A week later, a package arrived from Seoul, delivered by a discreet courier. It was from Kang Mira. Inside, Yuna found a simple, sturdy guitar.
“I remembered you mentioned he used to play,” Mira’s note read. “Thought it might help. Or at least, make a nice decoration. Call me when you’re ready.”
Yuna brought the guitar into the living area and leaned it against the wall in a corner. She didn’t push it on him. She simply let it exist in their space, another possibility in a world they were slowly rebuilding.
For two days, Jun ignored it. He would glance at it occasionally, his expression unreadable, then look away. Yuna understood. Music, like everything else, was a memory that could be either a comfort or a wound.
On the third evening, they were sitting by the fireplace. The silence wa
