WRONG NUMBER | NIKI

17 - Behind the Garden Wall

HANA'S POV

Weekends at my grandfather's house have always felt like stepping into a world that operates according to rules nobody ever bothers to explain. The place is too large for the number of people who actually live in it, too quiet in some rooms and impossibly loud in others, with polished floors that reflect the afternoon sunlight and hallways that seem to stretch longer every time I walk through them. 

My parents like coming here because weekends are rarely meant to be quiet in our family. There are relatives to see, acquaintances to greet, dinners to attend, conversations to survive, and an endless rotation of people my grandfather considers important enough to deserve an entire afternoon of his attention. Leaving me at home alone would apparently be irresponsible, so I come here too, carrying my textbooks and notebooks like a small offering to the gods of academic achievement, and disappear into the library while everyone else occupies themselves downstairs. 

Normally, I don't mind it. The library has always been the one place in this house where nobody expects me to smile, shake hands, answer questions about school, or explain what I'm planning to do with my future. There are only books here, sunlight, the faint scent of old paper, and enough silence to make the rest of the world feel very far away.

Today, that is exactly what I need. I have spread my calculus notes across the enormous wooden table near the windows, three textbooks open around me and several pages of handwritten formulas arranged in the precise order I know will make sense once I start reviewing them properly. 

My two phones lie facedown near my elbow, deliberately ignored. I haven't checked them in almost two hours. For once, I don't want to know whether Jungwon has messaged me. I don't want to wonder whether Niki regrets what he said. I don't want to replay the festival or analyze every expression that crossed either of their faces until I can no longer remember what actually happened and what my imagination invented afterward. 

So I study. I memorize formulas. I solve equations. I rewrite the same difficult concept three times until it finally settles somewhere in my mind. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the noise begins to fade, and for the first time in days, neither of their names appears in the margins of my thoughts.

I am halfway through a particularly irritating calculus problem when the library doors swing open without a knock. I don't look up immediately because I recognize the footsteps before the person even reaches the table. Aera has never understood the concept of entering a room quietly, especially when she believes the room belongs to her simply because our grandfather owns the house. 

She appears beside my chair a moment later, dressed as though she has somewhere significantly more interesting to be, her hair perfectly arranged and her expression already carrying the faint irritation of someone who has discovered an inconvenience she intends to correct. Without saying hello, she reaches across the table and places her hand directly on top of the notebook I'm writing in. 

I stop mid-equation. Slowly, I lift my eyes to hers. "What are you doing?"

"I need the table."

I glance at the enormous library around us. "There's another table."

"I don't like that one." She says it as though this should settle the matter.

I stare at her for a moment before looking back down at my notes. "Then I suppose we're at an impasse." She makes a small sound of annoyance and begins moving my books aside as though my existence is an obstacle she has been assigned to remove. One textbook slides several inches across the table before I catch it with my hand. "Aera." My voice remains calm, but I can hear the warning underneath it. "What?"