The apartment was warmer than it had any right to be.
Morning light filtered through the window blinds in slanted gold stripes, lighting the room like soft stage lighting from a bygone drama. Somewhere far off, the sounds of city life had begun—cars weaving through narrow alleys, the distant clang of a delivery truck gate, the muttered scolding of a grandmother haggling at a nearby market.
Yoon Se-ri opened her eyes slowly, her body stiff from sleeping on a futon that had definitely seen better decades.
She didn't move at first.
For a long while, she simply lay there, staring at the dust motes suspended in the slant of light across the ceiling. Her hands rested over her stomach, her breathing steady but shallow.
She hadn't dreamed.
Or maybe she had, and her subconscious had simply blurred the boundary between yesterday's absurdity and whatever her brain thought would pass for normal now.
Ghost. Lawyer. Deal.
And now… file.
She sat up slowly, the blanket tangled around her legs. Her shirt was wrinkled, her ponytail loose, the skin beneath her eyes shadowed from one-too-many sleepless nights accumulated over too many weeks. She looked around the apartment.
Still hers.
Still quiet.
Still no sign of Joon-ho.
She stood, stretched, shuffled toward the kitchen sink, and poured herself a glass of water. The tap groaned, but it worked. Barely.
She drank it all in one go.
And then she stood there, glass in hand, staring at the opposite wall. At the spot where he'd stood the night before, right by the coat hook. That brief pause. The way his voice had shifted.
"Tomorrow, go back to the second floor. There's a file on the third shelf of the bookcase—blue tab. I think it's time you read it."
Her hand tightened on the glass.
She changed into clean clothes—a plain white blouse, black slacks, cardigan over her shoulders—and pulled her hair into a neater ponytail. No makeup. No rush.
It wasn't like she had a court date or client meeting waiting.
Still, she moved slowly, deliberately. As if bracing for something her body already understood but her brain hadn't caught up to yet.
She descended the staircase with quiet feet, one hand brushing along the railing. The second floor door stood slightly ajar, as it had the first time.
But the light inside was different now. Softer. More welcoming. Less ominous.
She pushed the door open fully and stepped into the office.
Same polished desk. Same rows of law books. Same perfectly arranged pens.
But this time, she walked past it all without stopping.
She crossed the room, turned toward the tall shelf on the left side—the one with crooked brass handles and a single dead plant on top. Her fingers hovered over the spines of the case files.
Each one meticulously labeled.
She scanned the third row.
There.
A pale blue tab.
The file stuck out slightly—as if it had already been touched.
She pulled it free.
It was heavier than she expected. Thick. Dog-eared in places. A yellow post-it note stuck to the front, curling at the corners. In old, deliberate handwriting:
"Exhibit A – Keep your eyes open."
She stared at the note for a moment.
Then walked back to the desk, sat down in the high-backed chair, and set the file in front of her like it was an offering. She opened it slowly.
The first page was a court docket. The case number at the top: #8745-B. People vs. Choi Hwan-soo.
Date: April 1987.
Court: Seoul District Court.
Presiding Judge: Nam Ji-hoon.
She flipped to the next page.
Typed witness list.
Choi Hwan-soo — Defendant.
Kim Seok-dae — Key Witness.
Lee Hae-jin — Character Witness.
Detective Oh Kwang-yu — Lead Investigator.
Kang Joon-ho — Defense Counsel.
She stared at the name.
There it was, printed in neat, faded ink:
Kang Joon-ho, Defense Counsel.
It was the first time she'd seen his name in an official context. Not as a photo on the wall. Not spoken aloud. Not tossed off with a smirk.
Here, he was real. Paper-and-ink real.
Alive.
She turned the page again.
And again.
The file wasn't organized in standard order. It was a patchwork—transcripts, handwritten notes, a faded photograph clipped to one page. She unhooked the clip and held the photo up.
A man. Middle-aged. Heavyset. Glasses. He looked tired even in stillness. The photo was old and grainy—shot from across the street. He stood outside a warehouse, talking to someone cropped out of the frame.
She flipped to the note attached to the photo. A scrap of legal pad paper.
"Warehouse address unlisted in official record. Why?"
"Seok-dae lied about location. Need subpoena."
The handwriting was sharp, masculine, underlined twice.
She kept going.
Page after page.
Bit by bit, a story began to take shape.
A factory worker—Choi Hwan-soo—arrested for the arson of the facility that had just fired him. Two casualties. Circumstantial evidence: a canister found near the scene, Choi's jacket singed, conflicting eyewitness testimony.
A public defender had been assigned initially.
Then, suddenly—Joon-ho took the case.
Why?
There was no record of how or why he'd gotten involved. No retainer. No press.
Only the file. And the increasingly frantic, disjointed notes inside it.
"Kim Seok-dae's timeline doesn't hold. Check bus records."
"Client has memory gaps—trauma?"
"Received anonymous envelope—burnt document inside. Origin?"
Se-ri leaned back slightly in the chair.
This wasn't just a case. It was an obsession.
She glanced at the far corner of the room, where the lamp sat.
"You're watching, aren't you?" she said softly.
No answer.
She picked up the file again.
Near the back, a folded sheet had been tucked inside a pocket. Thicker paper. Different ink. She unfolded it.
Letter of Withdrawal – Kang Joon-ho
Filed: May 4, 1987.
RE: Conflict of Interest, Personal Safety.
It wasn't signed.
She stared at it.
Not signed.
Not filed.
Just... written. As if he'd meant to walk away. As if something had made him start preparing to leave.
But hadn't let him.
Her chest tightened.
She turned to the last page. It wasn't part of the official file.
It was a letter.
A journal entry, maybe.
"If you're reading this, I didn't get to tell you in person. The case is wrong. All of it. They forced the narrative and buried the cracks. I tried to push back. I got too loud. Someone started watching me. Se-ri, if this is you—trust no one with a badge. The truth's buried under paper and fear. Don't go alone."
There was no name at the bottom.
Just a small, uneven line of ink that looked like it had trailed off before the pen could lift.
Se-ri sat frozen.
The silence in the office pressed against her ribs.
She hadn't expected this. Not like this.
A real case. A warning. A trail someone had tried to smother.
And her name.
He'd written her name.
Somehow.
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping slightly against the wooden floor.
And then—
A voice.
Behind her.
"I didn't think you'd open it all at once."
She turned.
Joon-ho stood by the bookshelf, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
She didn't speak.
He stepped forward, slower than usual. More grounded.
"I found you," he said, "after. After it all. After I died."
She blinked.
"You found me?"
He nodded.
"I couldn't move on. Not just because of the case. But because there was no one left to care about it. No one who knew how to look. Then your grandfather died. And somehow, you inherited this mess."
She swallowed hard. "You put my name in that file."
"I didn't. Not then. But I added it after. After I was... this." He gestured to himself. "I've been changing things. Quietly."
She stared at him.
"You've been rewriting the file."
"I couldn't speak. Couldn't reach you. So I waited."
Se-ri lowered herself back into the chair.
And for the first time, she didn't look at him like a ghost.
She looked at him like a man trying to undo his own ending.
And she whispered, "Okay."