Morning spilled like molten gold through the tall windows of the Song estate, pouring itself across Persian rugs and polished floors, curling into corners like a secret whispered only once. Light touched everything the bone-white vases, the framed oil portraits, and the chandelier's dangling crystals making them shimmer with artificial grace. The whole house glowed with a warmth so delicate, so intentional, that it felt almost holy.
But where the sun-kissed with affection, shadows crouched like waiting wolves.
Raejin sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest, chin resting gently upon them. Her breath left faint fog on the glass, as though even the house itself resisted her warmth. Beyond the pane, the garden was awakening. A soft breeze stirred the lavender hedges, and somewhere, a robin called out with tentative joy. The sky was a cloudless blue, endless and wild the kind of sky that promised everything and nothing at once.
Still, inside her, thunder echoed.
Her heartbeat thudded in her chest not fast, but deep, like a slow drum rolling from within. The world outside had slipped into peace, but Raejin's soul had not yet found stillness. The past clung to her skin like damp fabric unseen, unwelcome, and impossible to peel off.
She was, in many ways, a contradiction made flesh: a child rescued from the edge of nothing, raised among pearls and polished silver. A ghost is given form, but not always a name. Mrs. Song's kindness came in waves beautiful, sincere, yet faintly trembling, as though it was offered to someone else through Raejin's borrowed shape.
It was a strange love warm, yes, but cautious. Raejin sometimes wondered if her presence was a comfort or a haunting.
Her foster mother often touched her cheek with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. "You're such a quiet child," she would say with a soft smile, her eyes distant like they were looking past Raejin and into memory. "So composed. So grateful."
But the love that sees only what it wishes to see is a dangerous thing.
And Raejin had long learned to be grateful for even the fragments of it.
In this home, she had a room with silk sheets, bookshelves that groaned with stories, and closets that spilled with soft clothes she hadn't asked for. But comfort didn't always equate to belonging. In the quiet between rooms, she still felt like a guest. In every whispered compliment, she searched for meaning. In every warm meal, she tasted something bittersweet.
And then there was Jooyoon.
Jooyoon, the golden child of the Song family. He moved through the world as though the earth tilted to accommodate him. Handsome in a way that made people pause, charming in a way that made people trust, Jooyoon was not just admired he was worshipped.
Where Raejin was a reflection, Jooyoon was the sun.
At school, he walked with effortless confidence. Laughter followed him like a cape. Teachers spoke his name like a prayer. Girls wrote his initials in the margins of notebooks, and boys tried to imitate the curve of his smirk.
But Jooyoon's light did not fall kindly upon Raejin.
At home, he was polite sometimes distant, sometimes dismissive, but polite. It was at school that his cruelty took shape.
"Look at you, little street rat," he had whispered once as he passed her in the hallway, his voice dipped in mockery and silk.
The words had seared into her skin. He had said them under his breath, almost idly, like a fact so obvious it needed no emphasis. But Raejin had felt it like a slap sharp, sudden, and familiar.
The teachers had smiled as he passed. No one had heard him. No one ever did.
She didn't retaliate. She never did. There was something inside her that curled around silence like a survival instinct.
She didn't tell Mrs. Song. She didn't cry. But she remembered.
She remembered everything.
The backhanded compliments. The subtle jabs. The way Jooyoon would reach for praise even when Raejin had earned it. The way their parents' gazes lingered on him just a little longer. How, in group photos, her name was always said last, like a footnote to someone else's story.
And yet she tried.
She tried not to resent him. Because resentment was poison, and she had enough bruises inside her to last a lifetime.
Her birthday came on a day wrapped in blue skies and soft wind. The Song estate was filled with soft music and the scent of roses Mrs. Song's. She'd insisted they celebrate.
"You deserve something beautiful," she had said, her fingers brushing Raejin's cheek.
So Raejin had dressed in soft pink silk, her hair braided into elegant coils, small pearl pins winking in the light. She stood in the mirror for a long moment, trying to recognize the girl staring back. Pretty, yes. Almost royal. But still unclaimed.
In the dining hall, the family had gathered. There were gifts wrapped in gold paper, a cake the color of cream, and laughter that seemed just slightly too rehearsed.
Jooyoon handed her a box with casual grace.
"Here," he said, his voice smooth, "don't say I never gave you anything."
Inside were earrings delicate, pale blue gems shaped like teardrops. They sparkled like the sky outside.
She murmured her thanks, but his gaze was already drifting elsewhere.
Mr. Song made a toast. Mrs. Song clapped gently, her eyes glistening.
But it wasn't Raejin's name that floated through the room.
The conversation pivoted almost naturally to Jooyoon. His recent speech at the student council. His performance in the orchestra. His impeccable grades. It was like they couldn't help themselves. Like he was gravity and they, helpless moons.
Raejin smiled through it all.
She smiled when they mentioned how "mature" she was becoming. She smiled when Mr. Song said, "Jooyoon is lucky to have such a quiet, respectful sister." She smiled even when her throat ached with unshed words.
And when the cake was cut, she waited until everyone else had taken a piece before she touched her fork.
That night, Raejin couldn't sleep.
The moon hung heavy outside her window, casting silver ribbons across her blanket. She lay there, still dressed in her hanbok, the pearl pins now pressing gently into her scalp.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
She didn't stop it.
She let it fall like the rain she had once known cold, unsparing, and honest.
She thought about how silence was often louder than any scream. How birthdays were supposed to feel like beginnings, but for her, they only reminded her of everything she had not been born into.
She pressed a hand to her chest, as if to still the tremble there.
It was not hatred she felt.
It was yearning.
A quiet, aching hunger for someone to choose her. Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. But simply because they saw her. Truly saw her.
She turned her face to the window and whispered into the night, "Please… just once. Let me be enough."
The moon did not answer. But it stayed with her, casting its light gently across the room as if, in some small way, it heard her.