In the days that followed, Eun-ha wandered the halls crying for her parents—muffled sobs swelling into heartbroken wails when no one came. She searched every room, calling out for her mother in the night, and in the day, she clung to Madam Seo's skirts like they were the only thing anchoring her to the earth. Her tiny body shook not from understanding, but from fear, lost in a world she couldn't yet comprehend.
Madam Seo carried her everywhere—in meetings, into the kitchen, even while reading late at night. The old woman barely slept, but she never once let the girl cry alone. With each passing day, Eun-ha's grief softened into whimpers, then quiet sighs. She would sniffle into her rice, lose focus mid-sentence, and blink through long pauses. Yet slowly, in the warmth of that constant presence, her giggles began to return. She began humming again while coloring, speaking to her stuffed animals in whispers. But she never left Madam Seo's side.
Min-jae, on the other hand, was unreachable. He retreated into a silence that felt deliberate. He stayed in his room—either buried in schoolbooks far advanced for his age or staring out the window at the same slope that had taken everything. He didn't cry. He didn't ask questions. When spoken to, he gave clipped replies, enough to show he heard but never enough to open a door.
Unlike Eun-ha's bursts of emotion, Min-jae's grief lay in the stillness of him—in how he never complained, never yelled, never needed consoling. It was a quiet that settled in the bones, deep and enduring. The kind of silence that even time would have to work hard to move.
Eun-ha refused to go to pre-school. Each morning turned into a scene of heartbreak—she would wake up early just to follow Madam Seo around the house, her arms tightly wrapped around the older woman's legs, as if letting go would cause her to vanish forever. "Halmeoni, don't go," she would cry, her voice trembling, eyes wide and frantic. "I'll be good, I promise. Please don't go."
Madam Seo knelt down each time, gently cupping her face. "Eun-ha, I have to work. I'll be back before you know it."
But the girl only clung tighter, her sobs turning into full-blown tantrums as the front door opened. Eventually, the house help would have to step in, and Madam Seo, her hands trembling, would peel Eun-ha off and pass her over while the child kicked and screamed. Her cries echoed down the hallway, each one carving into the old woman's chest.
"Please, please don't leave me," Eun-ha wailed, her small fists pounding the floor.
"I'm just going to the office, my sweet baby," Madam Seo whispered, brushing Eun-ha's hair back. "Aigoo… Hana agassi, please take care of her. She didn't sleep well last night." Her voice cracked as she kissed the girl's forehead. "Don't cry, my baby. I'll be back before the sun goes down, I promise." Madam Seo whispered, her own voice cracking. She'd pause on the threshold, often wiping her tears quickly before stepping into the car, steeling herself for the long day ahead. The image of that small, tear-streaked face never left her mind.
From the moment Min-jae returned from school, Eun-ha's world revolved around him. She trailed behind him with a coloring book in hand, waving it eagerly. "Oppa! Look, I drew a doggie! He has a hat!"
Min-jae didn't even glance. He walked past her, and she hurried after him, clutching a half-melted piece of chocolate. "You want? I saved it for you." She held it up, smudging it onto his sleeve. He stopped, gently moved her hand away without a word, and kept walking.
Sometimes, she waited outside his door for hours, sitting cross-legged, humming to herself or talking softly to her stuffed bear. "He'll open it. Oppa always opens it."
When the door finally creaked open, she lit up instantly. "Oppa!" she gasped, jumping to her feet like she hadn't been waiting all afternoon. She followed him again, never discouraged.
"Don't grab me," he muttered one evening as she tugged on the hem of his shirt. She let go but stayed close, tiptoeing behind him as he made his way to the kitchen.
Sometimes he closed the door on her without a word. And still, she waited.
Other days, when he left his room, he'd find her curled up asleep outside the door, her tiny fists clutching the hem of his old sweater, which she had pulled from the laundry basket and wrapped around herself while waiting. The moment he nudged her awake, her eyes fluttered open, half-asleep. "Oppa...? Are you hungry? I saved you choco," she mumbled, still dazed, her tiny arms instinctively reaching for his leg.
He sighed quietly, bent down, and picked her up—her head flopping against his shoulder without resistance. She smelled faintly of powdered milk and sleep. Without a word, he carried her to her room and tucked her in gently.
She didn't wake fully. But as he pulled the blanket over her, she smiled in her sleep and whispered, "Don't go, Oppa..."
He never yelled. He never scolded her harshly. But he never returned her affection either. Still, she followed him faithfully, a quiet shadow with a hopeful smile.
Grandma noticed it all. She watched Eun-ha's quiet obsession and Min-jae's silent withdrawal with a growing ache in her chest. After one particularly hard day—Eun-ha had burst into sobs because Min-jae shut the door in her face again—Madam Seo bundled the little girl into the car and took her to see a child psychologist.
Inside the clinic's waiting room, Eun-ha clung to her side, refusing to let go of her hand. "Halmeoni, can you come too?" she whispered, her lips quivering.
"I'll be right here, baby," Madam Seo said gently, brushing a hand over her hair as the therapist coaxed her inside.
Later, in the consultation room, the doctor sat across from Madam Seo, his voice low and understanding.
"The trauma she experienced has left a deep impression," he explained. "She's clinging to the only anchors of safety she has—you and Min-jae. That's common in young children with abandonment trauma. The good news is, with a consistent environment, love, and reassurance, she can heal. But it will take time."
Madam Seo nodded slowly. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. "I see."
"Sending her to preschool now may worsen her anxiety," the doctor continued. "Being away from you might feel like another loss."
Despite already knowing this in her bones, hearing it aloud hit her with quiet force, stirring a deep ache. On the drive back, Eun-ha sat quietly, holding her grandmother's scarf in both hands.
That evening, as she tucked the girl into bed, Madam Seo kissed her cheek and whispered, "No school for now, alright? You'll stay here with Halmeoni until you feel brave again."
Eun-ha's sleepy voice replied, "Okay... but you won't leave, right?"
"No, baby. I won't leave."
And though a part of her told her she shouldn't spoil the child too much, Madam Seo already knew—she couldn't bear to turn away from those tearful eyes.
But the tension only grew.
One night, Min-jae came into her study, his schoolbooks hugged tightly to his chest. His voice, though small, carried the weight of an older boy. "Halmeoni... can we talk?" hovered near the doorway, hesitant. His voice, when it finally came, was low but firm.
"Halmeoni… I can't focus."
Madam Seo looked up from her paperwork, removing her glasses. "Come here, baby. What's wrong?"
"She's always there," he muttered, stepping closer. "When I study, when I read… she won't leave me alone. I can't think."
"She's little," Madam Seo replied gently. "She doesn't understand yet."
Min-jae's eyes narrowed. "But I'm not little. I have school. I have things to do." He hesitated. "I want to go to boarding school."
The words struck her like a slap. "Min-jae," she said softly. "You've just lost—"
"I know," he interrupted, more sharply this time. "But I need space. She's always around. I can't breathe when she's there."
His voice didn't carry anger—it was weary. Not cruel, just full of the weight he'd been holding.
Madam Seo pressed her lips together, nodding faintly. "Let me think about it."
That night, she moved quietly between the two rooms. In Eun-ha's, the little girl was curled up with her stuffed bear, breathing softly, her small arms wrapped around her stuffed bear, her face tucked into its worn fur. In Min-jae's room, he lay turned to the wall, curled under his blanket, his shoulders stiff even in sleep.
She paused beside his bed, brushing back the hair from his forehead with trembling fingers. "What happened to my baby… how did things come to this… aigoo, my poor puppy… aigoo, my poor puppy," she whispered into the quiet room, her heart aching for the burdens and hurt he carried in silence.
But in the morning, she made the call.
The car came a week later.
Eun-ha screamed the moment the suitcase was zipped. "No! No! Oppa, no!" she cried, her little hands grabbing at Min-jae's arm with all the strength her tiny frame could muster. "Don't go! I'll be good! I'll be good!"
When the front door opened, she dashed in front of it, arms outstretched like a barricade. "You can't go, Oppa! Stay here! Stay with Halmeoni and me!"
Min-jae stood still for a moment, eyes downcast, before walking around her without a word. He didn't look back. Not once.
"Min-jae," Madam Seo said softly, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Study hard, eat well… and write to Halmeoni, alright? The school allows just one phone call every week, so don't miss it. I'll wait for your letters too. I'll be counting the days till you come home." her voice trembling but calm, as if holding back everything that wanted to break loose.
As the car door shut behind him and the vehicle pulled away, Eun-ha lost control. Her tiny fists pounded against Madam Seo's chest as she sobbed, gasping between wails. "Oppa… oppa come back…!"
Madam Seo held her tightly, rocking her in place on the front steps. "I know, baby. I know… Aigoo, my heart," she murmured into the girl's hair.
The little girl twisted in her arms, sobbing until her cries became hiccups, her voice worn thin and hoarse. Even then, she whimpered his name like a broken song.
Eun-ha's tiny arms wrapped tighter around Halmeoni's neck, her cheeks damp and eyes wide, still searching for the car long gone from sight. Her little brain couldn't understand why Min-jae had left her too. First her parents, now him. Where was he going? When would he come back? She didn't know. Her small world was shrinking, and she was too young to make sense of it. "Oppa... don't go," she whispered into the silence, not knowing who else to ask.