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Summary
“Eomma,” he breathes, leaning against the kitchen doorframe for support just in case this is some cruel, monstrous trick and he needs to recover from it in enough time to fight. But he hopes—he hopes—
His mother turns to face him, and the smile on her face is idyllic, brighter than the sunshine streaming in through the window over the kitchen sink.
“Good morning, Jaemin,” she says warmly. “Would you set the table, please?”
or, a tale from jaemin's perspective in the lost years of from the same twisted rope