Jaewook returned moments later with the whiteboard—rolling it in like a seasoned strategist preparing for war. He parked it beside Minah's bed with practiced ease, set down a tray of washable markers, and uncapped them silently.
"Use whatever color helps," he said. "We'll sort through it together."
Minah looked up at him, then at the board.
Then, slowly, she stood.
Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up a black marker first.
She began to write and sketch—fragmented memories translating into hurried scribbles, half-formed images, and emotion-coded words.
------
On the board, under two headings:
Before Tonight
masked men and women
white coats
machines
wires
number: 47
red file folders
a needle
pain
blackout
She paused, then picked a blue marker for the next section.
Tonight's Flashback
not orphanage, not previous home
a young woman—not me
pills on the floor
unconscious
dim room
music playing — same melody as tonight
Minah uncapped her phone, scrolled, and turned it toward them.
On screen:
John Denver – Annie
Playing quietly.
Jaewook stared at it.
Hyun Soo and Kang Ho exchanged looks—this wasn't just a one-off memory. It was connected.
Kang Ho stepped closer. "She saw someone else. Someone real. This could be a facility or... another subject."
"Or a witness," Jaewook said softly. "Or someone she cared about before everything was wiped."
He looked at the board again, at the scrawl of pain, color, and memory.
And for the first time, they weren't dealing with just a trauma.
They were chasing the blueprint of a cover-up.
-----
A quiet knock echoed through Jaewook's study.
All three men paused, exchanging looks.
Hyun Soo blinked. "...Is our house haunted?"
Kang Ho rolled his eyes. "You watch too many movies. Ghosts don't knock. They possess."
Jaewook raised a brow and stood, walking toward the door with quiet steps. He opened it.
And there stood Minah.
"Minah?" he said, surprised. "I thought you were at work."
She didn't speak—only held out a piece of paper.
A sketch.
Below it, in her neat handwriting:
> "I sketched her from memory.
I don't know who she is or why I remember her.
Please help me.
Thank you."
Jaewook looked at her for a beat, then stepped aside.
"Come in."
Minah joined them in the study, and Jaewook gently took the sketch over to the desk.
Hyun Soo leaned in. "Minah, this is amazing! You could've been a designer. I got a C in art class and cried for two days. Anyway—"
Jaewook shot him a look.
"Right. Shutting up now."
Kang Ho stepped closer, studying the drawing. His brow furrowed.
Pale skin. Wavy brown hair. Almond eyes. Gold necklace. Red lipstick.
Something about it tugged at the edge of his memory.
He opened his phone, fingers moving quickly as he scrolled through an old folder—a personal archive of news reports from years ago. His expression changed.
He stopped scrolling.
There it was. A news photo. A woman beside a tall man in a suit, smiling for the press.
He held the phone up beside Minah's sketch.
The resemblance was undeniable.
"No way..." he muttered.
Jaewook turned to him. "What is it?"
Kang Ho looked up, stunned.
"That's my aunt," he said.
"The President's wife."
-----
Hyun Soo nearly choked on his water.
"Wait—your aunt? Isn't she—?" He paused, staring. "Didn't she die?!"
Kang Ho nodded solemnly. "Overdose. Years ago. But… how did Minah remember her?"
He turned to her, voice gentler now.
"Minah, do you… remember the name Kim Sora? That was my aunt's name."
He pulled up an old article—an image of Kim Sora standing beside her husband at a charity gala, smiling in a sleek, elegant gown.
Minah looked at the screen.
And froze.
Her face drained of color.
She instinctively stepped back, hand reaching for the wall to steady herself.
Jaewook was beside her instantly, steady as stone, his hand hovering protectively at her back.
Then—Minah pointed.
Not at the woman.
At the man standing beside her in the photo.
Her hand trembled.
She didn't know his name. Didn't remember where she'd seen him. But something in her gut screamed danger.
Then she looked back at the woman—at Kim Sora. Her expression softened, confused.
She typed into her phone, fingers slow but sure:
"The man – bad feeling.
The woman – I don't remember her.
But… I feel like I should."
She looked again at the photo.
Then stepped forward.
This time, her eyes zoomed in—not on their faces, but the details.
The woman's dress.
A soft embroidery near the waistline.
Cherry blossoms.
Her breath hitched. A sharp intake of air.
"I know this," she signed instinctively. Then grabbed her phone again.
She opened her photo gallery—scrolled fast—then paused on one picture.
A faded dress, old and slightly worn, photographed before being donated.
On it?
The same cherry blossom embroidery.
She had kept it all these years.
Through her foster homes.
The orphanage.
She didn't know why—only that it mattered.
Until now.