Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Nine: The Woman in the Rain
The balcony was cold beneath my bare feet.
Paris stretched before me like a painting—soft grey light, rooftops dusted with the last gold of dying sun, the Eiffel Tower rising in the distance like a promise I couldn't remember making. I'd been sitting here for hours, my knees drawn to my chest, his shirt—the brown one, soft and worn, the one that smelled like him—draped over my shoulders like a shroud.
The test results were coming today.
The thought sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. Three days had passed since the blood draw. Three days of pretending I wasn't counting the hours, of smiling when he looked at me, of eating the food he placed before me even when my stomach churned with something that wasn't sickness.
He was inside.
On the phone again.
Something had happened in Korea. A breach, he'd said, his voice tight, his jaw clenched. I'd heard fragments—"security," "perimeter," "they crossed the line"—before I'd slipped through the glass doors and closed them behind me.
I didn't want to know.
I wanted to sit here, in the cold, and watch the city light up like a jewel box, and pretend that the world wasn't waiting to swallow us whole.
The sun dipped lower.
The lights began to flicker on—windows glowing amber, streetlamps humming to life, the Eiffel Tower beginning its slow, sparkling ascent into the darkening sky.
And then I saw her.
The woman.
She was walking along the river below, her hand in her son's, her belly round and full beneath a flowing coat. The boy—chubby cheeks, dark curls, eyes that sparkled even from this distance—was laughing at something she'd said, his little legs kicking at the cobblestones.
My heart ached.
It always ached when I saw her. A deep, hollow ache that had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with something I couldn't name. She was beautiful—ethereally beautiful, the kind of beautiful that made you believe in God, or fate, or something else you'd stopped believing in a long time ago.
Her husband appeared beside her.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her close, and she leaned into him like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there.
A happy family.
A normal life.
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling my heart pound against my ribs.
I know her.
The thought came sudden and sharp, cutting through the fog of my fractured memory. I knew her. I didn't know how or why or when, but I knew her. The ache in my chest wasn't longing—it was recognition.
I stood.
My legs were numb from sitting, but I didn't feel it. I walked to the door, slid it open, stepped into the warm golden light of the suite.
"Tete."
He was pacing, his phone pressed to his ear, his free hand raking through his hair. His voice was low, urgent, the voice he used when the world was on fire and he was the only one who could put it out.
"Tete."
He held up a finger. One moment.
"Tete, I saw that woman again. The one with the son. Let's go. Let's talk to her."
His jaw tightened. He turned away from me, his voice dropping even lower.
"Not now, Angel. Go somewhere. I'm busy."
"Tete—"
"Please, Angel."
The words were sharp, clipped. A door slamming shut.
I stood there for a moment, staring at his back, at the tension in his shoulders, at the way his hand gripped the phone like a weapon.
Then I turned.
I walked back to the balcony.
The cold air hit my face, sharp and bracing. The woman was gone. The river was empty, the cobblestones slick with the first whisper of rain.
She was there.
I saw her.
I know her.
But the ache in my chest was fading, replaced by something colder. Something that felt like frustration, like grief, like the hollow echo of a memory I couldn't reach.
My head hurt.
The doctor had warned me—don't pressure yourself, don't force the memories, don't chase ghosts you're not ready to face. But how could I not chase her? How could I not chase the ache that told me she mattered, that she'd always mattered, that somewhere in the locked room of my mind, her face was waiting to be found?
I pressed my palms to my eyes.
The rain began to fall.
Soft at first, then harder, the drops cold on my bare arms, my bare legs, my bare feet. The balcony was slick now, the iron railing wet beneath my hands.
I have to go.
I have to ask her.
I have to know.
I didn't tell him.
I slipped through the suite, past the closed door of the study where his voice still rumbled, low and tense. My shoes were by the bed—I didn't put them on. His shirt was still on my shoulders, the sleep shorts still clinging to my thighs. I was a ghost, pale and silent, unlocking the door with the code he'd told me in case of emergency.
He never thought I'd use it to sneak away.
The hallway was warm, carpeted, the walls papered in soft gold and cream. The elevator was slow, descending floor by floor, the numbers ticking down like a countdown I couldn't stop.
The lobby was empty.
The doorman was reading a newspaper, his brow furrowed, his lips moving silently. He looked up as I passed—his eyes widened, his mouth opened—but I was already through the doors, already on the street, already running.
The cobblestones were wet.
Cold.
Sharp beneath my bare feet.
The rain was falling harder now, plastering his shirt to my skin, dripping from my hair into my eyes. I ran through the narrow streets, past the shuttered shops, past the cafés with their glowing windows, past the lovers huddled under awnings, laughing at the sky.
Where is she?
Where did she go?
I reached the river.
The Seine was dark, swollen with rain, its surface pocked with a million hungry mouths. The bridges arched above me, their stone gargoyles weeping into the water below.
She was here.
She was here, and now she's gone.
I turned in a circle, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The rain was in my eyes, my mouth, my lungs. I couldn't see. Couldn't think. Couldn't remember why I'd come or what I'd hoped to find.
"Tete."
His name came out a whisper, swallowed by the storm.
"Tete, tete, tete."
I was crying.
I didn't know when I'd started—maybe on the balcony, maybe in the elevator, maybe the moment I'd stepped out into the rain and realized I was alone. The tears mixed with the rain, hot and cold, sliding down my cheeks, dripping from my chin.
I was a child.
Lost and scared and so, so alone.
The man appeared from nowhere.
One moment, the street was empty. The next, he was there—tall, broad, his hair dark and wet, his coat collar turned up against the rain. His eyes found me immediately, raking over my body with a hunger that made my skin crawl.
"Pretty little thing," he said, his accent thick, his voice low. "What are you doing out here all alone?"
I stepped back.
My heel hit the cobblestones—slick, uneven—and I stumbled. He stepped forward, his hand reaching for my arm.
"Don't."
"Don't be scared, pretty girl. I just want to help."
"I said don't."
His fingers closed around my wrist.
"Let go—"
"You're shivering. Let me take you somewhere warm."
"Let go!"
He pulled me toward him, his other hand grabbing my waist. I could smell him—cigarettes and cheap cologne and something else, something that made my stomach lurch.
"Pretty, pretty girl—"
I screamed.
I shoved him, hard, my palm connecting with his chest. He stumbled back, surprised, and I ran.
The rain was a curtain, blinding and cold. The streets were a maze, winding and dark. I didn't know where I was going—didn't care—just ran, my bare feet slapping against the cobblestones, my breath burning in my lungs.
"Tete!"
Please hear me.
"Tete!"
Please come.
I rounded a corner.
And crashed into a man's chest.
"Whoa—"
His hands caught my shoulders, steadying me. I looked up, my vision blurred with rain and tears, and saw a face I didn't recognize.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "What's wrong? Why are you—"
"Papa!"
A small voice, bright and familiar.
I looked down.
The boy was staring up at me, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his eyes wide and sparkling even in the rain.
"Pretty aunt is here!" He tugged at the man's coat. "Papa, pretty aunt is here!"
The man's eyes widened.
"Seojun—"
"It's her, Papa! It's the lady from the university! The one who talks about forgiveness!"
I stared at him.
Seojun.
The name echoed in my chest, hollow and familiar.
The man looked at me—really looked at me—his expression shifting from surprise to concern.
"Kim Aish? What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"
His wife appeared beside him, her hand on his arm, her belly round and full beneath her coat.
"Honey, who is this? Do you know her?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were still on me, searching my face.
"I'm lost," I whispered. "Please. I'm lost."
"My student," he said finally, his voice soft. "And Kim Taehyun's wife."
His wife's eyes widened.
"Taehyun? The Kim Taehyun?"
"The same."
"Oh, you poor thing." She stepped forward, her hands reaching for mine. "You're soaked. You're freezing. Come with us. Our apartment is nearby."
"I can't—I need to find—"
"You need to get warm." Her voice was gentle but firm. "We'll call your husband. We'll figure this out. But first, let's get you inside."
"Pretty aunt." The boy tugged at his shirt—he was holding my hand now, his small fingers wrapped around mine. "Don't cry. Papa will help."
I looked down at him.
At his dark curls, his sparkling eyes, his chubby cheeks flushed with rain.
"You know me," I said.
"Of course I know you." He grinned. "You're the writer girl. Papa says you're the best student he ever had."
"Seojun," the man said softly.
"What? It's true."
"Seojun."
"She is."
The man sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy with resignation and something softer—fondness, maybe, or the kind of exasperation that only came from loving someone impossible.
"Come," he said, pulling his coat from his shoulders and wrapping it around mine. The fabric was warm, heavy, smelling of rain and wool and something else—something that reminded me of libraries and lecture halls and the soft glow of afternoon light. "Let's get you inside."
I looked back.
The street was empty. The man who'd grabbed me was gone. The rain was falling harder now, a curtain of silver between me and the world I'd lost.
"Pretty aunt." The boy tugged at my hand. "You're shivering."
"You're shivering," I agreed.
"So let's go." He pulled me forward, his small body surprisingly strong. "Papa has hot chocolate. And cookies. Mama made them."
"Seojun," the woman said, her voice warm with laughter. "You're not supposed to bribe guests."
"Why not?"
"Because it's rude."
"It's not rude. It's hospitable."
"You're six."
"I'm mature for my age."
"Seojun."
"Let's go, pretty aunt."
I let him pull me.
The apartment was close—just around the corner, up a narrow staircase, through a heavy wooden door. The warmth hit me first, thick and welcoming, chasing the chill from my bones. Then the smell—cinnamon and chocolate and something baking, something that made my stomach clench with hunger I hadn't felt in hours.
"Here." The woman guided me to a chair by the fire, pressing a blanket around my shoulders. "Sit. Rest. I'll get you something warm to wear."
"I can't—"
"You can." Her voice was gentle but firm. "You're safe now. You're with friends."
Friends.
The word echoed in my chest, strange and familiar.
The man—Kim Namhyun, my husband had called him, the professor I'd apparently had a crush on—knelt before me, his eyes searching my face.
"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked.
"I saw a woman," I said. "On the river. She was beautiful. Pregnant. With a little boy. I see her everywhere. Every time I see her, my heart aches."
His expression flickered. Something—recognition, maybe, or concern—passed across his face before he smoothed it away.
"What woman?"
"I don't know." I pressed my hand to my chest. "But I know her. I know I know her. I just can't remember."
"Aish—"
"I had to find her. I had to ask her who she was. Why my heart hurts when I see her. Why I feel like—" My voice cracked. "Like I've lost something I didn't know I had."
The room was quiet.
The fire crackled. The rain tapped against the windows, soft and steady.
"Papa." The boy—Seojun—was beside me now, his small hand on my knee. "Pretty aunt is crying."
"I know, buddy."
"Make her stop."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
The man—Namhyun—smiled. It was a soft smile, warm and sad, the kind of smile that made you feel seen.
"Your husband," he said. "Taehyun. Does he know you're here?"
I shook my head.
"Where is he?"
"Our apartment. On the phone. Something happened in Korea. A breach." The words felt strange in my mouth, foreign and heavy. "He told me to go somewhere. To leave him alone."
Namhyun's jaw tightened.
"Let me try his phone again."
He stood, walking to the window, pulling his phone from his pocket. I watched him scroll, watched him press the phone to his ear, watched his brow furrow as the call went unanswered.
"He's not picking up," he said.
"His phone is busy."
"It's been busy."
"He's always busy."
The words came out bitter, sharper than I intended. The woman—his wife—appeared beside me, a soft sweater in her hands, her expression gentle.
"Here," she said. "You can change in the bathroom. The dress is probably too big, but it's warm."
"Thank you."