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Min scroll — When Seo-ha left, Min-sul was still just a child. She didn't fully understand what death was. All she knew was that her older sister wouldn't come home. On the day of the burial, Min-sul cried softly, holding her mother's clothes. He wasn't crying loudly—it was a small, confused cry, as if he was waiting for someone to say it was all a mistake. But no one said. Seo-ha was the one who combed her hair delicately. Who hugged her before going to sleep. Who smiled in that calm way, as if they knew that love needed to be said in silence. Sometimes, Min-sul still remembers the way Seo-ha looked at her—with a love so pure that it seemed to encompass the entire world. And touch. Seo-ha ran her fingers through her hair slowly, as if each strand was precious. It was a affection that made Min-sul feel protected from anything bad. Years passed. Min-sul is now fifteen years old. It grew, became taller, more serious. He carries a longing in his eyes that never went away. But there is something that per

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