It's started with the kettle.
A faint whistle. Not loud. Not sharp. Just… weak.
Like even the water was too tired to scream.
Taesung stepped out of the bathroom, towel still around his neck, shirt clinging to his back from morning drills with Harin. His feet moved without thinking—kitchen, kettle, turn off the gas.
The pot still steamed.
But something else felt off.
He looked toward her room.
The door was open.
That wasn't normal.
"Mom?"
No answer.
He stepped closer, chest tightening, throat already dry.
"Mom?"
She was sitting up in bed.
But her body… slumped. Tilted just slightly wrong.
Like gravity had tugged her sideways and she hadn't fought it.
Her hand was on her lap, fingers pale and loose. The IV line had slipped from the tape. Her breathing was
He couldn't hear it.
"Mom."
Louder this time.
He crossed the room in one step, dropped to his knees, and touched her shoulder.
Cold.
Not frozen.
But too still.
"Mom?"
His voice cracked.
He shook her gently. Then harder.
No response.
"Mom wake up. Please. It's—it's just the meds, right? You forgot to eat again, right? That's all just low sugar or "
Her head tilted forward.
And her eyes didn't open.
He didn't remember calling the ambulance.
Didn't remember fumbling with the phone, or yelling at the operator, or the way his hands wouldn't stop shaking when he gave their address.
All he remembered was the way her body felt when they lifted her—how small she looked, even in the stretcher.
Like she had shrunk all of a sudden.
Like the weight of the world finally won.
They let him ride with her.
The hospital was ten minutes away.
Felt like forever.
The EMT didn't say much.
Didn't need to.
The monitor was flat.
He just didn't want to say it out loud.
Time blurred after that.
White lights.
Clipboard talk.
A nurse with sad eyes who tried to get him to sit down.
A doctor in a coat too clean for this kind of news.
"She passed before arrival."
That's what they said.
Those exact words.
So calm. So practiced.
Like death was just another shift change.
He didn't cry at first.
Didn't scream.
Didn't punch the walls.
He just sat in the plastic chair beside the hallway vending machine, eyes fixed on nothing.
Because what was there left to see?
Harin showed up two hours later.
She didn't say anything when she saw him.
Just sat beside him on the cold bench outside the emergency doors.
The wind had picked up. His jacket was still back at the apartment. He didn't even notice.
"She's gone," he said.
Quiet.
Almost like he was just realizing it.
Harin didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
He looked at her, eyes hollow.
"I was training. I wasn't home. What if I'd come back earlier? What if I—"
"Don't."
He flinched at the word.
But she didn't sound angry.
Just tired. Gentle.
"You can't stop it by replaying it."
Taesung's fingers curled into fists.
"I'm a C-rank. A nobody. And now she's dead, and I can't do anything, and it's just—just like this. This is it?"
His voice rose.
"I don't even get a moment? No warning? She just leaves?"
The silence stretched.
Then cracked.
"I don't want to do this anymore."
Harin looked at him.
He wasn't crying.
But he looked worse than if he had.
"I don't want to keep going. What's the point? I'm weak. I'm lost. And now the only person I was doing this for is—"
He choked.
"Isn't even here."
His voice broke completely.
"I want to disappear. I don't care if a Rift eats me alive. I don't care if I die."
Harin didn't stop him.
Didn't say It's okay or You'll be fine or any of those lies people tell to the grieving.
She just reached out and held his shoulder.
And when his hands trembled, she held them too.
That night, back in the apartment, he stood in the doorway of her room for a long time.
The sheets were still rumpled.
Her slippers still by the bed.
The window open, like it had been all week, to let the air help her breathe.
He sat on the floor.
Didn't turn on the lights.
Didn't touch anything.
Just sat there and felt the absence.
It hurt more than the pain.
Because the pain was loud.
But this?
This was quiet.
The kind that never leaves.