Work Text:
𓅯 ࿐
A silent icy gaze
Falls upon us
The drumming rain would tap against the windowpane as her fingers pressed each fold into the paper, inking grief into wings she would never release. Each crane was a sentence she could never voice, words too angry, too broken, to leave her hands.
The room was dimly lit, with only a small lamp resting on the desk bringing any light. The windows were shut, though it was as if the rain seeped through the walls and crept inside anyway.
Propped on the chair in front of her desk, Hyuna reached for another sheet of colored paper. The room was practically covered in them—white, blue, red, gold—a forest of unsent words. She had been asked about them several times before. She remembered Hyun-woo eyeing her upon taking note of the state of her room. She brushed it off, calling it a hobby she picked up to keep her hands busy.
But she knew it was more than that.
Setting the ink pen aside, Hyuna held the small red paper out with ink-smudged fingers, staring at the words with dull eyes.
You said nothing, Luka. That hurt more than lying.
Months had passed since she released the first crane, and yet her hands still remembered the shapes her heart refused to speak. She didn’t know when this all had started, or why for a matter of fact. But what she knew was that this—inking, folding, sending them out—had become a daily ritual all the same.
As if it were second nature, her fingers pressed carefully against the paper, a certain tenderness in their movements despite the tremble surging through her. The words were angry, hateful, full of buried resentment. And yet, her hands moved gently, as if composing a letter for a lover.
Finally, she set the now paper crane down, staring past it as though it weren’t there
Seven hundred and forty-two.
Before the feeling could linger for too long, she pushed herself from her seat, turning to the tall window. With a quiet sigh, she pulled back the curtains and propped the window open.
The cool night air swept in, carrying its scent and brushing against her cheek. Each drop continued to drum like the soft tune of her sorrows, a melody she had become far too familiar with.
She glanced at the crane in her hand, its paper edges trembling under her fingers. And so, as she always did, she let it slip free. The wind caught it, cradling it gently before tossing it into the storm. For a heartbeat, she imagined it carrying a fragment of her grief, drifting far enough to vanish, far enough to leave her chest lighter.
She stared out the window at the roaring storm. And then, all at once, the sun broke through, spilling golden warmth across the courtyard. The grass glistened as if washed anew, every inch covered in a soft warmth.
And sitting perched atop the grass, against a wooden oak tree, were two small kids.
A bright-eyed girl with a toothy grin nudged the boy beside her, gesturing excitedly to the tiny paper crane in her hand. He was small with messy blond hair, sucking on his sleeve absentmindedly as he leaned against her shoulder, fiddling with a bright Rubik’s Cube resting in his hand.
“Hey, Luka!” the brunette girl cheered, nudging him again. “Did you know that if you fold one thousand paper cranes, you will get any wish! Anything at all!”
The smaller boy blinked lazily, glancing at her briefly before returning his gaze to the Rubik's cube in his hand. “Hmm, is that so…”
The girl nodded vigorously, holding the crane as if it carried the weight of all her dreams. “That’s right! And I’m going to fold a thousand of them, so my wish will come true!”
That seemed to have caught his full interest, as he tilted his head, staring up at her with curious eyes.
“What will you wish for, Hyuna?”
She giggled, the sound light and bright as sunbeams dancing across the courtyard. “You’ll see!”
The two of them laughed, and for a fleeting moment, the sunlight seemed to linger just for them. It pooled over the grass and traced the edges of every fold of the small crane, as if hope itself had found home in their hands.
A crack of thunder.
She blinked, and the storm returned in full force—rain pelting the windows, gray shadows swallowing the courtyard. Peering out, all she could see was endless gloom. But if she listened closely, she could still hear the echo of laughter.
She stared out for a long moment, before closing the window with a thud and drawing the curtains tight. The small lamp on her desk flickered in the dim room as she padded to it, flicking it off with a soft click. Collapsing into her bed, she buried her face into the pillows.
Somewhere deep inside, she wished that like the paper crane, the storm could take it away—these thoughts, memories. But of course, storms could not mend hearts, nor could they erase the past. And so, as she did every night, she let herself surrender to a dreamless sleep, fingers still aching with the imprint of a thousand cranes she had yet to fold.
𓅯 ࿐
Like a fragile reed
Trembling in fear
The click of typing echoed off the walls as Hyuna finished up an email on her laptop. She stretched her arms above her head with a small groan, shoulders stiff from hours at the desk. Her gaze drifted to the wall, tracing the scattered colors of her pinned notes and stray scraps of paper, before the sharp buzzing of her phone cut through the quiet.
She glanced at the caller ID: Isaac. With a final stretch, she picked up, pressing the phone to her ear.
“Hello—”
“Hey, Hyuna! What’s up, my dude! How—”
The line filled with muffled shoving sounds, indistinct murmurs, and a faint protest that made her frown before the connection finally cleared.
“Fucking hell,” Isaac’s voice rumbled, clicking his tongue. “Yeah, sorry about that. That meathead is totally wasted. Grabbed my phone before I could even—oh, fuck off, Dewey!”
Hyuna chuckled softly, shaking her head. “It’s no problem. What’s up?”
He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I just wanted to ask what you’re up to.”
Hyuna hummed, leaning back in her chair. “I was just finishing up some emails. Why?”
Silence.
She narrowed her eyes, already sensing something. Then, as if reading his mind, she blurted, “Okay. Spit it out. What’s going on?”
A deep sigh, then a short pause.
“Listen, Hyuna. Everyone’s worried about you.”
Ah. That.
“You haven’t been going out with any of us—hell, you barely answer my calls anymore,” Isaac added, the concern threading his voice.
There was another pause.
“It’s just… ever since what happened with—”
“I’m fine, Isaac,” she cut him off, harsher than she intended. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
She didn’t need to see his face to know exactly what expression he was wearing. A frown crept across her face.
She felt it. That sharp, familiar pang of guilt. She knew she was shutting everyone out, letting the world narrow to the four walls of her room. Each missed call, each ignored message, felt like a small fracture she couldn’t repair—proof that even if she didn't want to, she was slowly drifting away from the people who cared.
The familiar weight settled in her chest, an aching weight that seemed to never disappear. But before she could say anything, that deep voice came again, softer this time.
“Listen... I’m always here for you, you know. If you ever need anything or just someone to talk to, I'm here. Don't ever feel like you have to deal with this alone.”
Hyuna felt her eyes go wide. It was the tone of his voice, gentle yet threaded with care. Yet at the same time, there was an almost bashful edge to his words.
Before she knew it, a soft, genuine laugh slipped out—the first one in months. Because no matter what act he put up, in the end Isaac really was just a softie.
“I’m fine, you idiot,” she said, chuckling softly. “Now stop acting like you have a pole up your ass.”
There was a scoff, though Hyuna could tell there was no real annoyance behind it. “Glad to see you still have your humor.”
She snorted, and a comfortable silence followed.
Hyuna smiled, a small, subtle curve of her lips. “So… talk to you later?”
“Sure.” A pause. “That is, if you ever pick up your damn phone.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, you asshole.”
A few chuckles and quips were exchanged, light and fleeting, before the call ended. Hyuna set her phone down.
The warmth lingered for just a heartbeat.
Then—silence. Heavy silence.
The drumming of rain against the windows filled the room, louder somehow, sharper. Alone again, the walls of the room pressed closer. Suddenly, it felt suffocating. The warmth of laughter lingered in her ears, a cruel reminder of how distant she had made herself from the world.
And as she turned slightly, that’s when she caught it—her own reflection staring back from the mirror. The shadows under her eyes had deepened, too noticeable to ignore. Her cheeks looked hollow, the subtle evidence of skipped meals and long, restless nights. For a moment, she half expected to see another figure behind her. But of course, that wasn’t possible.
Still, she couldn’t help but think—the reflection looked less and less like her these days.
She was alone.
She blinked, forcing herself away, but the image lingered like a quiet accusation.
I’m fine, she had said. Just tired, that's all.
She wasn’t sure anymore who she was trying to convince.
Before the heaviness could settle once again, a soft ping broke the stillness. Her phone lit up, the glow cutting through the dim room.
Your package has been delivered.
Hyuna blinked, the words taking a moment to sink in before realization flickered across her face.
Right. Her package.
Without missing a beat, she pushed herself from her chair and stood, stretching her stiff legs before grabbing her coat. The air in her room felt heavy, too still, and for a moment she almost didn’t want to open the door.
But she did.
The storm greeted her instantly, roaring and relentless. The sound of rain filled the world, drumming against the porch, the wind biting at her face. A heavy storm with no rainbow in sight. She wondered if it would ever appear.
Ignoring the downpour, she stepped forward, the cold seeping into her slippers as she bent to pick up the small package at her doorstep. Just as she turned to go back inside, something brushed against her foot.
She froze.
Slowly, she looked down.
A paper crane lay there.
It was drenched, wings wilted, the once sharp folds curling at the edges. She blinked, rain trickling down her chin. Maybe it was the same one she had released before? Somehow carried here by the wind? Sure, her room’s window was on the opposite side, and that had never happened before—but maybe it could.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, crouching to pick it up, her fingers trembling slightly as the wet paper stuck to her skin. She turned it over once, twice, studying the fragile shape. And then she saw it—a small blot of red ink bleeding through the paper.
Red.
She never used red ink.
Something sank deep in her chest. The kind of weight that comes before realization.
With hesitant fingers, she unfolded the crane.
Her heart dropped.
The package slipped from her grasp, tumbling down the steps with a hollow thud. She staggered back until her spine met the door with a harsh thud. The storm raged on, but all she could hear was the echo of her own violent heartbeat.
There, in the center of the paper, written in smeared ink and handwriting she knew too well:
I’m sorry.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, louder than the thunder.
It couldn’t be—surely not. It had to be a coincidence.
Except she knew. She had memorized that handwriting—the soft curves of each letter, the way the pen always pressed a little too hard at the start of every word. She had memorized it in the countless love letters still tucked away in her drawer.
Letters she should have let go of long ago.
She read it.
Again.
Again.
As if repetition could change the words. As if, somewhere between the lines, she’d find an explanation, a reason—something to slow the pounding in her chest, something to make it make sense.
But there was nothing.
Her stomach twisted. A wave of nausea hit so suddenly it blurred her vision. The world tilted; she stumbled back, her shoulder slamming against the wall.
She didn’t feel it. Not really. Her eyes stayed locked on the ink, on the way the rain had smudged it just enough to make it ache.
Her throat burned. Something inside her cracked.
Before she could stop herself, her fingers moved. She violently tore the paper apart, shredding it into damp fragments, scattering them into the storm. The wind caught them instantly, carrying them into the dark.
Without missing a beat, she turned and slammed the door shut. The package lay forgotten outside. The sound of rain pressed against the glass, washing away the last pieces of paper.
Hyuna buried her face into her knees, breath trembling. Why now? she thought. After everything—why now? She wanted to believe it was just the storm, just some cruel trick of the wind. But deep down, she knew. The ache in her chest told her she always had.
Outside, thunder rolled again, low and unending.
And still, no rainbow in sight.
𓅯 ࿐
The gentle wind
Sways and dances
As breath sinks deep
More cranes began to appear.
It had been weeks since the first soaked one arrived at her doorstep, and since then, they had kept coming. It started as one. Then another. Then another. Days blurred into each other, and soon, she stopped trying to keep count.
Sometimes it felt like weeks had passed. Sometimes, just one long day that never ended.
Each one was damp, the paper wrinkled and heavy, smudged with ink that bled like bruises. Etched with that writing she knew too well. So well that it ached.
Each one carried words. Short. Desperate. Fraying at the edges. Each more apologetic than the last.
Please listen.
I never meant to hurt you.
Do you still think of me?
She threw them out. Burned them. Tore them apart. But every morning, without fail, there would be another. Waiting. Perched by the window. By the door. On the desk beside her bed.
Sometimes, when she unfolded one, the paper was still warm, as if someone had just been holding it.
With each crane, another crack formed. With each word, something inside her wilted. It was only a matter of time before she shattered completely. Before she broke.
She was breaking.
There was a harsh thud as Hyuna sank to the floor, knees colliding with the cold wood. Her body trembled, the air too thick to breathe. She pressed her palms to her ears, but it didn’t help. The ringing wouldn’t stop. The ache wouldn’t stop.
Every breath came out in gasps, choked sobs that sounded foreign in her own throat.
Her room was drowning in cranes. The bed. The desk. The floor. They had consumed her. Each one a fragment of something she didn’t want to remember, yet couldn’t forget. They rustled when she moved, soft wings brushing her ankles. A paper ocean that wouldn’t stop growing. They filled the air like ghosts. They wrapped around her heart like vines. Tight. Unrelenting. Suffocating.
Outside, the storm raged louder than ever, battering against the windows like it wanted in. The wind howled through the cracks, carrying whispers she couldn’t bear to hear. Glass glittered on the floor where the mirror had once stood. She hadn’t meant to break it. She just couldn’t bear to see her reflection anymore. The girl who stared back had hollow eyes and trembling hands of someone she didn’t recognize. Someone who looked far too much like loss.
And for a second, she thought she saw him behind her reflection, standing where the glass had cracked.
So, she did what she always did.
She folded. Folded. Folded.
As if the right crease could make it stop. As if paper could be an answer.
Until her hands remembered what her heart refused to say.
Until the paper softened under her fingertips, and her breath grew shallow.
She folded to silence the voices, to stitch herself together in creases and edges.
She folded because stopping meant remembering, and remembering meant facing what was gone.
Because that’s all she could do. Fold her grief into paper cranes and pretend they were something beautiful.
But they weren’t. They were just grief, wearing borrowed wings.
𓅯 ࿐
With quiet longing
And without a word
You'll embrace
The sea that stings
Hyuna stood before the window, a small paper crane resting in her trembling hands. The harsh wind slipped through the open frame, tugging at her hair until it danced wildly around her face. She didn’t flinch. She just stood there, as if carved from the storm itself.
The world outside was drowning—rain against glass, thunder curling through the air like something alive. Her room behind her was no better: cranes scattered across the floor, bottles tipped over, shards of glass still glittering where the mirror had fallen. A monument to everything she couldn’t let go.
Her gaze dropped to the crane, its fragile wings trembling against her skin. For a moment, she almost frowned. Then, she opened her hand.
The wind took it.
Lifted it gently at first, then all at once, pulling it into the storm’s open mouth.
She watched the crane tumble through the storm, the heavy downpour dragging its wings down. Her unblinking, glassy stare followed its each movement.
Until something stirred within her.
Before she could think, her feet were moving. She was out the door in seconds, chasing the small crane. Her bare feet slapped against the flooded ground, rain clawing at her skin, hair plastered to her face. Still, she didn’t stop.
She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to follow. The crane danced ahead of her, tumbling and twisting in the merciless storm.
It should have fallen apart by now. It was only paper.
And yet, somehow, it kept flying.
She ran faster. Past the yard, past the rusted gates, past the wild garden tangled with weeds. Rain plastered her hair to her face, water dripping into her eyes, stinging. She ran until the world blurred, until her feet screamed with every step. Still, she didn’t stop.
And then, it came into view.
A small, abandoned place she knew too well.
The rehearsal room.
Their rehearsal room.
The crane hovered, twisting in the wind, before slipping through the narrow crack of the door. Hyuna paused, heart hammering in her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to turn, to run back home. And yet, something deeper, unexplainable, pulled her forward.
The door creaked on its hinges. Hyuna blinked, adjusting to the darkness. Lightning flashed, illuminating the shards of broken glass on the floor, the crooked chairs, the dust motes dancing across the old piano, along with a single violin.
The door was forgotten behind her, swinging slightly with a heavy thud, the thunder momentarily filling the silence.
She took a cautious step forward, nearly tripping over her own trembling feet. A violent shiver surged through her body, breath hitching in her throat.
They carpeted the floor, each one dry as if preserved by some impossible, unseen hand. Their wings still held shape, and they swayed when she moved, as if the room itself was breathing.
Slowly, she sank to her knees, trembling, soaked to the bone. And there—it called to her
A single crane, a deep, vivid purple, standing out among the muted group.
She reached for it with shaking fingers, each touch sending a shiver through her chest. Tucked into the paper wing is a folded piece of paper, rustling slightly. Hyuna reaches for it, carefully unfolding it with trembling hands.
Her eyes landed on the paper.
It was a musical sheet.
Each handwritten note danced across the page in familiar writing. Little scribbles filled the margins: words crossed out, melodies rewritten, as if someone had been chasing perfection they already found.
It didn’t take a musician to know one thing—it was composed from love.
And, written on the very top, in soft, unsteady letters:
Wiege.
Her hands trembled so violently the page quivered in her grasp. Afraid she would tear it, she set it down gently and reached again for the purple crane.
With slow, aching care, she unfolded it. Inside, in the same handwriting, the one same one she had engraved in her heart:
Your existence was my cradle.
She stared for a long moment.
Then, a single drop trickled down, staining the paper and smudging the ink. Her body shook violently, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to choke back any sound she might make.
She folded in on herself, cradling the small crane and music sheet close to her chest. Her voice came out in a broken sob.
“Oh, Luka.”
A single crane fluttered, but the air was still.
𓅯 ࿐
Wings drenched in longing
Unfold at last
Like a fragile sprout
Too small to hold
Every paper crane held a fragment of her—words too sharp, too shattered to voice, folded into wings that trembled with everything she had never said. Everything she had longed to say. Every crease, a heartbeat she couldn’t catch; every wing, a sorrow she couldn’t release. But now, this one might carry the words she had buried for so long.
Hyuna sat on her usual spot at the desk, her body still. The world around her was held in the quiet rhythm of falling rain. She stared down at the colored sheet. The last colored sheet.
It was different from all the others. Among the hundreds she had folded, this one shone a deep, radiant purple, with a subtle metallic glint that caught the light. She clutched the pen, nails pressing into her palm, her heart thrumming with all the things she had waited so long to say. All the things she had yet to say.
But at last, she wrote what her heart had been whispering all along.
Her pen kissed the paper with deliberate care. Every line, every curve, was slower, gentler than before. She would press so hard before, splattering ink in frustration; now, she let each stroke breathe. Each word folded into the paper with intention, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken confessions.
She set the pen down and began folding.
Her fingers trembled as they traced the edge of the paper. She took her time, handling every crease with deliberate care. This crane was not just paper. It was a vessel for all the words she had buried, all the apologies she had swallowed, all the love she had held in silence. And so she folded it as if she could fold the storm itself into something small, fragile, and true. Every crease, every fold, carried the echoes of a thousand unspoken apologies, a thousand words that would never be heard again. And now, this one held them all.
When the last crease was made, she held it in her palms, cradling it like the most delicate thing in the world.
One thousand.
Hyuna rose, heart still hammering in her chest as she moved to the window. She pushed it open. Outside, the storm had softened, the wind now a gentle exhale against her face, carrying the faint shimmer of rain. Light broke through in small streaks.
She looked down at the crane, a fragile weight in her hands, and exhaled. A small, broken laugh escaped, tinged with everything she had carried for so long. “You really were my greatest weakness,” she murmured, a wistful, almost sorrowful sheen in her eyes.
Her chest ached as though it had been holding centuries of rain. Every breath felt borrowed. Every heartbeat a plea. She pressed her lips to the wing, and then, finally, she let go.
The crane floated, swaying in the soft breeze, light tracing its wings like memory itself taking flight. The rain had softened to a gentle shimmer, and in the distance, a rainbow arched across the sky. The crane was more than paper—it was the echo of all she had wanted to say, finally free.
And as it hovered there, carrying her whispers, her grief, her love, the words within whispered back to the world:
You can rest now, Luka. I forgive you.
𓅯 ࿐
Scattered sorrow
Sways and dances
As dawn rises
Unshaken and sure
And without a word
You'll embrace
The sea that sings
Sunlight spilled through the open windows, bathing the room in a gentle, golden glow. Outside, birds chirped softly, their songs threading through the warmth of the morning.
On the floor, a small girl sat, messy brown hair tied into a loose ponytail. Her brows were furrowed in concentration as she folded colored sheets with tiny, determined hands. Her lips pressed together, a quiet seriousness etched across her face.
Beside her, a young boy with features almost identical to hers yawned, tossing his ball lazily before glancing at her and huffing. He crossed his arms with mock exasperation.
“Are you still making those birds, Noona?” he whined, kicking at the floor.
“Shush!” she snapped, eyes not leaving her paper. “They are cranes, you dummy. And this is very serious business. You’re just jealous I’ll get my very own wish.”
The boy scrunched his nose, then gave up, stretching out on the floor with a groan. “Speaking of wishes… what are you even going to wish for, Noona? A castle made of cake? A giant dinosaur? It has to be something like that if you’re working this hard.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and let out a soft, bubbling giggle before returning to her work.
“Luka… he’s so small. He’s always getting lost,” she murmured, pressing her tiny fingers carefully along the folds of the paper.
When the last crease was set, she held the crane delicately in both hands, her eyes shining with pride and something softer, something tender. A wide grin spread across her face.
“I wish that… whenever he gets lost, even in the scariest storm… he will always find his way back to me.”
The small paper crane caught the light, wings trembling in her hands. It gleamed, almost alive.
It almost looked like it could fly.