The afternoon was quiet.
Mi‑un sat on the wooden floor of the house, gently rocking the child in her arms. Outside, the sun burned low, and the air felt thick and unmoving. The baby finally drifted to sleep, his tiny fingers curled loosely against her chest.
For a moment, there was peace.
Then her phone vibrated.
The sound startled her.
She glanced at the screen, expecting nothing more than another ignored notification. But the sender's name made her breath stop.
[Bank Notification]
Her fingers trembled as she opened the message.
> "We regret to inform you that the account holder MK has been officially confirmed deceased. As per his registered request, the ownership of the account and all funds has been transferred to the registered beneficiary."
She swallowed hard.
The next line appeared.
> "Beneficiary: Mi‑un."
Her vision blurred.
Another message followed, showing the balance.
The amount was more than she could process at once. Enough to live. Enough to raise a child without starving. Enough to never again fear tomorrow.
Her phone slipped from her hand and fell softly onto the wooden floor.
Mi‑un stared at nothing, her lips parting but no sound coming out.
Then she laughed.
A broken, trembling laugh that quickly turned into sobs.
Her shoulders shook as tears spilled uncontrollably, dropping onto the sleeping child's blanket.
"You're unbelievable…" she whispered through her tears.
"You really are."
She pressed her forehead against the baby's head, clutching him tightly.
"You left… and you still didn't stop taking care of us," she cried.
"Even after dying… you're still here."
Her chest hurt. Not the sharp pain of fear this time—but the deep ache of love that never faded.
Memories rushed back.
MK smiling awkwardly.
MK worrying about the future.
MK saying, "If something happens to me, I don't want you to struggle."
She had laughed back then.
Now, she couldn't breathe.
"Idiot…" she whispered.
"Why did you think of everything except yourself?"
The child stirred slightly, making a small sound. Mi‑un wiped her tears quickly, forcing herself to calm down.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, rocking him gently again. "Mama's just… grateful."
She picked up the phone once more, rereading the message again and again, as if afraid it would disappear.
This wasn't money.
It was reassurance.
It was MK saying, "You're not alone."
Mi‑un looked up at the ceiling of the wooden house, tears still streaming down her face.
"I'll protect this," she said softly.
"I'll protect him. I'll protect everything you left behind."
Outside, the wind moved through the trees, brushing against the walls like a quiet reply.
For the first time since arriving in Cambodia, Mi‑un didn't feel like she was standing on the edge of survival.
She was still broken.
Still grieving.
But now, she had somet
hing she hadn't felt in a long time.
Security.
And with it, the strength to move forward.