Joon-ha died on a quiet morning.
Not a dramatic one.
Not storm-torn or thunder-struck.
Just a soft, ordinary morning, the kind he always said felt closest to miracles.
The nurses said he passed peacefully, hand in Areum's, his eyes closed, breath gentled into stillness.
But peace is only peaceful for the one leaving.
For the one staying, it is a quiet brutality.
Areum didn't scream.
She didn't collapse.
Not because she wasn't breaking, but because grief sometimes behaves like a well-trained animal.
Silent.
Obedient.
Waiting.
She simply held him, forehead pressed to his cold, unmoving one, her lips trembling as she whispered
"Why do you have to chase the light somewhere I can't go? But you stayed. Thank you."
And for the first time in her life, she understood that love could be both an anchor and a knife.
News spreads fast.
Death spreads faster.
By noon, the headlines swept through the country like a winter wind
"Joon-ha, Beloved Artist and Former Idol, Dies at 28"
"A Love Story That Defied Time Ends in Silence"
"He Chose Love Over Legacy, And Left Both Behind"
People lit candles outside the hospital.
Some knelt.
Some wept.
Some played his songs softly from their phones as if the world might rewind if they pressed replay enough times.
Artists painted murals of him
Joon-ha smiling, Joon-ha singing, Joon-ha holding Areum's hand on that rooftop where everything began.
Former colleagues posted tributes.
Old friends shared stories.
Fans clutched posters and letters, mourning a man most never met but many loved.
But none of it mattered to Areum.
Because grief isn't loud, not at first.
Grief is the toothbrush left untouched beside the sink.
Grief is the mug with lip stains he'll never make again.
Grief is a ring still warm on your finger long after the hand that placed it there has turned cold.
It is quiet.
Silent.
Heavy.
A shadow that stretches even when you don't move.
Months later, when winter softened into a hesitant spring, Areum opened an art gallery.
She named it "The Rooftop That Remembered."
People assumed it was poetic.
They didn't know it was literal.
Inside were sketches, letters, photographs, fragments of their story arranged like constellations.
Each room became a chapter
Ji-woo's rooftop
Soo-min's silence
The courtroom battles
The hospital days
Their whispered wedding vows
The final sunrise they shared
People traveled from cities, towns, and countries she'd never heard of.
But they didn't come to mourn.
They came to remember.
To witness the love that refused to vanish even when its keeper did.
Some left flowers.
Some left notes.
Some simply stood in the middle of the gallery with quiet tears, letting the story wash over them.
The rooftop hadn't forgotten.
And neither had the world.
________________
On opening night, after the lights dimmed and the crowd thinned, Min Joon approached her.
He was holding a sealed envelope.
His eyes were red-rimmed.
His hands unsteady.
"He asked me to wait," he said. "Until you were ready."
Areum stared at it, that thin, fragile thing that felt heavier than the universe.
Inside were
His will
Documents transferring every last Kang property to her name
And a letter
Areum sat alone in the gallery's small office, the room lit only by a single warm lamp. The silence felt like a heartbeat waiting to break.
When she opened the letter, his handwriting hit her like a memory she wasn't ready for.
"I didn't want you to carry my empire. But I wanted you to own it.
So no one could ever use it against you.
Or our child."
Her breath hitched.
"I loved you in silence.
I loved you in pain.
I loved you in goodbye."
Her hands trembled.
"Raise them strong.
Raise them kind.
And tell them I was never afraid, because I had you."
This time, she wept.
Not the wild, broken tears of freshly carved grief.
But the soft, surrendering tears of someone finally allowing themselves to feel the weight of love left behind.
The kind that cleanses.
The kind that frees.
Weeks later, Areum gave birth to a baby boy.
His cry pierced the room, bright, fierce, alive.
She named him Ji-ha, a blend of Ji-woo and Joon-ha,
two men who shaped her world in life and in death.
When she held him close, she saw it immediately, that spark in his eyes.
Joon-ha's eyes.
Joon-ha's quiet fire.
She pressed her lips to his forehead and whispered
"You're the proof that love doesn't die."
And slowly, carefully, painfully, she began to heal.
Because love may leave the body,
but it never leaves the world.
_________________
Five Years Later
The prison gates opened with a mechanical groan.
Eun-woo stepped out, older, thinner, quieter,
a man who had learned too late what consequences feel like when they finally catch up.
He didn't expect anyone.
Not forgiveness.
Not redemption.
Not even a familiar face.
But someone was waiting.
Mirae.
She stood by the gate, hands tucked in her coat, eyes steady but soft, like someone who had rehearsed this moment a thousand times but still felt unready.
Eun-woo froze.
"You're here," he said, voice cracked and disbelieving.
She nodded once.
"I waited."
"Why?" he asked, broken.
She stepped forward.
"Because I needed to know if you'd come back different."
He swallowed, unable to form an answer.
She extended her hand slow, cautious, human.
"Let's find out."
Not forgiveness.
Not love.
Not a promise.
Just a beginning.
And sometimes, beginnings are enough.
___________________
That night, in her quiet apartment above the gallery, Areum tucked Ji-ha into bed.
He slept with one small hand curled around a plush star, his breath soft and even.
The gallery below was silent.
The city beyond hummed softly.
The stars outside blinked as though unwilling to sleep.
Areum stood by the window, the moonlight resting on her like a gentle hand.
She whispered
"You stayed. And now, I'll carry us forward."
Her reflection looked back, older, steadier, stronger.
A woman who had walked through the fire and learned to keep walking.
And somewhere else in the city, Mirae and Eun-woo walked into the night.
Not as enemies.
Not as lovers.
Not as tragedies.
Just as two people who survived.
Two arcs running parallel, grief and redemption, loss and healing, weaving quietly through the same sky.
___________________
The lobby was silent.
Not out of fear.
Out of reverence.
Glass walls shimmered with morning light.
Marble floors echoed with every step.
The golden emblem above the reception desk glowed
DOUBLE J CORPORATIONS
In honor of Ji-woo and Joon-ha
Five years ago, it was Kang Industries.
A kingdom built on silence and rot.
Now, it was something reborn.
A monument to truth.
A promise to memory.
An empire rebuilt by a woman who refused to let grief shrink her.
Areum stepped through the revolving doors.
Her heels clicked like a metronome of destiny.
Her black suit was sharp, her posture straight, her gaze unshakeable.
In her left hand, she held the future,
Ji-ha, now four, dressed in a tiny blazer, gripping her fingers with shy pride.
Beside her
Two secretaries.
Three guards.
Behind her
The full board of directors.
They didn't lead.
They followed.
Employees paused mid-sentence.
Interns straightened their backs.
Executives lowered their voices.
Because when Areum walked,
the building listened.
Ji-ha tugged her hand.
"Mommy, why are they all staring?"
She smiled, soft and powerful:
"Because you're walking beside history."
They reached the elevator.
The doors slid open, revealing silver words etched inside
"Built from truth.
Carried by love."
Areum turned to the board.
"Today's agenda is legacy. Let's begin."
No one dared interrupt.
Because she wasn't just the CEO.
She was the story.
The survivor.
The widow.
The mother.
The woman who rebuilt an empire from ashes and memory.
As the elevator rose, Ji-ha leaned against her leg.
"Will Daddy see us from the sky?"
She knelt, kissed his forehead.
"He already does.
That's why the sun came out today."
And somewhere above the clouds,
Joon-ha and Ji-woo watched the empire they left behind
become something beautiful.
Dear Reader,
As you turn the final page of When the Sky Forgets the Dawn, I want to say thank you, not just for reading, but for feeling this story with me.
Every heartbeat, every silence, every scar in this book means something, and the fact that you walked this journey to the end means more than words can express.
This story was born from pain, hope, and the belief that even the darkest nights eventually give way to light and you proved that by staying with it till the end.
Thank you for lending your time, your imagination, and your heart.
Until our next world, next character, next stolen breath…
— The Author
My new novel "velvet devotion" is coming out on 17th November 2025
It's not the book 2 of this novel but it includes some characters from this novel which are, Kim Ara and Detective Choi.