The phone call came like a storm she never saw coming.
"Kang Sora-Ara… your mother… she's dead."
The wind had come in from the Jeju river that night.
It moved through the cracked window of her small apartment the way it always did—slow, indifferent, carrying the faint smell of salt and something ancient. Sora never bothered to close it. The Jeju air was the one constant in a life that had never stayed still long enough to call itself hers.
She sat on the floor, back against the foot of her bed, her diploma balanced carefully on her knees.
Jeju International College. Bachelor of Biological Sciences.
Kang Sora-Ara.
"I did it".
She stared at it, not quite out of pride—though there was some of that, quiet and hard-won—but out of something closer to disbelief. That she had made it here. That she, with no money, no family nearby, no one cheering from any crowd, had walked across that stage and received something that was entirely, undeniably hers.
Years of bullying. Years of isolation. Years of being the girl who didn't quite fit—too different, too quiet, too much of something no one in Jeju could name. And still, she had made it.
"Eomma would have been proud".
The thought came softly, then settled into her chest—the familiar ache that never truly left.
She picked up her phone, hovered for a moment, considering sending a photo of the diploma. Then she set it down again.
She'll call when she can. She always does.
Her mother's calls were never long. Never easy. Every word measured, careful but soft—like she was speaking through glass. Their last messages sat at the top of her screen, three weeks old.
Are you eating well?
Yes, eomma.
Good. Study hard.
Sora had wanted to write back—I graduated today. I wish you were here. I wish you were always here. But something had always stopped her. Years of distance had built a wall between them, one neither of them seemed to know how to climb.
One day, she told herself. When I get to Seoul. When we finally have our life together. Just the two of us.
She was still holding onto that thought—fragile as a flame in the wind—when the phone rang.
Unknown number. Seoul area code.
She almost didn't answer.
"Yeoboseyo?"
The voice on the other end was male. Calm—too calm. The kind of calm that felt deliberate, practiced.
"Am I speaking with Miss Kang Sora-Ara?"
"Yes." She straightened slightly. "Who is this?"
"My name is Han Kim-Park. I was a close associate of your mother."
A pause. Heavy.
"Miss Kang … I'm deeply sorry to reach you this way. I need to tell you something, and there is no gentle way to say it."
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
Another pause.
"Kang Sora -Ara ...Your mother… she's dead."
No.
The word rose in her chest before she could stop it—a quiet refusal. Her whole body rejected it before her mind could catch up.
The diploma slipped from her knees and hit the floor.
The room didn't spin. The world didn't shatter like it did in dramas. Everything stayed the same—the wind, the hum of the lamp, the distant sounds outside.
But something inside her went very, very still.
"She can't be gone," she whispered. "She promised…"
"—How," she said. It wasn't really a question.
"There was an incident at the residence where she worked. A robbery." It happened about a week ago.
The call ended not long after.
And then there was silence.
Her mother was her only family. The only person who had ever held her close, ever whispered her name like it meant something.
And now…
She was gone.
Sora tried to remember the last time she had seen her. It had been her sixteenth birthday. Her mother had held her tightly that day, cupping her face as she whispered her full name like a prayer.
"Kang Sora-Ara… remember who you are, no matter what."
That memory had carried her through everything—every lonely night, every cruel word, every morning she had to remind herself why she was still fighting.
They had talked about the future that day. Her mother had promised that once she graduated, she would secure a proper job for her in Seoul. They would finally live together. Just the two of them.
"It won't be long, Ara. We'll have our life together."
She had believed her.
Now that voice was gone too.
Seoul had always felt distant—something she only saw in photos and the occasional video her mother sent when she could. She faintly remembered her earliest years there, tucked away in a small room when her mother had begin working as a housekeeper for a wealthy korean family.
But that life belonged to a version of her she barely remembered.
Now she had no choice. She would have to step into the city her mother had given everything to.
Crowds. Noise. Lights. A world she didn't belong to.
And with her mother gone, there was no one left to ask. About her father. About the secrets her mother had kept hidden for years. Questions she had always been too afraid to ask suddenly pressed against her mind, heavier than grief itself.
The cruel irony didn't end there.
Her mother had given years of her life to a wealthy family—and the man she had served had named her a beneficiary in his will.
Now everything her mother had earned… everything she had trusted her daughter to receive…
It was hers.
"100 million won".
She stared at the number as if it belonged to someone else.
It didn't feel like a blessing.
It felt like a weight she didn't know how to carry.
Sora sank to the floor, her hands trembling. The diploma lay beside her.
Outside, the wind continued to move through Jeju—unbothered, unchanged.
And somewhere beneath the silence, a thought whispered—quiet, sharp, and relentless:
What now, Kang Sora-Ara?
"Author note"
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