LIES BETWEEN US

CHAPTER 6: THINGS THAT SHOULD HAVE STAYED BURIED

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Hyeri’s POV

The next morning, Hyeri opened the café fifteen minutes earlier than usual.

It wasn’t because she expected him to come.

It was because she couldn’t sleep.

The memory of his voice — soft, uncertain — had followed her all night like a stray echo. “There was someone who needed me.”

What did that even mean?

Why couldn’t he have said it then? Before everything broke?

She brewed the first pot of coffee mechanically, pouring it into white ceramic mugs, wiping the same countertop twice. Customers trickled in — students, office workers, tired mothers — and she smiled out of habit. No one noticed the way her fingers lingered too long on the edge of the espresso machine.

Around 10 a.m., Min-ji slipped behind the counter.

“Unnie,” she said gently, “you okay?”

Min-ji had worked part-time at the café for over a year now. She was younger, bubbly, a bit nosy — but in the way that felt more like concern than gossip.

Hyeri nodded. “I’m fine.”

“You’re wearing that scarf again.”

Min-ji’s voice was casual, but her eyes were sharp.

Hyeri looked down. Eun’s scarf. She hadn’t even realized she’d grabbed it.

“It’s just warm,” she said quickly.

Min-ji didn’t push. Instead, she handed Hyeri a paper bag. “My mom made rice cakes. Eat something. You look like you’ve been fighting ghosts in your sleep.”

Hyeri forced a smile. “Maybe I have.”

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Later that afternoon, she visited her mother’s house.

The apartment was small and quiet. The walls still smelled faintly of lavender detergent and boiled barley tea. Her mother was in the kitchen, peeling persimmons with a small knife, slow and methodical.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” her mother said, not looking up.

“I had time,” Hyeri replied, slipping off her coat.

They didn’t talk much. They rarely did these days. After Eun disappeared, something in their relationship had changed. Her mother never said it outright, but Hyeri knew: she had blamed her. Or maybe, she had blamed herself.

“Have you heard from him?” her mother asked suddenly.

Hyeri froze. “What?”

“Eun. He used to come around like he belonged here. Then he vanished. I always thought… maybe he’d write. Or call.”

Hyeri shook her head. “He came back. I saw him.”

Her mother looked up for the first time. Her face was unreadable.

“And?”

“He says he had a reason for leaving. Something he couldn’t tell me.”

A pause. Then:

“Be careful, Hyeri. People who leave without a word often come back with too many.”

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That night, as she lay in bed, Hyeri stared at the ceiling.

Was she really ready to hear the full truth?

And worse — was she ready for what it might do to her?

Outside her window, the snow began to fall again.

Soft.

Silent.

Unforgiving.

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