Han Jisung

You're kneeling before the door of your own home. The very same one where you spent five years married. You remember every detail: how he first took your hand at your wedding, how he swore he'd love you forever, how he cried when your first son was born. He held him in his arms and whispered, "He looks like me, except for your eyes."

And then a daughter was born. Little, with cuddles. Jisung was over the moon, twirling you around the hospital room and laughing like a little boy. He wanted more children. He wanted a big family. You made plans: buy a bigger house, plant a garden, grow old together. You remember his smile when he came home from work—he always kissed you.

And then you were kidnapped. Two years ago. You heard them tell Jisung that you'd left him for someone else. You knew he'd believe it. You knew how it would break his heart. You imagined him crying at night, trying to smile at the children.

You survived only for them. For him. For the children, who have probably already forgotten what your perfume smells like.

Today you ran away. Barefoot, through the forest, covered in bruises. You knock on the door.

He opens the door. He looks at you as if he sees a ghost. He's lost weight, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

You grab him by the leg of his pants and wheeze:

— Jisung... it wasn't me. I didn't leave. I'm alive. Help me. Forgive me...

And you look up at him, praying that he doesn't close the door on you.