze.
She couldn't tell him the truth.
She couldn't tell him she had already watched him die once.
"I just…" she whispered. "I don't want you to carry things alone."
The words hurt more than she expected.
Because they weren't just for him.
They were for herself.
For the version of her who had lived fourteen years in silence.
Her father stared at her for a long time.
His eyes softened.
But he didn't answer.
Instead, he reached out and gently placed his hand on her head, ruffling her hair like he used to when she was younger.
"You don't need to worry about adult problems yet," he said quietly.
The words were kind.
But they were still a wall.
He was still protecting her.
Still carrying it alone.
Seo-yeon closed her eyes briefly.
She understood now.
This wasn't something she could fix with questions.
Not yet.
If she wanted the truth—
She would have to find it herself.
Because this time, she refused to stay blind.