Chapter Text
ECHO'S IN THE QUIET
Yoonbum sat on the edge of the small apartment balcony, knees pulled to his chest. The city sprawled below—endless lights, endless noise—but up here it felt strangely silent. The night wind carried a faint chill, brushing against his skin like a reminder that he was still real, still here.
He'd been free for months now.
Free.
The word didn't feel like it belonged to him. Freedom was supposed to taste sweet, but to him it tasted like hospital antiseptic and paperwork. Therapists asked questions he couldn't answer. Doctors used words like "trauma" and "dependency." He nodded, but the syllables drifted past without meaning.
Sometimes, in the quiet, he still heard footsteps in the hallway.
Tonight was one of those nights.
A soft knock echoed from his front door. Three taps. Then silence.
His heartbeat seized. His palms dampened. The logical part of his mind whispered that it could be anyone. A neighbor. Delivery. The world did not revolve around fear.
But the other voice—the one carved deep into him—knew that Sangwoo always knocked like that when he wanted to unsettle someone: almost polite, almost gentle.
Yoonbum forced himself to stand and stepped toward the door. His hand hovered over the knob, trembling. He inhaled sharply and twisted it open.
The hallway was empty.
Except...
A folded piece of paper sat on the floor. Plain. Unmarked. His vision blurred around the edges, but he crouched and picked it up with careful fingers. Inside, written in neat handwriting, were four words:
"Do you miss me?"
Yoonbum's throat tightened. It couldn't be real. Sangwoo was gone—locked away where daylight couldn't charm him, where his smile couldn't drip poison.
But the handwriting...
Yoonbum slammed the door shut and pressed his back against it, sliding down until he hit the floor. His breath came in stuttered bursts. He tried to tear the note, but his fingers refused to obey.
"Not real," he whispered to the empty apartment. "Not real."
His therapist said recovery wasn't linear.
Sometimes, recovery meant hallucinating ghosts.
Minutes passed before he stood again, dragging himself to the kitchen. He placed the note inside a glass jar, sealing the lid tightly. He set it on the counter beside dozens of others—old fears, scribbles of intrusive thoughts, memories he refused to bury but refused to live inside.
He labeled the jar carefully:
"Another lie."
Outside the balcony windows, sirens wailed, fading in and out of earshot. Yoonbum wrapped his arms around himself.
Somewhere, tangled in a prison cell or the back of his own imagination, Sangwoo smirked. The world kept turning regardless.
Yoonbum didn't feel free yet.
But tonight, he chose not to chase ghosts.
He stepped away from the jar, flicked off the kitchen light, and whispered into the darkness:
"I miss myself more."
And for the first time in months, sleep came without footsteps.