Do-yoon didn’t move.
Nothing moved.
The TV in the living room still showed the front-facing camera, displaying his own face—pale, rigid, and nothing like someone who usually had enough energy to argue with the dead.
The woman stood behind him.
His mother’s face.
Exactly the same.
Not similar.
Not just a matching eye shape or jawline.
It was the face Do-yoon remembered from old photographs, from fragments of childhood memories, from the one perfume he could still sometimes smell when he opened the box of his mother’s old things.
Park Mi-sook’s face.
His mother.
The woman who had died fifteen years ago.
Jae-hyun whispered, “Do-yoon…”
Do-yoon raised a hand.
Don’t.
He didn’t even know who the gesture was meant for.
Jae-hyun.
His father.
Or himself.
The TV screen flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the image changed.
It wasn’t the front-facing camera anymore.
Now it showed a room.
An old room.
Cream-colored walls.
White curtains.
A small table by the window.
And a bed.
Do-yoon recognized it.
He’d seen that room before.
In his dreams.
Over and over.
“This…” His voice barely came out.
Jung-woo stood beside him.
“That’s your mother’s room.”
Do-yoon turned to him.
“You said I’d never been in there.”
“I was wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because you were too young.”
“And?”
Jung-woo didn’t answer.
On the screen, something moved.
The woman—Mi-sook—walked toward the camera.
Her steps were slow.
She didn’t drag her feet.
She didn’t float.
She didn’t move like the ghosts in movies, who always seem to have an urgent need to humiliate the laws of gravity.
She walked like a human being.
Until she stood right in front of the camera.
Then she looked straight at the screen.
Straight at Do-yoon.
Her lips moved.
This time, her voice came through.
“I’m sorry.”
Do-yoon closed his eyes.
That voice.
He knew it.
Some voices can disappear from the world without ever truly disappearing from your memory.
His mother calling him to breakfast.
His mother scolding him for running around the house.
His mother laughing when little Do-yoon tried to imitate grown-ups.
And now—
that voice was apologizing.
Do-yoon opened his eyes.
“Mom?”
Jung-woo immediately grabbed his shoulder.
“Don’t answer.”
Do-yoon turned to him.
“You said she wasn’t human.”
“I said don’t answer.”
“What if it really is Mom?”
“Do-yoon.”
“What if it is?”
Jung-woo tightened his grip on Do-yoon’s shoulder.
“If that really is your mother, you won’t know until it’s all over.”
Do-yoon stared at him.
Something about that sentence felt wrong.
“Why?”
“Because the dead don’t always come as themselves.”
Silence.
Jae-hyun looked at Jung-woo.
“Sir…”
Jung-woo turned.
Jae-hyun hesitated before continuing.
“If I may ask…”
“No.”
Jae-hyun fell silent at once.
Do-yoon looked at his father.
“You haven’t even heard the question.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“The answer’s still no.”
For the first time that night, Jae-hyun almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
More because the situation was too absurd.
A ghost.
A mother who might not be his mother.
An anonymous message.
And Do-yoon’s father still had the energy to refuse an interview.
Do-yoon sighed.
“I’m going to that room.”
“No.”
“I have to.”
“No.”
“Dad—”
“No.”
“I’m not nine anymore.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like a kid.”
Jung-woo stared at him for a long moment.
Then he said,
“That’s exactly why I’m more afraid.”
Do-yoon fell silent.
Jung-woo picked up the car keys from the table.
“We’re going.”
“Where?”
“To that house.”
Do-yoon frowned.
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Why?”
Jung-woo looked at the TV.
The screen had gone black again.
The woman was gone.
“Because if she’s really starting to remember you,” Jung-woo said, “we don’t have much time.”
The house was on the outskirts of Seoul.
Far from the city center.
Not so far that you could call it remote, but far enough to make Do-yoon feel like they were leaving modern life behind, little by little.
There were no high-rises.
No twenty-four-hour shops with their lights on.
No music spilling out of clubs.
The roads grew quieter.
The car stopped at 5:26 a.m.
Do-yoon got out.
The morning air was cold.
An old two-story house stood in front of him.
The white paint was peeling in places.
Weeds had overrun the small yard.
The iron fence was rusty.
The house didn’t look like the kind of place that held a great secret.
It looked like it needed renovating.
Do-yoon stared at it for a long time.
“I’ve been here before.”
Jung-woo nodded.
“When?”
“When I was little.”
“How many times?”
“Once.”
Do-yoon remembered something.
The stairs.
The curtains.
The smell of incense.
And his mother’s voice.
Don’t go into that room.
He frowned.
“I remember.”
Jung-woo looked at him.
“What?”
“Mom once told me not to go into the room.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Jung-woo didn’t answer.
Do-yoon walked up to the door.
His hand stopped a few inches from the handle.
He could feel something.
Not cold.
Not heat.
More like pressure.
As if the air around the house were heavier than it should be.
Jae-hyun stood behind him.
“You feel it?”
Do-yoon nodded.
“Yeah. A lot.”
Jung-woo pulled out a key.
Before putting it in the lock, he said,
“Whatever you see inside…”
Do-yoon looked at him.
“Don’t call her Mom.”
“Why?”
“Because if she isn’t your mother…”
Jung-woo stopped.
“…she’ll be glad if you think she is.”
The door opened.
The smell of an old house drifted out.
Wood.
Dust.
Incense that had long since gone out.
The living room still had some old furniture.
A sofa.
A small table.
A bookshelf.
And a yellowed family photo.
Do-yoon walked over to it.
He was nine in the picture.
His mother stood beside him.
His father was behind them.
Do-yoon noticed something.
He narrowed his eyes.
“Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“Why is there…”
He pointed to the background.
A shadow stood behind the curtain.
Jung-woo snatched up the photo.
His expression changed.
Do-yoon noticed.
“You knew.”
Jung-woo didn’t deny it.
“Who is it?”
Jung-woo turned the photo over.
There was handwriting on the back.
The same handwriting as his mother’s.
If Do-yoon ever comes back here, don’t let him open the third door.
Do-yoon read the sentence twice.
“Three doors?”
Jung-woo looked down the hallway.
There were only two doors on the first floor.
The bathroom.
And a storage room.
Do-yoon lifted his head.
“Upstairs?”
Jung-woo didn’t answer.
Do-yoon walked toward the stairs.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Jae-hyun followed.
Jung-woo stayed downstairs.
“Do-yoon.”
Do-yoon stopped.
“Don’t go up.”
Do-yoon turned around.
“Why?”
Jung-woo looked at him.
“Because there are three doors up there.”
Silence.
Do-yoon looked at the second floor.
For the first time since they’d entered the house, he heard something.
Not a voice.
Not a knock.
Footsteps.
Slowly.
From upstairs.
One.
Two.
Three.
They stopped.
Then a woman’s voice came from the top of the stairs.
Soft.
Familiar.
Almost warm.
“Do-yoon?”
Jae-hyun grabbed Do-yoon’s arm.
Jung-woo went pale.
Do-yoon stared at the second floor.
The voice came again.
Clearer this time.
“Sweetheart.”
Do-yoon froze.
That was what only his mother called him.
And from upstairs, a door slowly opened.
The first door.