Echoes of the Rain

back to reality

The days blur into each other, each one heavy with an emptiness I can’t escape. People offer their condolences, but their words feel hollow, as if they think a few kind phrases could ever heal this kind of wound. I’m not sure what I say in return—my voice feels foreign, detached from the body that moves through these days without purpose.

I keep expecting to hear his voice, to turn around and find him standing there, smiling like always. But all I’m met with is silence, a deafening quiet that fills the spaces he used to inhabit. The apartment feels colder now, though nothing has changed. His things are still where he left them, untouched, as if keeping them there will somehow bring him back.

I avoid looking at the piano. The sight of it stirs memories I can’t bear to relive. The way he would sit there, lost in his music, his fingers moving so effortlessly across the keys. I used to sit nearby, pretending not to watch him. Now, the silence around it is suffocating.

It’s harder to sleep. Every night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the things I never said. The small moments that seemed so unimportant then but now feel like lost opportunities. I wonder if he knew how much I loved him, if he ever understood how much his presence meant to me, even in the quietest moments.

But that’s the cruel thing about grief—it always leaves you with unanswered questions, regrets, and a heart full of what-ifs.

Every day feels like a battle just to breathe. Nights are the worst—no sleep, just endless hours staring at the ceiling or tossing in bed. Every time I close my eyes, I see him, Yohan, smiling at me like he always did. Our memories float in front of me—his laughter, the warmth of his hand, the way he used to say my name. But when I try to reach out, to touch him, it's all gone in an instant, like smoke dissolving in the air. I open my eyes again, and the tears are already there.

Days aren’t much better. Without work to distract me, I find myself sitting on the couch, replaying old videos of us, flipping through pictures on my phone. It’s like watching someone else’s life—a life that doesn’t feel like mine anymore. I just sit there, staring at the screen, and sometimes, I even forget to eat.

The music stopped. Silence filled the room, bringing Yuri back to the present. Her hands rested on the piano keys, swollen and aching from playing non-stop through the night. Tears streamed down her face, uncontrollable now, like a river that had been dammed for too long, finally breaking through. She had tried to keep it all in—her grief, her pain—but now it was pouring out, unstoppable.

She glanced toward the window and realized that the night had quietly slipped away. Morning light spilled into the room, casting a pale glow over everything. It was a new day, but to Yuri, it felt like nothing had changed. The weight of her loss, the emptiness left by Yohan, still pressed down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. The world was moving on, but she was stuck here, at the piano, drowning in her sorrow.

The phone rang, snapping Yuri out of her thoughts. She wiped her tears, took a deep breath, and answered.

"Hello... Yuri..." came yoonsoo's familiar voice, hesitant as ever.

"Yes, sir," Yuri replied, her tone flat and tired.

"...Ah... Today..." Yoonsoo started, his voice trailing off.

"Mr.Park, I’m taking leave today. If you're calling about the XYZ file, you can ask Miss Leena. I’ve already..." Yuri said, trying to get to the point.

"No... no... that’s not it," yoonsoo stammered. "Didn’t Mother talk to you? So... you..."

Yuri could sense the awkwardness in yoonsoo’s voice. She already knew where this was going.

"I’ve already told your mother that I’m not coming," Yuri interrupted softly but firmly.

"Yeah... Mother told me about that conversation... but please reconsider it... she’s not well, and she really wants to see you," yoonsoo pleaded, his voice quieter now.

Yuri paused, her grip tightening on the phone. She let out a soft sigh. "Why now..." she whispered to herself before speaking louder. "Okay, I’ll come."

She hung up the call, staring at the blank screen for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly, as if bracing herself for the day ahead.

"Happy birthday, Yohan," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she stood in the quiet room, her heart heavy with memories of him.

Yohan’s house felt different from how it used to be. Yuri stood at the door, taking a deep breath before knocking. A servant opened the gate, welcoming her inside with a soft smile.

The house was decorated, every corner filled with reminders of Yohan—his favorite colors draped in every banner, his favorite flowers arranged meticulously, and even the familiar scent of the house made Yuri pause. It was as if the entire place was trying to keep Yohan alive through these small details.

As she walked in, her eyes were immediately drawn to the large portrait hanging on the front wall. It was a picture of Yohan, his warm smile frozen in time, radiating from the canvas. She walked closer, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch the frame, longing to feel some connection to him again.

“How is he looking?” A familiar voice broke the silence.

Yuri turned quickly to find Yohan’s mother standing there, her face lined with grief but holding a gentle smile.