The next morning arrived not with a bang, but with a soft, grey sigh. Pale light filtered through the sheer curtains of Min-woo's apartment, illuminating dust motes that danced in the still air. The city hummed its distant, muted symphony: the groan of a garbage truck, the sporadic chirp of a lone sparrow on the fire escape, the low thrum of traffic. A half-empty pot of coffee sat on the counter, its surface a still, dark mirror. It was the kind of morning that felt suspended in amber, a quiet pause before the world fully woke.
