Chapter Text
Yoonchae woke up to the smell of kimchi jjigae.
For a moment, she just lay in bed, confused. Nobody in the dorm cooked Korean stew for breakfast. Sophia sometimes made eggs, Megan occasionally attempted pancakes, but never—
"Yoonchae-yah! Breakfast is ready!"
Her mother's voice.
Yoonchae sat up so fast she got dizzy. That was impossible. That was—
She stumbled out of bed, not bothering to change out of her pajamas, and ran to the kitchen. And there she was.
Her mother. Standing at the stove in their old apartment in Seoul, wearing the faded apron with the coffee stain that never quite came out. Her hair was pulled back in the messy bun she always wore when cooking. She turned when she heard Yoonchae's footsteps, and her face lit up with that smile Yoonchae hadn't seen in three years.
"There you are, sleepyhead. I thought I'd have to drag you out of bed. Come eat before it gets cold."
Yoonchae stood frozen in the doorway. This wasn't right. This couldn't be—
But her mother was ladling stew into bowls, setting them on the small table where they'd eaten countless meals together. The apartment looked exactly as Yoonchae remembered—the crack in the ceiling they'd always meant to fix, the photos on the wall, the small TV in the corner.
"Eomma?" Yoonchae's voice came out small, uncertain.
"What's wrong?" Her mother looked concerned. "Are you feeling okay? You look pale."
"I—" Yoonchae didn't know what she was trying to say. How could she explain that this was impossible? That her mother had been gone for three years? That she'd died when Yoonchae was sixteen, leaving her alone in the world?
But her mother was here. Real. Solid. Smiling at her.
Maybe Yoonchae had been the one who was confused. Maybe the past three years—KATSEYE, America, all of it—had been the dream.
"Come sit," her mother urged gently. "The stew will get cold."
Yoonchae moved on autopilot, sitting in her usual chair. Her mother placed a bowl in front of her, and the smell was so achingly familiar that Yoonchae felt tears prick her eyes.
"Why are you crying?" Her mother reached over, wiping Yoonchae's cheek with her thumb—the same gesture she'd done since Yoonchae was a little girl. "Did you have a bad dream?"
"I—I think so," Yoonchae managed. "I dreamed you were—" She couldn't finish. Couldn't say the word.
"I'm right here," her mother assured her. "Not going anywhere. Now eat. You're too skinny. Are you eating properly?"
It was so normal. So perfectly, achingly normal. Yoonchae ate her stew, and it tasted exactly like she remembered. Her mother told her about the neighbor's new cat, about the price of vegetables at the market, about the drama she'd been watching.
Yoonchae listened and responded and tried to ignore the small voice in the back of her mind whispering that something was wrong.
After breakfast, Yoonchae's mother announced they were going shopping.
"For what?" Yoonchae asked.
"It's December. We need to get you a new winter coat. That old one doesn't fit anymore."
Yoonchae looked down. She was wearing her high school uniform—the one she hadn't worn since graduation. When had she put that on?
They took the bus to the market district, and Yoonchae found herself slipping into old patterns. Walking on the outside of the sidewalk to protect her mother. Carrying the heavier bags. Pointing out which vegetables looked freshest.
Her mother held her hand as they walked, something she'd done since Yoonchae was small. "My beautiful daughter," she said, squeezing gently. "I'm so proud of you."
"I haven't done anything yet, Eomma."
"You're here. That's enough."
They spent hours browsing shops, trying on coats, laughing at the overly aggressive salespeople. It was perfect. It was everything Yoonchae had lost and mourned for three years.
But occasionally, she'd catch something out of the corner of her eye—a flicker, a shadow, a wrongness she couldn't quite name. She'd turn to look, and it would be gone.
"Are you sure you're okay?" her mother asked as they sat in a small café, warming up with hot chocolate. "You keep spacing out."
"I'm fine," Yoonchae lied. "Just tired."
"You're working too hard. You should rest more."
"I will."
Her mother reached across the table, taking Yoonchae's hand. "I worry about you, you know. You try to do everything yourself. Carry everything alone. But you don't have to. I'm here."
Yoonchae felt tears threaten again. "I know."
"Do you? Sometimes I think you forget you're not alone in this world. That you have people who love you."
"I love you too, Eomma."
Her mother smiled, but there was something sad in it. Something that made Yoonchae's chest tighten with unnamed dread.
They went home as the sun began to set, the winter sky turning purple and gold. Yoonchae helped put away groceries, then started on dinner while her mother sat at the table, reading the newspaper.
Everything was normal. Everything was perfect.
Everything was wrong.
Dinner was samgyeopsal with all the side dishes—exactly how Yoonchae's mother had always made it. They grilled the pork at the table, wrapping it in lettuce with rice and banchan, talking about nothing and everything.
"Remember when you were seven and you tried to cook this by yourself?" her mother laughed. "You nearly burned down the kitchen."
"You left me alone for five minutes," Yoonchae defended, but she was smiling.
"Five minutes too long, apparently."
They laughed together, and for a moment, Yoonchae let herself forget the wrongness, the impossibility, the dream logic that didn't quite make sense.
After dinner, Yoonchae gathered the dishes and took them to the sink. She turned on the water, squirting soap onto the sponge, and started washing.
Behind her, she heard her mother's chair scrape back. Footsteps moving toward the living room.
"I'll make us some tea," her mother called.
"Okay," Yoonchae replied, scrubbing at a stubborn piece of burned rice.
She rinsed the plate, set it in the drying rack, reached for the next dish.
Silence.
The kind of silence that wasn't just quiet—it was absence. Empty. Wrong.
Yoonchae turned around.
The kitchen was empty.
"Eomma?" she called.
No answer.
She walked into the living room. Empty.
The bedroom. Empty.
The bathroom. Empty.
Her mother was gone.
Panic started rising in Yoonchae's chest. Where had she gone? How had she disappeared so completely in the seconds it took to wash a dish?
"Eomma!" Yoonchae called louder, her voice breaking. "Eomma, where are you?"
She ran back to the kitchen, and—
Her mother was there. Standing by the stove, filling the kettle with water as if she'd been there the whole time.
"What's wrong?" her mother asked, concerned. "Why are you shouting?"
"You—" Yoonchae couldn't breathe. "You were gone. You disappeared. I looked everywhere and you were—"
"I've been right here the whole time, making tea like I said I would. Yoonchae, you're scaring me. Are you sick? Do you have a fever?"
Her mother moved toward her, reaching out to feel her forehead.
And Yoonchae stepped back.
Because something was very, very wrong.
Her mother couldn't just disappear and reappear. That wasn't possible. That wasn't real.
None of this was real.
The realization hit like a physical blow.
This wasn't real.
Her mother wasn't here.
Her mother had been dead for three years.
Yoonchae had been at the funeral. Had watched them lower the casket into the ground. Had stood alone in the rain because she had no other family, no one else to grieve with her.
Her mother had died from cancer, slowly and painfully, in a hospital bed while Yoonchae held her hand and promised she'd be okay, she'd keep going, she'd make her mother proud.
Her mother was dead.
Dead.
Gone.
This was a dream. Or a hallucination. Or she was finally, completely losing her mind.
Yoonchae's breathing became rapid and shallow. Her vision tunneled. The walls of the kitchen seemed to close in around her.
"Yoonchae?" Her mother's voice sounded far away. "Yoonchae, breathe. You're having a panic attack."
But Yoonchae couldn't breathe. Because if she breathed, if she acknowledged this, then it meant accepting that none of this was real. That she'd spent an entire day with her dead mother, talking to a ghost or a dream or a delusion.
Was she schizophrenic? Was this how it started—seeing people who weren't there, unable to distinguish reality from fantasy?
She thought about the day—every detail so vivid, so real. The smell of her mother's cooking. The warmth of her hand. The sound of her laughter.
All fake. All in her head.
Yoonchae sank to the floor, her back against the cabinet, pulling her knees to her chest. Her whole body was shaking. Silent sobs wracked her frame, though no tears came—she was too shocked, too numb for tears.
Her mother knelt in front of her, and Yoonchae couldn't even look at her. Couldn't bear to see this impossible thing, this cruelty her brain was inflicting on her.
"Look at me," her mother said gently.
Yoonchae shook her head.
"Yoonchae-yah. Please. Look at me."
Against her better judgment, Yoonchae looked up.
Her mother was smiling. That soft, knowing smile she'd had when Yoonchae was little and had just figured out something important.
"You know, don't you?" her mother asked.
Yoonchae couldn't speak. Could only nod.
"I'm sorry," her mother said. "I'm so sorry, baby. I know this is confusing. I know it hurts."
"Why?" Yoonchae finally managed, her voice breaking. "Why would my brain do this to me? Why would it let me spend a whole day thinking you were alive just to—just to—"
"To remind you," her mother interrupted gently. "Of what we had. Of how much you were loved. Of how much you still are loved."
"You're not real," Yoonchae whispered. "You're not really here."
"No," her mother agreed. "I'm not. But I was. And what we had—that was real. Your memories of me, your love for me, my love for you—that's all real. It doesn't disappear just because I did."
"I miss you," Yoonchae sobbed. "I miss you so much it hurts. Every day. Every single day I wake up and remember you're gone and it hurts just as much as the first day."
"I know, sweetheart. I know."
"I'm so tired of hurting," Yoonchae admitted. "I'm tired of pretending I'm okay. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of—" She couldn't finish.
Her mother reached out, cupping Yoonchae's face with both hands—that familiar gesture that Yoonchae had missed so desperately. "You're not alone. You have people who love you. Those girls you live with—they're your family now. They care about you. They worry about you."
"It's not the same."
"No," her mother agreed. "It's not the same. But it's still real. Still valuable. Still worth holding onto."
Yoonchae leaned into the touch, even knowing it wasn't real, even knowing she was essentially comforting herself. "I don't know how to do this without you."
"Yes, you do. You've been doing it for three years. You're stronger than you think, Yoonchae. Stronger than I ever was."
"I don't feel strong."
"Strength isn't about not hurting. It's about hurting and still getting up the next day. Still trying. Still loving people even when you know you might lose them." Her mother's thumbs wiped away tears Yoonchae didn't realize had started falling. "You are the best thing I ever did with my life. And I need you to know that it's okay to move forward. It's okay to be happy. It's okay to let other people in."
"I feel guilty," Yoonchae confessed. "When I laugh or have fun or forget about you even for a moment. It feels like betrayal."
"Oh, baby, no." Her mother pulled her into a hug, and Yoonchae buried her face in her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of her mother's perfume—gardenias and something else uniquely her. "Living isn't betraying me. Being happy isn't forgetting me. I want you to laugh. I want you to have fun. I want you to live such a full, beautiful life that sometimes you go days without thinking about me, because you're too busy being happy."
"But I don't want to forget you."
"You won't. You couldn't if you tried. I'm in every decision you make, every kindness you show, every time you cook kimchi jjigae or wear your hair in that messy bun or take care of someone else before yourself. I'm in all the good parts of you. And I always will be."
They stayed like that—Yoonchae crying into her mother's shoulder, her mother holding her and whispering comfort—until Yoonchae's tears finally slowed.
"I have to go now," her mother said softly.
"No," Yoonchae clutched her tighter. "Not yet. Please, not yet."
"You know I can't stay. This isn't how it works."
"Just a little longer. Please."
Her mother pulled back, looking at Yoonchae with such love and pride that it hurt. "You're going to be okay. Better than okay. You're going to be amazing. You already are."
"I love you, Eomma."
"I love you too, Yoonchae. So much. More than you'll ever know." She smiled then, that soft, knowing smile. "Happy birthday, baby. I wish I could be there to celebrate with you."
Yoonchae's eyes widened. In the chaos of the day, she'd forgotten—today was her birthday. December 6th. Her nineteenth birthday.
"One more thing," her mother said. "Tomorrow, when you wake up, don't keep this to yourself. Talk to someone. Let them help you carry this. Promise me."
"I promise," Yoonchae whispered.
"Good. Now close your eyes."
"Eomma—"
"Close your eyes, Yoonchae."
Yoonchae did, still holding her mother's hands.
"I'm so proud of you," her mother whispered. "I'm so, so proud. Never forget that."
Yoonchae felt her mother's hands squeeze hers one last time. Then—
Nothing.
She opened her eyes.
Yoonchae woke up in her bed in the KATSEYE dorm.
It was early—the sky outside still dark, though the faint glow on the horizon suggested dawn wasn't far off. Her clock read 5:47 AM.
December 6th. Her birthday.
For a long moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Her face felt tight—dried tears. Her throat was sore. Her body ached like she'd been tensed for hours.
The dream.
Except it hadn't felt like a dream. It had felt real. Impossibly, perfectly real.
Yoonchae sat up slowly, looking around her room. Her KATSEYE albums on the shelf. Her laptop on the desk. The hoodie Sophia had lent her draped over her chair.
Reality. This was reality.
The apartment in Seoul, her mother cooking breakfast, the day spent together—that had been the dream.
But it had felt so real.
Yoonchae raised her hand to her face, half-expecting to still smell her mother's perfume on her skin. Nothing. Just her own hand, slightly clammy from sleep.
"Eomma?" she whispered into the empty room.
No answer. Of course not. Her mother was dead. Had been dead for three years. The dream had just been her subconscious giving her one more day—one last conversation.
A gift, maybe. Or torture. Yoonchae wasn't sure which.
She felt numb. Empty. Like she'd cried out all her emotions in the dream and had nothing left for waking life.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message in the group chat:
Sophia: Happy birthday Chae! Come to the kitchen when you wake up!
Right. It was her birthday. She was nineteen now. No longer a teenager.
Her mother would have made miyeokguk—seaweed soup, traditional for Korean birthdays. They would have eaten it together in that small apartment, and her mother would have told the story of the day Yoonchae was born for the hundredth time.
But her mother wasn't here. Would never be here again.
Yoonchae sat on the edge of her bed, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. The dream had been so vivid—every detail, every word, every touch. Losing it, losing her mother again, felt like experiencing the death all over again.
She didn't cry. She was too numb for tears.
She just sat there as the sky slowly lightened outside her window, trying to understand what had happened, trying to process the impossible gift and crushing loss of spending one more day with her mother.