Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I. Winter
The woman in the yellow jacket

The studio was covered in that artificial gloom that only exists in places where time is measured in rhythms and not minutes. The lights on the main panel shone like a small domestic firmament; green and blue bars rising and falling to the beat of pre-recorded vocals, buttons that remained on with almost mocking patience, and cables tangled like sleeping snakes. Zoey sat in front of the console, headphones covering her ears, her body leaning slightly forward, as if getting a little closer might force the song she was listening to confess its secrets.

She played the chorus again, her brow furrowed with concentration, while her left leg bounced eagerly on the chair.

It was a good song, no doubt about it. But it wasn't her best, in Zoey’s opinion. Catchy without being vulgar, rhythmic without losing its elegance. The girls' voices in the recording intertwined with impeccable harmony: young, confident, and full of that bright ambition possessed only by those who haven't yet been bitten by the fear of failure. Technically, there was nothing else to correct. Every percussion hit was exactly where it should be. Every breath had been polished, measured, almost choreographed to perfection. Every tone carefully crafted to hit the right notes to attract the target audience, to charm new fans.

And yet…

Zoey bit her lip.

There was an absence, an invisible crack. Something she couldn't name, and for that very reason, it was unbearably noisy and annoying. Like a perfectly tidy room where someone had taken the chairs: nothing seemed wrong at first glance when you enter… until you tried to sit down.

She rewound a few seconds and listened again. But after a while, closed her eyes.

“What am I missing?” she murmured to herself, as if the song might answer and point her to the right direction.

Perhaps she was being unfair to the song and to the poor new group who were preparing for their debut. Or worse, she was just being very too Zoey, that version of herself who was never satisfied with her own work, who found faults even in the applause and praise she received. She sighed wearily and finally took off her headphones, letting them fall around her neck. The silence of the studio overwhelmed her with a strange, almost physical weight.

She rubbed her eyes with her fingers, pressing her temples. She thought about the lead producer, his raised eyebrow when she asked—again—to move the release dates. She thought about the emails, the meetings, the looks that said, "This is done, Zoey, let it go." And maybe they were right. Maybe she should just let it go. Not everything had to hurt to be good, and many of her colleagues at Sunlight claimed this was some of her best work. A guaranteed hit. Maybe she could even get a nice royalty bonus out of it.

But all of that left a bad taste in her mouth because she didn't actually feel that it was one of her best works. And if it was, what did that say about everything she had done before?

She was about to put the headphones back on when a vibrant, insistent sound cut through the air.

Zoey turned her head, catching a glimpse of her phone, abandoned on the dark sofa across the studio, gleaming brazenly in the dim light as it vibrated with the sound of an incoming call. Almost instinctively, she glanced up at the clock on the wall, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Oh, no, no, no…” she muttered. “Shit.”

She jumped to her feet and hurried across the room, zigzagging between misplaced chairs, treacherous cables, and lecterns that seemed to have conspired against her. She tripped over a chair leg, recovered with an awkward but determined movement, and finally reached the sofa, snatching the phone just before it stopped vibrating.

“Hey!” she greeted enthusiastically, her breath ragged as if she had run a mini marathon. “Jagiya, hi!”

The answer came immediately, with that voice that Zoey knew so well that she could imagine the expression that accompanied it.

“Zoey,” Mira said curtly, though an invisible smile slipped through the words. “It’s late.”

Zoey made a face that no one saw, sticking her tongue out like a child caught doing something wrong.

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” she replied, already walking back to the console while grabbing her bag from the back of a chair. “Time got away from me. There was a creative ambush right when I was about to go earlier; I didn’t have a chance to defend myself.”

On the other side, she could almost hear Mira's sigh.

“Of course. A real tragedy.”

Zoey laughed softly, with that humor she used as a shield against guilt. She began gathering her things with chaotic energy. Her notebook full of musical scribbles and half-finished lyrics, a couple of chewed pencils, a half-empty water bottle, her hat and jacket. Everything ended up in her bag without any apparent order.

“The song is amazing,” she said, as if that explained everything. “It really is. But there’s something… I don’t know what it is but I feel like it’s watching me from some dark corner and laughing at me.”

“The song or yourself?” Mira asked, with affectionate irony. In the background, the kitchen timer that Mira always kept near the oven and that Zoey knew well could be heard.

“Both,” Zoey admitted without hesitation. “It’s toxic for sure, but productive nonetheless.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder, turned off the main monitor, and the studio grew even quieter, as if it too were preparing for sleep. As she walked toward the door, Zoey lowered her voice slightly, suddenly softer.

"Is everything alright at home?"

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. Not heavy, but long enough for Zoey to notice.

“Yes,” Mira finally replied. “We’re waiting for you to start.”

Zoey smiled, a small gesture but full of love.

“I’m on my way,” she assured. “I promise not to get caught up in any other rebel song.”

“You’d better,” Mira retorted, “or I’ll have to go there and drag you back.”

Zoey laughed in response, closing the studio door behind her. She walked down the long corridor, phone still pressed to her ear, listening to Mira recount how her day had ended, her bag swinging against her hip, her mind finally beginning to slow down. At this hour, Sunlight Entertainment’s building reminded Zoey of an abandoned cathedral; too vast for so few steps, too quiet for so many stories brewing within its walls.

“Do you want me to bring something for dinner?” she asked then, stopping in front of the elevator and pressing the button with her knuckle. “I can stop by that place you like, the one that insists on burning garlic like it’s an art concept and putting more spice on the meat than is healthily recommended.”

On the other end of the line, Mira's laughter manifested itself like a light turning on.

“If you can survive a full day in the studio, you can survive a little spice,” she declared. “Bring whatever you want, yeobo. Just make sure you get here, that’s enough.”

Zoey smiled, that intimate smile that needed no witnesses.

“Then I’ll go myself, limited edition,” she joked. “See you in—”

The elevator's soft ding interrupted their goodbye. Zoey murmured a final "I love you," hung up with almost ceremonial care, and slipped her phone into her purse just as the doors opened. Stepping inside, she pressed the parking garage floor button, and as soon as the doors began to close, she leaned against the metal wall with a long, deep sigh, the kind that seemed to carry the weight of the entire day. She let her head fall back for a moment, eyes closed, allowing herself that split second of genuine exhaustion.

It didn't last long.

Just moments later, the elevator stopped again. The doors opened on another floor, and the air changed. Zoey straightened up immediately, almost reflexively, as if someone had called her name aloud to get her attention. The woman who entered needed no introduction.

Kang Celine.

CEO of Sunlight Entertainment, or rather, its founder. A living legend of the industry. The kind of person whose name was pronounced with a slight adjustment in posture and a respectful pause before speaking. Tall, impeccably dressed even in the weirdest scenarios, with a bearing that didn't shout authority, but rather assumed it as a natural fact of the universe. And above all, she was Zoey's idol throughout her childhood and teenage years.

Zoey felt her smile appear a second before she could consciously decide to do so, nervous but polite, and she lowered her gaze just enough.

Celine entered unhurriedly, phone in hand, her fingers scrolling automatically across the screen. She glanced up mid-movement, raised an eyebrow upon recognizing Zoey, and nodded slightly in greeting.

“Working late, Miss Choi?”

The question didn't sound accusatory, more like curious.

“Yes, ma’am,” Zoey replied quickly, clearing her throat. “Final adjustments. You know how it is.”

“Yes,” Celine said, with a tired half-smile, as she pressed the parking button despite it being marked. More of a reflex than a conscious act. “I know it very well.”

The elevator resumed its descent with a soft murmur. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of the mechanism and the cold glow of the lights reflecting off the metal walls. Zoey kept her hands clasped in front of her, her back straight, but her mind—treacherous as ever—began to take notice of a few things. Without intruding, without judging. Simply…observing.

Unlike so many other times Zoey had seen her up close, Celine looked exhausted. It wasn't the polished tiredness of a long day at work, nor the elegant weariness that came after interviews or meetings. This was real, ingrained in the way her shoulders slumped forward just an inch more than usual, in how her gaze kept returning to her phone screen as if waiting for something that never seemed to arrive. The older woman's furrowed brow wasn't a sign of anger, but rather a mixture of suppressed worry and unresolved decisions. In that moment, she looked older than her years.

“The new group sounds promising,” Celine suddenly remarked, without taking her eyes off the phone “I’ve heard their progress and listening a few songs. Good job.”

Zoey blinked, surprised.

"Y-yes! Yes! Thank you, ma'am. The girls have worked very hard," she affirmed.

“It shows,” Celine replied, finally putting her phone in the inside pocket of her coat. “And so do you, and the rest of the team. I’m sure it will all pay off very soon.”

Zoey bowed her head slightly, an automatic gesture of respect and embarrassment.

“I do what I can.”

“You do more than that,” Celine replied simply, as if stating an irrefutable fact.

Silence settled in again, this time less tense, more human. The elevator descended floor by floor, and Zoey felt the initial stiffness in her body gradually loosen.

She inhaled carefully.

“If you’ll allow me the intrusion…” she said, clearing her throat. “How is Mi-Yeong nim? I heard she’s been unwell.”

The question hung between them for a moment, delicate, sincere, but loaded with meaning.

Ryu Mi-Yeong was a member of Sunlight Entertainment's board of directors, a lifetime position she held as one of the company's founders. She had also been Celine's wife for many, many years; remaining as one of the most stable couples in the industry.

Mi-Yeong was the embodiment of simplicity and joy, always concerned for her employees and someone who never seemed to have a negative word to say. Her absence in recent weeks hadn't gone unnoticed, though it wasn't entirely unexpected. For some unknown reason, every October, Mi-Yeong's public appearances were significantly reduced, and her presence at the company became almost nonexistent. Rumors about the reasons for this were rampant; as always, people loved a good gossip and exchange conspiracy theories, though no one had a concrete answer as to the real reasons for the ex-idol absence.

Zoey's concern was genuine at that moment, although treacherous curiosity was gently pushing in one direction, eager to know more about one of her idols.

Celine turned her face toward her for the first time since she'd walked in. Her professional sternness softened just enough to be honest, but she remained firm. If anyone was particularly jealous and protective of Mi-Yeong, it was Celine; no one who knew them could deny it.

“She’s fine,” she replied after a brief pause. “Just taking some time to recover from a nasty flu, but she’s holding up well.”

Zoey nodded, understanding more than what was said. Dealing with personal stuff and trying to keep it together.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she added warmly. “We admire her very much at home and always wish her well.”

A genuine, albeit small, smile crossed Celine's face.

“Thank you, Miss Choi. That… means more than you know.”

The elevator let out one last ding as it reached the parking garage. The doors opened slowly, letting in the cooler air and the faint scent of concrete and motor.

“Have a good night,” Celine said, taking a step forward.

“Good night,” Zoey replied, with a slight reverence.

Celine stepped out without looking back, her figure disappearing among the rows of cars like an elegant, weary shadow. Zoey remained inside the elevator for another second, motionless, before exhaling slowly, a strange sensation throbbing in her chest.

///

The car stopped in front of the house with a mechanical sigh, as if it too were grateful to have reached its destination. Zoey turned off the engine and, before even getting out, reached for the passenger seat, urgently rescuing with almost dramatic fervor, the tub of ice cream she had bought on the way. She held it to her chest as if it were a fragile treasure, mortally threatened by time

“Hang on,” she murmured with exaggerated solemnity. “You’ve survived the traffic. Don’t give up now.”

She got out of the car and walked briskly, almost jogging, along the path that led to the entrance. The night air was cool and clean, the kind of freshness that clears your head and makes the hustle and bustle of the city seem distant, almost irrelevant. The house stood before her, solid and silent: two stories with elegant lines, a high wall that blocked the view inside and protected privacy as if by design. Ostentatious, yes, but not out of vanity, but necessity.

It was the kind of house you buy when the world has become too noisy and you need peace and quiet in your life.

Zoey always fondly remembered the moment she and Mira first saw it. They hadn't hesitated for a second before signing the purchase agreement. They had talked at length about space, about safety, about a place where a little girl could run without fear and sleep soundly. A home where peace wasn't an occasional luxury, but a daily reality. A refuge far from the perpetual noise of industry, the bright lights and the expectations. This house was the embodiment of many of their dreams.

She inserted the key, unlocked the door, and stepped inside carefully, her movements practiced to avoid making too much noise. The entrance hall greeted her with its usual tranquility. Warm light, walls adorned with a few but meaningful photographs, the soft echo of a home lovingly inhabited.

A small shadow moved quickly towards the corner at the end of the hallway. It was barely visible, a mere whisper in the quiet house.

Zoey smiled immediately.

“Hey, my little detective,” she said quietly, setting the bag of ice cream aside and crouching down without a second thought.

Peeking out from around the corner, with half her body hidden behind the wall, was the light of Mira and Zoey's lives: their sweet little Rumi.

Rumi was a little girl with dark, straight hair that fell in a slightly disheveled way across her face, so similar to Zoey's that sometimes it hurt to look at her without smiling. Her large, warm brown eyes observed everything with careful attention, as if they were measuring the world before entrusting it with their weight. She was small for her six years, thin, with that slightly hunched posture that betrayed an early childhood spent dealing with the world defensively.

Zoey and Mira had known her long before she could officially call her their daughter, when she was just four years old. She knew her from the first visits to the orphanage, from the endless forms, the difficult conversations, and the glances filled with silent promises. She knew—because she had been told and because she had felt it— that Rumi had spent her early years learning not to ask for too much, not to take up too much space and to render herself invisible when necessary. Something similar to what both Zoey and Mira had experienced during their respective childhoods, although in a much different, more painful, and lonely version.

And yet, there she was. Looking at Zoey with bright eyes. Hesitating slightly, but slowly making her way in a world that smiled and accepted her a little more each day.

Zoey opened her arms, without moving much further, without intruding. She smiled with that mixture of tenderness and humor that she had learned to use as a bridge.

“Is it too late for my daily quota of hugs, or am I still in time?” she said playfully before adding solemnly, “I brought you your favorite ice cream as my small peace offering for being late to movie night. Extra chocolate and sprinkles, but don’t tell your mama, okay?”

Rumi looked down for a moment. Her small fingers gripped the edge of the wall as though she still needed something to anchor her. The silence stretched for barely another heartbeat. Then, as if she had made a brave decision, Rumi emerged from her hiding place. She ran towards Zoey with timid yet determined steps, clinging to her neck and wrapping her small arms around her. She still seemed surprised by her own boldness.

Zoey received her instantly, closing her arms around her with almost reverential care. She stood up with the girl still clinging to her neck, turning her gently, restrainedly a couple of times, while kissing her hair again and again.

“Oof, I needed this,” she muttered against the top of the child’s head. “Everything alright with my little detective today? Did your therapy session with Dr. Moon went well?”

In response, Rumi clung a little tighter, burying her face in Zoey's neck. She didn't say anything —she never really did— but there was no need to.

It had taken a long time for them to reach this point where Rumi offered them displays of affection openly. Months of measured gestures, of respecting silences, of learning when to retreat and when to stay. Physical contact had been delicate territory from the start, conquered with infinite patience and unconditional love. That's why Zoey valued each hug as if it were the first, treasuring it as if each one were a renewed promise.

“I missed you,” Zoey whispered, not asking for a response, just letting the words exist.

Rumi didn't reply, but her small body relaxed slightly in her arms, and for Zoey, that said it all.

Zoey closed the door with her foot, with the practiced clumsiness of someone who'd done it a thousand times, and stepped inside with Rumi still clinging to her neck, picking up the bag of ice cream along the way. Each step was careful, not out of fear of tripping, but out of respect for the small, trusting weight she carried. The hallway opened onto the kitchen like a luminous invitation, and from there wafted warm aromas. Butter, vanilla, something sweet that had the unmistakable scent of home.

“I have a special delivery with me, ma’am,” Zoey announced loudly and playfully firmly when she enter, as if she were reporting a military achievement.

Rumi didn’t join, but she raised her head a little, curious, and that was enough to make Zoey smile even more.

The kitchen was bathed in a soft, inviting light, and Mira stood before the oven, using thick gloves to remove a tray of freshly baked cookies. Warm steam rose as she opened the door, carrying that aroma that seemed capable of repairing any bad day. Mira looked up just in time to see them enter.

Her focused expression changed instantly.

First came the gentle surprise, then the recognition, and finally that broad, open smile that only Zoey truly knew. Without a word, she placed the tray on the counter and, in two long, determined strides, crossed the kitchen.

“Hey you,” Mira said, her voice low and affectionate, as if she didn’t want to break the spell. “What do you mean, ‘ma’am’? I’m not that old you know…”

Zoey didn't have time to answer before Mira leaned in and gave her a short, warm kiss, right on the lips. It was a simple, everyday gesture, imbued with a quiet intimacy that needed no explanation. Zoey smiled as they pulled away.

“Okay… Hello, my star chef,” she replied. “It smells dangerously good in here.”

“My special bribe to get you to come home,” Mira replied, amused.

Rumi watched the scene with silent attention, her eyes darting from one to the other, absorbing every gesture. Mira smiled at her too, a different smile, softer, more patient.

“Hey, little one,” she said, gently touching her back. “Have you finished playing in your room, or would you like to continue a little longer?”

Rumi pouted a little, but didn't leave Zoey's side. That small detail was answer enough.

Zoey rested her forehead against Mira's for a second, sharing a tired but satisfied smile.

“Are you okay?” Mira asked then, pulling Zoey towards her by the waist.

“It was a long day,” she confessed. “But everything is in order now.”

Mira nodded, understanding perfectly.

“Go sit down,” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready. And if you don’t leave now, someone…” she looked at them both with mock severity “is going to start stealing cookies early.”

Zoey raised her eyebrows and gasped in fake offense.

“I would never do something like that.”

Rumi let out a soft laugh then, short but genuine, which brought sweet smiles to Zoey and Mira's faces. The house, filled with light, aromas, and beloved presences, seemed to sigh with them.

///

November arrived with a pale, almost timid light, as if the sun were tentatively approaching the start of winter. The central square that first weekend was packed with people, and yet it didn't feel chaotic. It was a joyful bustle, rounded out by laughter, distant music, and the steady murmur of voices mingling with the jingle of makeshift stalls. Colorful pennants crisscrossed the gray sky, and Zoey was pretty sure that something important was being celebrated today… something she, of course, had completely forgotten

Mira had explained it to her during the week. Several times. With dates, with historical context, and even with enthusiasm about the contribution Sunlight was apparently making to the festival and the choreographic arrangements she had made with the novice groups that would be giving free performances.

Zoey, of course, didn't remember any of that.

“It’s the annual fair of—” Mira had begun that morning once again, her voice patient ever patience.

Rumi had listened attentively, her eyes fixed on Mira's, captivated by every word her mama spoke. But Zoey became distracted mid-speech as she buttoned the little girl's coat and mentally hummed a new song to herself.

And that was that.

In any case, the reason for the fair was the least important thing for the composer.

They walked slowly, unhurriedly, Rumi between them, holding Mira's hand. The girl wore a thick coat that almost made her look smaller, a tightly wrapped scarf, and her cheeks were red from the cold. Her eyes, on the other hand, were bright and alert, darting from one spot to another as if trying to take in the whole world at once.

Hoop games, target shooting and food stalls that perfumed the air with hot sugar and cinnamon. Everything had been carefully chosen, approved beforehand by Rumi's therapist as a stimulating but safe environment for her, full of small opportunities to explore without pressure and interact with other people.

And Rumi, to Zoey and Mira's relief and joy, was responding positively to everything. Not with words, but with firmer steps, with gazes that lingered a second longer when something caught her attention, with a fearless curiosity, and shy smiles exchanged with other children.

The last game, in particular, had been a resounding success, and Rumi was now carrying a new plush toy under her arm for her growing collection. A giant green turtle, with big eyes and a permanently satisfied smile, wearing a straw hat. Zoey looked at it with barely concealed pride.

“I told you turtles were superior,” she remarked earlier, leaning slightly towards Mira as Rumi pointed to the enormous stuffed animal. “Patient, wise, with a built-in home. It’s the evolutionary dream of every child who might ever like dinosaurs.”

“You turned our daughter into an obsessive like you,” Mira retorted without real annoyance.

“My focus is simply on passing on my wisdom to the next generation,” Zoey replied.

A few minutes later, they stopped near a decorative fountain, where people were resting and children were running around with seemingly endless energy under the watchful eyes of their parents. Mira leaned slightly toward Rumi, lowering her voice.

“Do you want to do something else now or do you want to go eat?” she asked gently.

Rumi did not respond immediately.

She stood still, holding the turtle toy tighter, her eyes scanning the plaza. She looked at the games, the balloons floating on strings, a stand where someone was painting faces with bright colors. Her expression was serious, focused, as if she were solving an important problem. Zoey watched this silence with loving, patient attention. She knew that for Rumi, making a decision was also an act of courage.

They had been there for hours. Hours that, miraculously, hadn't felt long. Every small advance—a step forward without squeezing their hands so tightly, a fleeting smile upon winning the stuffed animal—was celebrated silently, as one celebrates truly important things.

The cold wind blew a little harder, making the banners flutter, and then, as if someone had gently turned the dial of the world, the bustle began to fade. It wasn't an abrupt or unnatural silence. It was more of a gentle retreat, a respectful withdrawal of laughter, footsteps, and conversations, as if the entire square had decided to hold its breath at once. In that newly cleared space, the music arrived.

First came the beat.

A steady, dry, precise pulse, a sharp tap, tap, tap that didn't come from any game or fairground attraction. Then, the melody; guitar strings vibrating with energy, with a cadence so well measured it seemed to hold the air. And finally, the voice.

Rumi straightened up suddenly.

Her fingers tightened a little more on Mira's hand and Zoey's jacket, and her head turned with a swiftness that surprised both women. The girl's brown eyes focused on a specific spot across the plaza, where a small group of people had gathered in a corner slightly removed from the rest of the fair. Zoey felt the pull before she fully understood it. It wasn't physical; it was something more subtle, an invisible tension that started in her chest and moved forward, as if this new music had a gravity of its own, and Rumi, small, innocent but suddenly determined, was immediately drawn to it.

“Mira…” Zoey murmured, not realizing that she had lowered her voice.

Mira had already noticed. She was watching Rumi intently, recognizing that expression. Absolute concentration and keen curiosity; such intense focus that everything else seemed to disappear.

“Well, we can go and see,” she finally said, gently and amused. “And then we’ll go get some food, okay?”

Rumi nodded vigorously.

They began to move forward, calmly making their way through the crowd, following the thread of sound that grew clearer with each step. As they drew closer, Zoey began to make out the elements more clearly. The guitar confidently playing chords, the rhythmic tapping —a drum?— and, above all, that powerful voice

Zoey frowned slightly, not out of displeasure, but out of something close to bewilderment.

The singer was no amateur. There was no hesitation, no clumsy effort, no timid trembling of someone singing to survive the judgment of others. The voice was deep, in tune, with a gifted control, and a sharp, natural musical intuition. A voice that knew exactly where to place itself and when to withdraw.

When they were close enough to see the center of the semicircle, Mira bent down and silently lifted Rumi into her arms, gently placing her against her chest so she could see better above the crowd. The child didn't protest. She barely blinked at the gesture, her eyes focusing intently on her target.

Against the wall, slightly removed from the traffic of the fair, was a young woman.

The first thing that stood out was her purple hair. Not a subtle or carefully tamed purple, but a deep, almost nocturnal hue, cascading in an exceptionally long ponytail that flowed over one shoulder, reaching well past her waist. The hair seemed to have a life of its own, moving with every gesture, with every slight sway of her body as she sang. She wore an enormous yellow jacket, clearly not her size, that hung down to her thighs like a borrowed shelter, covered in patches. Underneath, Zoey could see a dark t-shirt, baggy jeans worn from constant use, and old sneakers that showed they'd walked countless streets. Fingerless gloves covered her hands, allowing her to move freely on the strings.

Slung over her shoulder, the guitar seemed like an extension of this woman’s body.

With her foot, she kept the rhythm on a small, old singular drum, striking it with precision while her hands worked their magic on another level. Everything about her was economical in her movements. Nothing was superfluous, nothing was lacking. A musical skill and ease that few possessed and that many in the industry would surely envy just by watching her.

But it wasn't the girl's clothes or her overall condition that caught Zoey's attention.

The song took only a few more seconds to be processed in her brain, but she soon recognized it.

Her heart skipped a beat.

It was that song, her song. The one that had now been released to the public and had been playing everywhere for weeks. The one topping playlists inside and outside of Korea. The one she had personally co-written until the early hours of the morning with her producer, arguing over syllables, fine-tuning emotions, chasing a feeling that at the time she hadn't found and left her frustrated but that now… now it was there, bare, without expensive production, without a chorus of carefully arranged voices, without layers or pretense.

With just a guitar and a drum that had clearly seen better days, the song sounded different. With the voice of that unknown woman, the song Zoey had agonized over seemed to take on a new meaning.

Unique.

Intimate.

Ethereal.

Round, and round, and round

믿어 네가 날 알아보길

Sound that makes me high and low

The melody glided along with a new melancholy and a unique passion; the girl's voice found nuances Zoey had never imagined when she wrote it. There were longer silences, breaths that hurt a little, inflections that seemed to tell a parallel story.

Zoey felt a lump in her throat.

Behind the mask, yeah, who, yeah

I wonder if you're smiling

Who, yeah, ooh, yeah

I wonder if you're crying

Let me ask in the mask

The girl sang without focusing on anyone in particular, occasionally catching someone's eye with a sideways smile; a natural, almost absentminded grin, as if singing were as natural as breathing. She wasn't seeking approval; she was simply sharing her talent with the rest of the world. And the world listened in return. Everyone who passed by was captivated. No one spoke. No one moved more than necessary. It was one of those rare moments when a group of strangers connected on something without needing to plan it.

Rumi, in Mira's arms, seemed spellbound. Her brown eyes were wide open, reflecting the singer's figure like a beacon. There was no fear in her expression. No tension. Only a pure, profound, almost reverent attention.

Zoey glanced at her daughter for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the stranger with the guitar, her mind racing.

The woman continued playing as if time had no hold over her. One song flowed into another with astonishing ease, a unique and impromptu concert that no one seemed willing to end. Rhythms shifted seamlessly, tonalities glided by like seasons, her voice adapting to each melody with a dexterity that betrayed a keen ear and an almost audacious musical instinct. Popular songs, the kind anyone would recognize at the first chord, were transformed into something different in her hands. More intimate, more lived, as if she had learned them not from the radio, but from experience.

Zoey found herself listening with a slight furrowed brow, not out of displeasure, but out of concentration. Each new song was a sweet little wound healing inside her. Mira, on the other hand, was watching Rumi more than the singer, attentive to every change in her posture, every calm breath, that profound tranquility that seemed to have settled in the little girl without asking permission.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the last note lingered in the air for one more second and then simply faded away.

There was a brief silence, barely a collective heartbeat, before the corner erupted in applause. It wasn't a timid or polite ovation, but a joyful, sincere one, the kind that comes from the heart. Some people whistled, others laughed, several exchanged knowing glances as if to say, “yes, this was worth it.”

The woman leaned slightly forward with an informal bow, the guitar still hanging precariously from her shoulder and her hair flapping in the cool evening breeze.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, raising her voice just enough to be heard. “And if you enjoyed the show, please consider leaving a tip to help keep the arts alive…” She smiled mischievously. “But be careful not to step on my co-worker! Otherwise, I’m not responsible for any scratches.”

Laughter mingled with the hubbub. People began to disperse, many approaching the open guitar case on the ground to leave coins or bills. The clinking of money added to the atmosphere like a final percussion. Beside the case, sitting with the dignity of one who knows he is indispensable, was a large, furry cat. Gray and tabby, with an attentive gaze and a thick tail that swished lazily from side to side, as if supervising each donation with professional judgment.

Little Rumi watched the scene silently for a few more seconds… and then turned her face toward Zoey and Mira. The look she gave them was small, intense, and absolutely impossible to ignore. It wasn't exactly a plea, but it was very close. Eyebrows barely raised, lips pressed together, eyes shining, asking permission for something important.

It took Zoey a second to understand.

“Do you want to…?” she began, then smiled amusedly. “Would you like to give the girl something?”

Rumi nodded immediately, quickly, with a decisiveness that left no room for doubt. Mira already had the bill in her hand before Zoey finished speaking. She bent down, carefully lowered the child, and handed it to her.

“Go,” she said softly. “We’ll follow you.”

That was all Rumi needed.

The kid clutched the bill to her chest and ran with short but determined steps toward the street performer, who was now crouched beside her guitar case, drinking water from a worn and yellow plastic bottle. Noticing the small figure approaching, she looked up and smiled. She tilted her head slightly to one side, and her long purple hair shimmered in the winter light as if it had caught a piece of the sky in its strands.

“Well, hello there,” she greeted gently. “Did you like the songs?”

Rumi nodded quickly, her energy barely contained. She gripped the money a little tighter and glanced back and forth between the inside of the case and the cat beside it. There was curiosity in her expression, yes, but also a slight apprehension, as if she weren't sure how to proceed now that she was so close.

The woman noticed it immediately and let out a low, warm laugh.

“Don’t worry,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the cat. “Derpy’s quite friendly and doesn’t bite… unless he wants food, but that’s just my problem.” The cat wagged its tail more enthusiastically, as if confirming the accusation without the slightest remorse. “That said,” she added, lowering her voice slightly with feigned seriousness, “be careful with Sussie. Now that’s a real troublemaker if I ever see one.”

Zoey, who had already approached with Mira to observe the interaction, frowned, unsure of who the woman was talking about… until she looked inside the guitar case. There, nestled with surprising solemnity on the brim of an old cap, was a magpie. Black and white, still, observing the world with bright, intelligent eyes, as if assessing the moral character of each person who approached.

Zoey let out a genuine laugh, bringing a hand to her mouth.

“Is that…?” she began, amused.

Mira raised an eyebrow, impressed in her own way.

“A magpie,” she deadpanned. “Of course it is.”

The purple-haired woman gave them both a brief, amused glance, as if she were perfectly aware of the strangeness of the scene, and then turned her attention back to Rumi. Now closer, Zoey noticed that the woman's eyes were a very, very light brown, almost golden. However, beyond her enigmatic gaze, what was most striking was a thin scar visible on her right eyebrow, running across her forehead and disappearing into her hair.

Rumi, with infinite care, dropped the money into the case, close to the magpie. Then, with the same delicacy one uses when making an important decision, she reached out and tentatively stroked Derpy. The cat closed its eyes, purring like a contented engine, and the girl smiled in cheerful response. The magpie, for its part, merely let out a squawk that Zoey took as offended.

In front of the three of them, the woman moved naturally and sat on the ground, crossing her legs casually and settling the guitar on her lap as if preparing to tell a secret. Zoey felt a shiver run down her spine at the sight, not because of the scene itself, but because of a very specific thought: the asphalt must be freezing. Winter was really starting to bite, and the slow, bluish afternoon was beginning to surrender to night.

However, the woman didn't seem to notice at all. All her attention was focused on Rumi.

She smiled with honest patience, without expectation, without urgency. Not the performative smile of someone who entertains children out of habit, but the smile of someone who genuinely enjoys being there, in that exact spot in the world.

“Do you like music?” she asked gently to the kid after a moment.

Rumi nodded vigorously, so much so that her dark hair fluttered around her face. The plush turtle huddled against her chest, as if it too wanted to listen, and Derpy meowed in apparent approval. The woman let out a small, thoughtful sound from her throat, and readjusted her hands to the strings.

“Alright…” she said, leaning forward slightly, “Would you like to hear another song? This one is a little more special. No one else knows it.”

Rumi nodded again, almost at the same time as the woman's fingers began to move.

The melody that emerged was different from the previous ones. It was simpler in appearance, yet imbued with an ancient, almost folkloric quality. It had a fantastical air, as if it belonged to a fireside story, or a long journey undertaken with patience. It wasn't a radio tune or a playlist melody; it was a song for quiet reflection.

“But,” the woman added, without stopping playing, “I need help with this one. I can’t sing it alone. It’s better to do it with someone. What do you say?”

Zoey felt her body tense immediately. She looked at Mira, and Mira looked back at her. It was a split second, a silent exchange charged with gentle alarm, that learned fear of protecting without invading or stifling opportunities.

Mira cleared her throat, taking a small step forward.

“She…” she said carefully, with a hint of insecurity and protection about exactly what to say. “She doesn’t really like to talk much.”

Or nothing, really…, Zoey thought, somewhat apprehensively.

The woman glanced up at them for barely a second, shrugging with disarming naturalness without interrupting the melody her fingers were producing. “That’s fine,” she replied “You can join whenever you want, kid. Or not at all. There are no rules here.”

And she looked back at Rumi, winking at her.

“No pressure,” she added, smiling. “Art, and music especially, knows how to wait for the right moment.”

Then she began to sing, her voice resonating deeply through the air.

A soldier will come

Who carries a mighty sword

He will tear your city down, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord

He will tear your city down, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord

It wasn't lyrics Zoey recognized. There were no familiar turns of phrase or recycled lines. It was a story, though. The woman's voice softened in some parts, deepened in others, modulating like someone telling a tale by dim light.

There will come a poet

Whose weapon is His word

He will slay you with His tongue, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord

He will slay you with His tongue, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord

Rumi leaned closer to the woman as the rhythm quickened, like the melody were gently tugging at her chest. Zoey felt her eyes well up without realizing it. She didn't know exactly why. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the scene. Maybe something inside her recognized the fragility of that moment.

In the middle of the sung story, the woman barely turned her face towards Rumi.

“You should already know what’s coming in the chorus,” she said playfully, as if they shared an ancient secret. “It always comes at the end of the verse, you just have to follow me, okay? Only if you want to.”

And she continued singing.

There will come a ruler

Whose brow is laid in thorn

Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei-oh lai-oh Lord

That's when it happened.

At first, Zoey thought she was imagining it, that it was just a trick of her mind, trying to manifest one of her deepest desires. It was a barely perceptible sound, a distinct vibration in the air. But as she leaned forward, she heard it clearly.

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord

Rumi was singing.

Very softly, barely a whisper, her lips moving delicately. Soft, childlike, hoarse from disuse… but undeniably real. She wasn't looking at Zoey or Mira. She was looking at the woman with purple hair, following the melody with shy precision, joining in the spaces where the song seemed to make room for her

Zoey felt the world fall apart and rebuild itself at the same time. Beside her, Mira put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide open, her body completely still, as if any movement could break the spell. Their daughter, their little one. The little girl who, since she was two years old, hadn't made a sound to express herself... was singing.

She wasn't strong. She wasn't perfect. But she was there. Present. Alive.

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord

The woman didn't overreact. She didn't stop, she didn't make a fuss. Completely oblivious to the importance and strangeness of the moment, to the turmoil stirring in Mira and Zoey's hearts, to how a simple melody had unlocked a world of possibilities, she simply smiled a little wider and adjusted her voice to the girl's, holding her gently, as one holds something fragile and precious without realizing it.

Zoey didn't realize when she had started crying. All she knew was that, at some indeterminate point between a sustained note and her daughter's careful breathing, her vision had blurred and her chest ached as if she'd held her breath for years. Beside her, Mira was the same or worse. Her shoulders were tense, her lips trembling, one hand brought to her face, not daring to wipe away her tears, as if doing so might shatter the moment.

The woman's voice guided, enveloped, and created space. Rumi's voice entered and exited timidly, yet with increasing confidence, as if the song had laid down an invisible rope for her to walk on without falling. It wasn't a performance. It wasn't a measurable achievement. It was something far more intimate, and for that very reason, devastatingly beautiful.

And then, with an almost ceremonial sweetness, the song came to an end.

The last note dissipated into the cold air of the street, and for a second no one moved.

The street artist was the first to react.

“That was incredible!” she exclaimed, clapping with genuine enthusiasm, her almost golden eyes shining with genuine excitement.

She jumped to her feet and, with a small, exaggerated bow, invited Rumi to do the same. Rumi blinked in surprise and then awkwardly leaned forward, nearly losing her balance, clutching her stuffed turtle to her chest. The woman laughed with delight and clapped again.

“That was wonderful,” she said, leaning towards the girl. “You have a very pretty voice.”

Rumi lowered her gaze, her cheeks flushed, but she didn't back down. She stayed right there.

“What’s your name, little singer?” the woman then asked.

Zoey reacted instinctively, out of habit. She quickly wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, and came forward, ready to respond as she always did. It was automatic. Protective. Practical.

“Her name is—“

“Rumi.”

The word came out softly from the girl, almost trembling, but clear

Zoey froze.

Mira turned her head sharply, incredulous.

The woman, however, opened her eyes just a little wider, and then her face lit up in a way that neither Zoey nor Mira could explain. It wasn't ordinary surprise. It was something deeper, more personal, as if that name had found its way into a specific place within her.

“Rumi?” she repeated, grinning widely. “Ah… now I understand why I like you so much. The universe is working with me today, it seems.”

Rumi looked up, confused but intrigued, unknowingly expressing the same feelings Zoey and Mira had. Then, the woman played a quick, playful melody on her guitar, strumming rapidly, as if she needed a moment to gather her thoughts.

“Rumi is a very special name, you know?” she declared solemnly. “Extremely important. Only the coolest people in the world have that name and those are few and apart.”

Rumi let out a small, brief but clear laugh and hugged her stuffed animal tighter.

“And you…?” she asked then, in a low and somewhat broken voice, “What’s your name?”

Zoey felt her heart stop for the second time that afternoon.

The woman smiled broadly, and without saying a word, brushed the purple hair from her shoulder. In the light, a patch sewn onto the yellow jacket was revealed, a patch that at some point must have been white but now bore a slightly yellowish hue, yet was no less proud of it.

In large, uneven, thick letters, it read RRRRRUMI.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, mini-Rumi,” the woman said, winking at the girl.

The little girl's eyes widened in shock.

“The same…?” she whispered.

The woman nodded, solemn and amused at the same time.

“The same.” She affirmed. “We are part of a very select group. We are a special so you must wear your name with pride, mini-Ru, never forget it.”

The little girl let out a bigger laugh this time, genuine, excited, as if she had just discovered a wonderful secret of the world. Zoey put a hand to her chest, unable to hold back the sob that finally escaped. Mira put her arm around Zoey's shoulders, her eyes never leaving the scene, trembling.

The adult Rumi looked up then, as if the world around her had finally returned to normal volume. Her eyes moved from the little girl to Zoey, and then to Mira, lingering for a second too long on the moist faces of both women, on their ragged breaths, on that contained trembling she didn't quite know how to interpret. She frowned slightly. Not with discomfort, but with genuine curiosity. With that gentle confusion of someone who feels they have unwittingly entered an important moment but doesn't know exactly what to do next.

However, before she could say anything, Sussie the bird decided that there had been enough human excitement for one day.

The magpie squawked loudly from inside the case, a harsh, demanding sound, like a formal complaint directed at an incompetent authority. At the same time, Derpy began circling his owner's feet, brushing against her legs, meowing insistently, her tail bristling with pure feline drama.

The woman closed her eyes for a second.

“Yes, yes… I know,” she murmured with a tired sigh, more to herself than to them.

Zoey, her vision still blurred by tears, observed her then with a newfound clarity. As if the spell that had enveloped her—the music, the voice, the moment—had suddenly been lifted. She saw the dark circles beneath the woman’s eyes, soft but deep shadows that spoke of short nights and long days. She then noticed the real exhaustion, supporting her body barely out of habit.

“I’m sorry, mini-Ru, but it’s time for me to go,” she told the little girl.

The artist silently began gathering her things with agile but haphazard movements. She didn't count the coins or arrange the bills; simply stuffed them into the inside pockets of her enormous yellow jacket, as if order were an unnecessary luxury. She took the old cap from its case with one hand, and with the other gestured for Sussie to leave.

The magpie disagreed.

The bird fluttered around her head with loud indignation, squawking as if protesting a grave injustice, pecking lightly at her ear. The woman complained, trying unsuccessfully to brush it away.

“Hey, hey!” complained “Not now… you’re such a drama queen.”

“She doesn’t seem to like what you’re doing very much,” Mira suddenly remarked, clearing her throat.

The woman gave her a quick glance and shrugged in response.

Finally, she placed the cap on her head with a swift movement, and Sussie, satisfied at last, landed on it with all the dignity of one who has won a ethical battle. Derpy then sat down, as if nothing extraordinary had happened, and began to lick one of her paws.

The scene was so strange, so unexpectedly hilarious, that something inside Zoey loosened. A short laugh escaped her through her sobs, followed by a snort that forced her to wipe her face with the back of her glove. Mira, beside her, let out a shaky breath, shaking her head, a moist smile finally appearing on her face. The little girl, on the other hand, watched everything with a smile. She didn't seem disturbed. She didn't seem surprised. Rather… comfortable. As if that small chaos—the bird on the cap, the indifferent cat, the woman sighing as she slung the guitar over her shoulder and picked up the drum with the other hand—were a natural part of the world.

With everything packed up, the adult Rumi straightened up and gave the three of them a small, farewell smile. Not a broad one. Not rehearsed. One of those genuine smiles that appear when someone leaves without regretting the time they shared.

“Thank you for staying and listening,” she said, looking at Zoey and Mira attentively. “And for the tip.”

Her eyes glanced down at the girl for a second.

“It was a pleasure singing with you, mini-Ru. I hope you keep practicing what we did today.”

Rumi hugged her stuffed animal tightly, nodding.

“Yes!”

Seeing that the woman was about to leave, Zoey reacted almost without thinking, as if that something that had remained lit in her chest had finally found an outlet.

“Wait!” she called, with an urgency that surprised even herself. “Are you going to be here for the rest of the days the fair lasts?”

The woman stopped mid-stride. She didn't turn around immediately. She only tilted her head slightly, as if the question had landed in an unexpected place. When she finally looked at her, it was with a cautious curiosity, tinged with a wariness that hadn't been there seconds before.

“Maybe so,” she replied, shrugging. “Or maybe not. It all depends…”

Mira, who already had one hand firmly clasped with her daughter's, intervened then, in a calm but unintentionally firm voice.

"Depends on what?"

The transformation was subtle... and absolute.

The woman's shoulders tensed slightly. Her expression closed like a well-oiled door. Where there had once been openness, play, and music, now there was only something ancient and carefully constructed. An invisible armor, made of experiences that were not easily explained

Her eyes scanned Zoey and Mira with sharp focus, measuring, evaluating. Mira held her gaze without blinking, raising an eyebrow with all the dignity she still possessed after having wept shamelessly in front of a stranger and an entire plaza. She didn't back down. She didn't soften her expression. Finally, the adult Rumi let out a breath through her nose, something like a tired, humorless laugh.

She didn't respond to any of them and simply turned away.

She made a brief sound with her tongue, a soft click, and Derpy reacted at once, leaping and climbing up her side with surprising agility until he was coiled around the woman’s neck, settling in as if that were his natural place. Sussie stood perched on the cap, observing the world with the air of supreme judge.

The woman began to walk, merging with the crowd that filled the streets adjacent to the plaza, with the noise, with the lights, with the cold enveloping her slender and unprotected figure.

And that's when Zoey understood what it was that she hadn't been able to name before. Fear. Not the fear that paralyzes, but the one that propels. An irrational fear that didn't know where it came from or what caused it.

“Mira,” she said quickly, turning to her wife, “Wait for me a second, okay?”

She didn't wait for an answer and ran after the woman.

She dodged people, offered a half-hearted apology, her heart pounding in her chest as she caught up to the woman a few feet away. Zoey awkwardly stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop and eliciting an annoyed meow from the cat on her shoulder.

"Wait, please."

The girl raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised by Zoey's boldness

Zoey, for her part, took a deep breath and leaned forward. It wasn't an exaggerated or theatrical bow. It was a sincere, even awkward, gesture, born of a gratitude she didn't know how to put into words.

“Thank you,” she said with a long breath. “You have no idea how much what you did today means to us.”

The purple-haired girl blinked. For a second, she seemed not to know what to do about it.

Zoey would swear, much later, that even Sussie the bird tilted her head slightly from the top of the cap, looking at her with sudden approval.

“Why…?” the woman asked – Rumi, Zoey repeated to herself mentally – after a moment, frowning. “Thanks for what?”

Zoey hurried, her words tumbling over each other.

“Rumi, my daughter… She…” she swallowed. “She had never spoken. Not a word. Not like this. Much less sing! All of this was… I have no words… Today she sang! She sang! And all that thanks to you” Zoey took a breath, trying to control the flood of emotions that overwhelmed her. “Just… thank you for giving her that push. For seeing her beyond what many have done, for giving her a chance.”

Rumi watched her in silence.

Her brow furrowed in sudden concentration, as if she were arranging invisible pieces within herself. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, where Mira was crouching in front of the little girl, adjusting her coat, both of them enveloped in their own small world for the moment.

Then she looked back at Zoey.

“I didn’t do anything unusual. She’s just a special child,” she finally said, voice low and clearly unsure of what to say next. “She has a good ear for music. Perhaps you should start there to help her speak a little more…”

She fell silent without finishing her sentence, frowning as if she'd said too much. But Zoey smiled, a gentle, grateful gesture, as if those words had found exactly where they belonged.

“Yes… we’ll do that.” she promised, “Hey, if you want… we could buy you a coffee. Something hot, I don’t know if you have anything else urgent to do, but it’s the least we can do. And Mira, my wife…”

The response was immediate and curt.

“No.” Rumi looked away immediately, her face serious and the long scar above her eyebrow making her look suddenly more stern. She stepped to the side, passing Zoey, so close that the hem of her yellow jacket brushed against her arm. The drum tapped softly against her hip as she walked.

“What… but…” Zoey started to follow her again, but Rumi gave her a rigid look that stopped her in her tracks. “I just want…”

“Sorry, but I don’t have time for that…” the woman interrupted. “Goodbye.”

And then she disappeared into the crowd.

Zoey stood there for a few seconds, motionless, watching the purple of her hair vanish among coats and lights, watching the sounds of the fair reclaim the space once more. When she returned to Mira and her daughter, the world was still the same. But something, in the silence that the other Rumi had left behind, had changed forever.

///

Zoey would never have admitted it out loud, but by the second day of the fair, she was already walking around with a silly, almost superstitious expectation pressed between her ribs. Going back wasn't in the plans. In fact, the first night she'd said—quite logically—that it had all been a one-off encounter, a chance and beautiful moment, the kind that doesn't happen again. Mira had nodded, practical as ever. End of story

Until Rumi asked “Can we come back tomorrow?” with a low, slightly broken voice.

She didn't say it anxiously, not even urgently. She said it like someone asking if the sky will still be there when they wake up. Zoey exchanged a glance with Mira. That kind of silent look that only comes with years of living together, shared decisions, and long nights. And, without needing to say much, they gave in immediately.

They came back.

And they came back again.

And again.

The fair became a small ritual throughout that week. The same route between stalls, the same smell of sugar and hot food, the same cold seeping through the sleeves of their coats. Rumi walked between them, holding their hands, carefully observing every corner, every nook slightly removed from the bustle, as if at any moment the world could fall back into place

But the corners surrounding the fair were empty.

On the third day, Zoey lingered a second longer than usual in front of the exact spot where the street performer had been. There was no guitar. No case. No cat or bird. Just a patch of darker asphalt and the lingering echo of a song that had stopped playing.

“Perhaps she is in different hours,” Mira said gently.

Rumi nodded. She didn't seem sad, just thoughtful and a little disappointed.

By the fourth day, Zoey knew they wouldn't find her. And yet, they kept going. Because her daughter wanted to go, and she had no way of denying her something so simple. Because something in that place had become important. Because she herself still held onto the hope of seeing the woman with golden eyes and a unique voice again.

However, there was no trace of the woman in the yellow coat. No one at the stalls seemed to remember her clearly. “She used to sing around here sometimes when we were setting up,” some vendors explained. “She was very nice,” others said. Nothing concrete. Nothing that could be followed like a trail of clues.

They had no full name. They had no address. There was no way to locate her.

And in the end, the fair was over.

On the last day, Rumi stopped in front of the empty corner and stood there a few seconds longer than usual. Zoey held her breath, ready to comfort, to explain, to hug. But her daughter simply sighed.

“I like the way she sang,” she said.

And then she pulled on her mothers' hands to keep walking.

However, as the days passed, Zoey realized that even though they hadn't seen her again, the incredible artist hadn't truly left. She had left an indelible mark on their lives, a genuine imprint on her daughter. Because after that first and only encounter, her little Rumi had changed.

A change that was… overwhelming.

Where there had once been long silences, now there were words. Where there had once been averted glances, now there were questions. Rumi just talked. A lot. She expressed herself with an enthusiasm that, at times, dangerously rivaled Zoey's, something Mira made sure to point out with an amused smile and a loving "I have two hyperactive girls now."

Sometimes the child's voice would crack slightly, she'd stutter or clear her throat before continuing, as if she were still learning to use this new instrument she'd discovered within herself. Years of silence didn't simply vanish without a trace, after all. But Zoey and Mira didn't care.

Every word was a small victory.

Each incomplete sentence was a triumph they celebrated with suppressed tears and enthusiastic meals.

Even the therapist was the first to run out of professional answers during the first session after the fair.

“This is… a complete 180-degree turn,” he told Zoey and Mira, scowling over his notes. “It’s not completely uncommon. But it’s truly extraordinary.”

Zoey had smiled then, with a quiet warmth, squeezing Mira's hand and thinking of an old guitar, an improvised drum, and a voice that didn't sound amateurish at all. She thought of her little Rumi who now talked about music, who hummed as she drew, who made up nonsensical songs about heroic turtles, giant cats, and thieving birds. Sometimes she would stop, thoughtful, and wonder if names could be magic.

Zoey never really knew how to respond to that. She only knew that, in some odd and beautiful way, a stranger had passed through their lives like a sustained note… and had tuned something that had been silent for far too long.

And that, for Zoey, was enough.

///

December fell on Seoul like a familiar song that, even so, always managed to surprise

Winter had settled in uninvited. The air was sharp, the breaths becoming visible, the streets vibrating with lights, decorations, and that joyful nervousness that announces the year is rapidly drawing to a close. Everything seemed to move faster. The city throbbed with a festive urgency, as if each day were a dress rehearsal for the grand finale.

At Sunlight Entertainment, time didn't walk but ran.

Final deadlines piled up like marginal notes on an overburdened score. Mira spent endless hours in rehearsal rooms, marking steps, correcting formations, raising her voice above the music to direct choreographies that had to be flawless. Zoey, meanwhile, lived between recording studios and offices, polishing details, adjusting harmonies, rewriting verses that just wouldn't come together, and pushing projects toward their final version.

Some days they stayed longer than they should have; they both knew it.

But they also knew they were not alone.

Zoey's mother had offered—with a knowing smile and a "you can work in peace"— to look after Rumi on those long afternoons. And Rumi, more than delighted, spent hours with her grandmother, singing, drawing, inventing impossible stories, and asking if the new year brought different sounds and surprises.

That particular Wednesday, in the middle of the month, the chaos was no less, just more familiar.

Zoey had been wearing her headphones for hours when she decided that if she didn't go outside for some fresh air soon, she was going to end up biting the wires from sheer stress. Mira was stuck in a meeting that was going to drag on well into the afternoon, so Zoey sent her a quick text: I'm going out for lunch, I'll bring you something sweet afterwards.

She was hungry and had a particular craving, and a coffee shop in mind.

She left Sunlight’s building with her coat tightly closed, her gloved hands buried in the pockets, walking briskly along the few blocks that separated her from that small, warm refuge where coffee tasted like friendship and desserts seemed like a truce against the world.

That's when she heard it.

Amid the noise of cars, overlapping voices, and the crunch of snow under shoes, a melody filtered through with impossible clarity. The strumming of strings, rhythmic tapping on wood. A rhythm that didn't belong to the chaos, but rather pierced through it.

Zoey stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart leaped absurdly, an almost childlike excitement swelling in her chest. She turned her head, searching for the source of the sound… and saw her.

There, in the corner of the cafeteria, as if she had always been there.

Rumi.

Born young and wild

Don't let them cut your tail

Just a pinch of salt in the wound, you'll be fine

One last lifeline, I'm hanging high

She was leaned against the cold wall, her back and one foot propped up with an almost defiant confidence. The guitar rested on her leg as her fingers moved with quiet precision, gaze fixed on her left hand, following the chords as if on familiar ground. On the snow in front of her, the guitar case lay open, just as it had been the first time.

Stay awake, oh, from the wolves you run barefoot

With their libellous venomous words, they shoot

Pulled and panicked, the door is locked

And you're trapped inside of your own heart

It's a spectator sport

Just play your part

People walked past her without stopping. Some tossed coins or bills absentmindedly, without even looking at her. Others simply continued on their way, caught up in their own winter rush. But Rumi kept playing and singing, seemingly immersed in her own melancholic world, her melody speaking volumes more than it initially appeared.

She was wearing the same old, worn yellow jacket, the one Zoey was sure wouldn't offer much protection against the harsh December cold. Fingerless gloves left her skin exposed to the icy air. Purple hair peeked out from under a dark hat, escaping in unruly strands that framed her face.

And her voice.

Her voice was exactly as Zoey remembered it.

Deep. In tune. Strangely warm for such a cold day

Just a pinch of salt in the wound, you'll be fine

One last lifeline, I'm hanging high

Zoey stood there, motionless, her pulse racing, a disbelieving smile forming unbidden. It was as if the city had suddenly decided to return to her a memory she had learned to accept as unrepeatable. This was no longer a dream, but something real.

As the music continued to flow, enveloping the corner of the cafe, Zoey knew—with an almost painful certainty—that she would not let that chance encounter pass so easily.

Rumi finished the song with a long, sustained chord that dissolved into the cold air like a held breath. Without another real pause, she let her fingers shift position and began another melody, slower, more intimate, as if she were waiting for no one but herself.

That's when Zoey decided to move. She ignored the cold seeping through the collar of her coat, ignored the sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee that escaped every time someone opened the door. She advanced with a calm stride, careful not to break the small, invisible space surrounding the music, that unspoken circle that one only crosses when one understands respect.

As she drew closer, she glanced inside the guitar case where the loose change Rumi had earned during her time there was piled up. And huddled in a corner was a familiar bundle of fur. Derpy, large and furry, slept with an almost insulting peace despite the cold, and nestled between his front paws, protected against his warm belly, was the strange magpie from last time, its feathers barely ruffled, eyes half-closed as if it watched everything suspiciously, even in its sleep.

Zoey smiled unconsciously, delighted by the curious animals that she was now sure accompanied the other woman everywhere.

At first, Rumi didn't seem to notice her presence. She was completely absorbed in her music, her head slightly tilted, her brow relaxed, her voice flowing with a naturalness that bordered on the absent. Zoey strained her ears, her trained mind searching for references, familiar structures, common progressions. But she didn't recognize the song, nor the exact style. And that, coming from someone who lived surrounded by melodies, sent a strange tingling sensation through her chest.

The lyrics carried weight. They weren't cheerful at all. There was a gentle sadness in them, a depth that lingered among the chords like a long shadow at dusk. Quite different from the lively, playful rhythms the woman had offered at the fair to attract a larger audience, singing popular melodies.

When the song ended, Rumi let the silence breathe for a second and then looked up.

Zoey was just a few steps away.

If the street artist was surprised, she didn't show it. There was no startle, no stiffness. Just a direct, clear gaze. In her golden eyes there was no recognition, only a measured and cautious curiosity as she assessed her new spectator. Zoey didn't mind the obvious distrust; she could work with it.

She smiled broadly, without reservation.

“What you were singing is beautiful,” she said, with genuine enthusiasm. “You have a unique talent.”

Rumi nodded slowly, barely returning the smile, a tired but sincere gesture.

“Thank you.” She murmured, her fingers continuing to play the strings absentmindedly, plucking out loose chords without any clear intention.

Zoey, unable to contain herself, began to speak.

“Did you write it? Is it an original song? I was trying to recognize it, but it doesn’t sound familiar at all,” she began, waving her hands in the air as the words tumbled out. “Oh, by the way, I love that thing you do when you tap the guitar while you play! It gives it a unique and genuine touch—”

The composer continued talking about technique, about voice control, about how she managed to sustain low notes without losing clarity. She asked Rumi if she composed in other genres, if she usually mixed rhythms, if she wrote lyrics and music simultaneously, or if it was all improvised. The words came out quickly, in a rush, as if they had been waiting weeks for this moment to be released.

Rumi did not respond immediately.

She watched her silently, assessing her with her gaze, measuring every gesture, every inflection, and listening intently. When Zoey finally paused to breathe, Rumi tilted her head.

“Do we know each other?” she asked then, with genuine confusion. “Because you’re talking to me as if…” she broke off, seeming to doubt herself. “Have I seen you before?”

Zoey wasn't offended. On the contrary, she let out a small laugh.

“Yes,” she said. “We saw each other a few weeks ago. At the downtown fair.”

Rumi's bewilderment deepened. Her brows furrowed as she searched her memory, clearly finding nothing.

Zoey added gently:

“You sang with my daughter… Rumi,” she gestured enthusiastically with her hands, describing her little girl. “You helped her start talking and my wife and I were a mess of tears during all.”

That was enough; the change was immediate.

“Ah…” Rumi murmured, and her posture relaxed just enough to show “Yes, little Ru.”

She looked up again, observing Zoey with different eyes.

“You’re her mother, aren’t you?” she asked.

Zoey nodded hurriedly, her heart pounding with a strange mix of relief and excitement. She realized, with a belated pang of embarrassment, that she'd never properly introduced herself at the fair; it had all happened too fast, wrapped in music, tears, and a revelation she was still struggling to process.

“By the way…” she said, placing a hand on her chest in an almost automatic gesture. “My name is Zoey. I didn’t get a chance to say it the first time. My wife is Mira… and well, you already know our Rumi.”

Rumi nodded, offering nothing more. Zoey paused briefly, then added honestly:

“We came back from the fair every day. All three of us. We were looking for you, Rumi wanted to see you again but…” she shrugged with a slight smile. “We weren’t very lucky.”

As Zoey spoke, Rumi looked away almost immediately, distractedly. Her eyes scanned the street, the passersby, and the cars stopped at the traffic light, as if checking something invisible. Zoey recognized the gesture effortlessly. It was the kind of attention one pays to something when they need to be sure of their own safety.

When she looked at her again, Rumi shrugged uncomfortably.

“I was busy.”

And nothing more.

Zoey, perhaps being indiscreet or perhaps driven by a worry she could no longer hide, let her gaze drift inside the guitar case. There were coins, some bills folded haphazardly, mixed in with Derpy's fur and Sussie's watchful stillness

“Was it at least worth it?” she asked carefully, under Rumi’s confused gaze. “I mean, did what kept you busy gave you good tips? Better than at the fair?”

Rumi's expression barely changed. A brief, almost unreadable grimace. It wasn't open annoyance, but neither was it complete trust.

“Yes…” she replied vaguely. “I suppose so.”

She didn't elaborate, and Zoey didn't insist.

In the brief silence that followed, Zoey began to make mental notes of several details that had previously gone unnoticed.

The tremor was subtle, almost imperceptible unless one was watching closely. A slight shudder ran through Rumi's body every few seconds. Her breath became visible as it left her mouth, small, constant wisps of air. Her pale fingers continued to move across the strings, but now Zoey understood that she wasn't doing it to keep the music alive, but simply out of a need to stay active, to prevent the cold from numbing them.

Looking at her more closely, Zoey noticed that the dark circles under her eyes were deeper than the last time, or perhaps they stood out more in that light and against her skin, which had been paled by the cold; stark shadows beneath her golden eyes. The yellow jacket hung large on her body, too large… and still insufficient for the winter that was biting into the city. The worn jeans, the old sneakers, and the thin hat all spoke of layers that weren't enough to protect her from the cold.

Zoey felt a knot tighten in her chest.

What will her nights be like?, the question crept into her mind uninvited. Zoey didn't want to imagine it, but the image persisted. The cold, the darkness, the same jacket as her only shield, and her little friends huddled against it to share a bit of her body heat.

With effort, she maintained her smile. She didn't want her concern to sound like pity. She nodded toward the cafeteria, from which a gust of warm air escaped every time the door opened.

“Hey so…” she said, trying to make her voice sound casual, “Wouldn’t you like to have a coffee? Something hot? It’s my lunch break and this café also sells the best sandwiches in town.”

The reaction was immediate.

Rumi stopped playing abruptly.

The strings vibrated for a few more seconds before fading completely. The woman stared at her in open surprise, as if the offer didn't fit into any known mental map. Even Sussie shifted restlessly on top of Derpy, waking the cat, who opened his eyes with an indignant hiss.

“Coffee?” Rumi repeated, incredulous.

Zoey nodded, gently and patiently.

“Yes. Nothing unusual. It’s just…” She made a vague gesture with his hand. “It’s cold.”

Rumi frowned, barely. She didn't move away, but she didn't advance either. Her fingers closed a little tighter around the guitar neck, as if she needed something firm to hold onto.

“I’m not a big fan of coffee,” she finally said, cautiously. “I never really liked it that much.”

The excuse landed perfectly between them. Polite, reasonable… and clearly rehearsed.

Zoey, of course, wasn't Zoey for nothing.

“Oh! Perfect then,” she replied immediately, her face lighting up as if this were the best news of the day. “Because they don’t just have coffee. They have real hot chocolate, thick, the kind you can almost chew. Also chai, spiced tea, really weird infusions with unpronounceable names. I’ve tried almost everything on their menu and I know it’s the best around here… oh, and they even have mulled cider when they run out of everything else.”

Rumi looked at her with an expression that teetered dangerously between shock and skepticism.

Zoey continued.

“And homemade pastries. I'm not going to promise they're healthy because I'd be lying through my teeth, but I do promise they're worth every calorie. There's a cinnamon roll that—”

She stopped then.

Not because she was speechless—that rarely happened—but because something in Rumi's face changed. It wasn't abrupt, but Zoey felt it as clearly as the first time: the rejection was beginning to rise, like a slow but inevitable tide. Her shoulders tensed, her golden gaze searched for an escape, the invisible armor beginning to rise again.

Too much…, Zoey thought. I'm going too fast and it’s too much.

Zoey took a deep breath and played her last card

“Also,” she added, nodding her chin toward the guitar case, “it’s pet friendly.”

Rumi blinked.

"Pet friendly…" she repeated robotically.

Zoey took advantage of the smallest opening

“I’ve known the owners for years. Years. I swear. I’m sure they have something for them,” she smiled, now pointing more emphatically, “For Derpy and… Sussie, right?”

Rumi did not respond immediately, she simply looked down at her little friends.

Derpy stirred lazily, stretching as if the mere mention of a warm place had touched his soul. Sussie, on the other hand, raised its head and looked at it’s human with a rather unimpressed expression, tilting the beak in a way that clearly said, "Do you really believe this crazy woman?"

Zoey almost laughed, but bit her lip, looking impatiently at the street performer.

Rumi took her time. The cold continued to seep through her insufficient layers, the breeze barely stirring the fur and feathers of her small companions. Finally, she murmured:

“I don’t know…”

Zoey softened her voice, lowering the enthusiasm to something more intimate, more honest

“It doesn’t have to be long. Just…” she shrugged. “A little warmth. A little company. My wife vilely abandoned me for an endless meeting, and I need to talk to someone other than an audio track.”

She paused, then added with a crooked smile, "And I promise I’m not a weird serial killer, if it’s that what’s worrying you.”

That earned her a small laugh.

Silence stretched between them until Rumi sighed, a low, resigned sound, like someone who gives in not because they are convinced, but because tiredness weighs more than mistrust.

“Okay,” she finally conceded, almost reluctantly. “Something warms sounds good.”

Zoey smiled as if she had just won a major prize, although she restrained herself enough not to celebrate loudly and excessively.

“Great! Really great!” she exclaimed.

Rumi bent down with practiced, almost automatic movements. She pulled to herself the guitar case and carefully took the instrument off, arranging it like someone storing something valuable but used to doing so outdoors. The money came next; coins and bills gathered haphazardly, pushed into an inside pocket of her yellow jacket, exactly as Zoey had first seen her.

“Come on, move it,” Rumi murmured softly.

Derpy responded first, hopping with a lazy meow directly onto her shoulder, where he settled with the ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times, curling around Rumi’s neck like a warm, living scarf. Sussie, instead fluttered around her head for a second, indignant at the case's sudden closure, before disappearing inside the big jacket, burying itself in the fabric as if it were its own personal nest.

Zoey blinked.

She wasn't sure what impressed her more: that the animals seemed incredibly well-trained… or that the three of them surely repeated the same ritual every day. Rumi stood up and looked at her again, with that concentrated expression, as if she were still weighing whether this was a good idea or a monumental mistake.

“Just for a little while,” she repeated, enunciating each word clearly.

“Just for a little while,” Zoey confirmed, with a wide, reassuring smile, pointing to the cafe door as if it were the entrance to a sanctuary.

Upon crossing it, the change was immediate.

The warmth of the heater enveloped them suddenly, almost physically. Zoey saw Rumi let out a short, involuntary exhalation, her shoulders lowering slightly as she relaxed a little more. Derpy took advantage of the moment to rub against her cheek, purring with intensity and approval.

The café was small but cozy. Warm lights hung from the ceiling, worn wooden tables were scattered haphazardly, and the walls were covered with old photographs, framed vinyl records, and drawings made by regulars. It smelled of cocoa, cinnamon, and freshly baked bread. Behind the counter were Romance and Abby, as always. Romance with his apron stained with coffee and syrup, his easy, loving smile gracing his face; Abby, leaning against the coffee machine, observing everything with that perpetually mocking expression of his.

“Zoey!” exclaimed Romance. “We thought you had died inside your studio or something.”

“Or that you had been chained to a piano,” Abby added, amused.

“Oh hush, I’m not doing that badly,” Zoey replied, approaching enthusiastically. “They still let me go out to eat… sometimes.”

They both laughed before noticing Rumi, who had fallen a few steps behind, slightly hunched over and avoiding their gaze. Romance tilted his head curiously toward her; Abby raised an eyebrow, assessing the whole scene: the yellow jacket, the cat on the shoulder, the faint movement beneath the fabric where there was clearly something alive, and the overall disheveled appearance.

Zoey turned to Rumi immediately, speaking softly.

“You can choose any table you like. I’ll order and I’ll be right there with you, okay?” she said with a smile.

Rumi hesitated. She glanced at Zoey, then at the two men behind the counter, and finally scanned the café, as if gauging escape routes. After a few seconds, she gave a weak nod and walked to the other end of the café, choosing a table by the wall, facing the window. Her steps were tentative, but she didn't run away as Zoey had feared she would.

As soon as Rumi sat down, Zoey turned to Romance and Abby and clasped her hands together in an almost pleading gesture.

“I need help urgently and quickly. The best of your service,” she said in a low but urgent voice. “Give me…” She looked at the menu. “Everything. One of every edible item on the menu, I want it. And two large cups of hot chocolate. Very large, if you can give me a pitcher, even better.”

Romance opened his mouth to ask something, but Zoey interrupted him:

“And something a cat and a bird can eat. You have that, right? I’ve seen you throw food to the pigeons sometimes,” she added.

Confusing silence.

Abby blinked.

"What...?"

"Don't ask," Zoey said quickly. "Just bear with me."

Romance burst out laughing, while Abby shook his head, amused.

“You’re still our most troublesome client,” Romance said. “But definitely the most interesting, and that’s why we love you.”

“I think we have some leftover unseasoned chicken in the kitchen,” Abby added. “And seeds. Maybe they would like some fruit? What kind of bird are we talking about?”

“A magpie.”

“…Magpie?”

“Magpie,” Zoey stated solemnly.

“Where did you even get a magpie in this weather…?”

“I don’t think that matters, honey,” Romance said, patting Abby on the chest before putting the order in the kitchen to be prepared.

Zoey sighed in relief, placing a hand on her chest.

“You are the best.”

“As always,” they replied almost in unison.

While waiting for order confirmation, Zoey glanced toward the table in the back. Rumi was sitting there, Derpy nestled on her lap, her jacket still on, surveying the room with a mixture of caution and exhaustion.

Zoey smiled.

Just for a little while, she repeated to herself.

Zoey paid for the order without blinking. She didn't even look twice at the total when she swiped the card and added an extra pack of cookies just because she could and because, honestly, they looked dangerously good. Romance winked at her as she slid the receipt over, and Abby shook his head, muttering something about "excesses sponsored by good intentions."

Zoey was halfway through the restaurant when she remembered she was still wearing her gloves. She practically ran to the back table and plopped down in the chair across from Rumi with such enthusiasm that the woman jumped slightly, immediately tensing up.

“Sorry!” Zoey said, giggling softly. “I promise not to jump on you again. Well… today. We’ll see next time.”

Rumi observed her for a few seconds, assessing her, before barely nodding.

“They said they bring everything in a moment,” Zoey added, as if that explained absolutely everything.

She took advantage of that moment to remove her gloves and then her coat, folding it carelessly and leaving it hanging on the back of the chair. Underneath, she wore her work clothes, colorful but comfortable, and her Sunlight Entertainment ID card hung around her neck, swaying slightly as she leaned forward. Rumi glanced quickly at the ID, out of pure curiosity. Her eyes lingered there a second longer than necessary, but she said nothing. She immediately lowered her gaze, focusing on Derpy, who had decided to settle back into a warm, lumpy shape in her lap. Her fingers glided through the cat's fur with an almost absentminded gentleness.

Zoey noticed that Rumi wasn't making any attempt to take off her jacket. Not even loosen it, even though the heating had already done enough to make Zoey herself feel warm.

“Do you usually play around here?” Zoey asked, in a light tone, like someone commenting on the weather.

Rumi shook her head.

“Not really. I move around… quite a bit,” she replied hesitantly. “It depends on the day.”

“And you never go back to the same spot?” Zoey took one of the napkins from the table, beginning to fold it in different parts anxiously.

Rumi shrugged, following Zoey's movements with her eyes.

"Only if I feel it's worth it."

The answer wasn't harsh, but it was firm and decisive in a way that Zoey didn't quite understand at the time. Rumi just dropped it like a pebble in water, watching the ripples it left.

“And how do you decide that?” Zoey asked, without pressing. “The people? The acoustics? The weather? Do you talk to your instruments and ask them what their mood is each morning?”

One corner of Rumi's lips barely lifted in amusement.

“A little bit of everything,” she admitted quietly. “There are places where…” she paused, searching for the word, “where I don’t feel invisible. Where I can exist a little better.”

Zoey nodded slowly, feeling her chest tighten painfully with the sadness that clouded the other woman's tone.

“It makes sense,” she reply after a moment. “There are spaces that reflect your sound and connect with you deeply. And others that simply remain silent.”

Rumi looked up and, for the first time, met her gaze directly. Now much closer and at the same level, Zoey felt the weight and depth of her gaze with a certain intimidation. Those unique golden eyes where something else for sure.

“Yes,” Rumi said softly, “It’s something like that…”

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was filled with the murmur of coffee, the clinking of cups around, and Derpy's constant purring. Sussie peeked its head out for a second from inside her jacket, eyed Zoey suspiciously, and then scurried back inside with a rustle of feathers.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Zoey started suddenly, resting her elbows on the table, “but… have you been making music for a long time?”

Rumi hesitated, her brow furrowing thoughtfully.

“For as long as I can remember,” she finally replied. “Not always with instruments, though. Before… there was a time when it was more chaotic.”

“Chaos counts as part of the process for the best melodies, I would say,” Zoey said with a smile. “Sometimes it’s the best teacher.”

Rumi let out a brief, nasal laugh, almost imperceptible, but real.

"I suppose."

Zoey then noticed something different. Rumi's shoulders were less rigid. Her breathing, more even. There was still caution, yes, but she no longer seemed like a cornered animal about to bolt.

Small victories.

“And you?” Rumi asked suddenly. “You don’t look…” she gestured vaguely, “like someone who usually sits and talks to strangers in cafes.”

Zoey put a hand to her chest, feigning offense.

“Absolutely not! It’s my favorite extreme sport if I feel it’s worth it.” Then, more candidly, “I guess today… I felt it would be a real shame if I didn’t do it.”

Rumi watched her for a long moment, as if weighing that answer. Finally, she nodded slowly.

Before Zoey could add something more, the dishes then began to arrive one after another, like an unstoppable procession.

First a steaming tray, then another, and another; bowls, deep plates, small containers of sauces, still-warm bread. Second by second, the table became completely covered, filled with sweet and savory aromas that mingled in the warm air of the café. Steam rose lazily, slightly fogging the nearby glass.

Rumi's eyes widened at the sight before her. Her gaze darted from one end of the table to the other, unable to focus on any one point. There was something almost alarmed in her expression, as if the food were a wild creature that had suddenly appeared, too close and threatening. Derpy immediately raised his head, sniffing with interest, his whiskers twitching. Sussie cautiously peeked out from under the jacket once more, tilting the head curiously, feathers barely ruffling.

Rumi glanced from the waiter to Zoey and then back at the food, her lips pressed into a thin, awkward line. Her fingers closed loosely around Derpy, as if she needed something firm to hold onto.

That's when Abby appeared, carefully setting aside a smaller plate of plain white chicken, with no seasoning or garnish.

“For the best customers of the day,” he said with a broad smile, pointing cheekily at Derpy and Sussie. “Demanding, but fair.”

Derpy responded with a satisfied meow, as if he perfectly understood the compliment.

When Abby left and they were alone again, silence fell like a heavy blanket. Rumi turned her face toward the window, staring at the street and the passersby. It had started snowing.

She didn't look at Zoey. She didn't look at the food. Her reflection was faintly visible in the glass, fragmented by the light and the movement outside. Only the tension in her jaw and hands hinted at how uncomfortable she felt at that moment.

Zoey felt a twinge of doubt, thinking that perhaps she had gone a little too far. She cleared her throat and smiled awkwardly, seeking lightness where there was now tension.

“Um…” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the table. ““I guess my job works up quite an appetite. Or at least that’s what I tell myself to justify my questionable decisions, like this one right now...”

Rumi didn't react.

Zoey leaned forward slightly as Derpy, after a thorough inspection, deciding the chicken was trustworthy and began eating ravenously. The soft sound of nibbling filled the silence for a second. Sussie watched intently, leaning over the cat like a stern judge

But Rumi remained utterly silent.

Zoey swallowed.

"You can..." she said finally, her voice smaller and less confident, "you can take whatever you want. Seriously. Everything is meant to be shared."

Then Rumi looked at her and Zoey felt genuine concern, her heart tightening in her chest again.

The woman's golden eyes shone, moist, as if a storm had been trapped behind them. No tears were falling, not yet, but the tension was visible, held with an almost painful willpower. Her jaw was rigid, the muscles of her face taut, as if any false movement could break something inside her. That sight was almost enough to paralyze Zoey.

“Why…” Rumi finally asked, her voice low and restrained, “why are you doing this? What do you really want from me?”

It wasn't an accusation. Nor was it gratitude. It was a naked, raw question, born from a deep and weary place.

“I don’t want anything, I assure you…” Zoey murmured.

Rumi let out an incredulous laugh, shaking her head slightly.

“Bullshit.”

Zoey wasn't offended, she just watched her carefully. The threadbare jacket, the pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes; the way, even sitting across from a crowded table, Rumi seemed ready to get up and run away at any moment and leave everything behind. Zoey thought once more about the winter, the long nights, the hard asphalt, the music played for no one and everyone.

And the thought about her quiet daughter who found the impetus to express herself under the genuine guidance of a stranger who asked for nothing more in return.

“I don’t know,” she finally said, with gentle honesty. “Maybe I’m doing this because you once sang with my daughter… and something changed. Maybe because you gave us something I still don’t fully understand. Maybe because I heard you today and thought that no one should sing with a chill in their bones. Or maybe,” she smiled faintly, “because I’m terrible at ignoring impulses when something matters to me.”

“You don’t know me. You have absolutely no idea who I am,” Rumi replied, frowning, the scar on her eyebrow tightening. “How could I possibly matter to you enough to do this?”

Zoey shrugged.

“You don’t always need a reason for something to be important, don’t you think?” was Zoey’s response.

Without another word, she took one of the steaming mugs of hot chocolate and sipped, her eyes never leaving Rumi, who held them with a long, silent gaze. Then she looked down, this time at the table. Sussie let out a squawk before escaping from inside the jacket and fluttering down to one of the water glasses. Derpy continued his assault on the chicken without a shred of remorse. The hot chocolate steamed, and outside, the snow continued to fall.

“This seems like much more than just company…” Rumi said at the end, a discreet and bitter smile peeking out from the side of her lips.

Zoey allowed herself to relax a little.

“It’s good company, though,” she said.

The purple-haired woman didn't say anything else, but after a couple more seconds of uncertainty, she reached for the table and took one of the sandwiches.

///

Zoey returned to the café the next day.

She didn't go with a clear plan or reasonable expectations; it was more of a gentle but persistent impulse, a stubborn hope that had lodged in her chest like a tiny splinter. As she walked along the icy sidewalk, her coat buttoned up to her neck, she knew perfectly well that the odds were slim. People like Rumi didn't usually stay still; she herself had confirmed that with her words. Even so, disappointment was born inside Zoey when she found the corner outside the café empty, and it only continued to grow when she pushed open the door, letting the tinkling of the bell announce her entrance

The warmth enveloped her immediately. The familiar scent of chocolate and coffee was both comforting and cruel. One glance between Romance and Abby was all it took for her to understand everything.

There were no questions or lengthy explanations. Romance approached with a lopsided smile, sad in a way that needed no words, and extended his hand across the counter. In his palm rested a few crumpled bills and some loose coins, worn from passing through too many pockets on their way.

Zoey recognized them instantly. Not because of their shape, nor because of their value, which clearly wasn't even close to covering yesterday's meal, but because of what they represented. More than payment, they were a statement.

“She left this for your early in morning,” Romance said quietly, careful not to further upset Zoey, who looked as though she were about to collapse in her placer “She didn’t say much.”

Zoey carefully closed her fingers around the money, as if it were something fragile.

An imaginary debt and the stubborn need to pay it off, even when it wasn’t need it.

She nodded, gave a quiet thank you to the men, and sat down for a moment at the back table. She remained there for several long minutes, staring at the empty chair in front of her, listening to the murmur of the place, knowing with a quiet, painful certainty that she might not see Rumi again for a very, very long time.

December ended amidst lights and noise. Fireworks exploded in the sky like ephemeral flowers, and Zoey celebrated the New Year with Mira, her little Rumi, her mother, and that handful of friends who formed her chosen family. The house was filled with laughter, music that was a bit too loud, and hugs that lasted longer than necessary but were nonetheless warm and welcome. All full of love.

Their sweet Rumi received gifts until she was exhausted, but what shone brightest about her wasn't wrapped in paper. She spoke, laughed, and told stories with an awkward but honest emotion, as if every word were still a small victory. Zoey and Mira sometimes watched her with a lump in their throats, knowing that something broken had been repaired… and something new had been born as well.

January arrived mercilessly.

Colder. Longer. Whiter.

From her office at Sunlight Entertainment, Zoey would sometimes look out the window and watch the snow-covered streets, the people wrapped in layers and layers of coats, and she would involuntarily think of golden eyes, purple hair under a cap and sad songs sung on the edge of winter.

There were days when Rumi's guarded image would appear without warning, slipping in among musical scores and meetings.

At night, sometimes, she would talk about her with Mira.

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Zoey asked aloud, more to organize her own thoughts than to expect a real answer. There were no secrets between them; Zoey had told her everything that had happened, and her wife had listened with patience and sympathy.

Mira just shrugged, leaning against the door frame, sitting next to her on the sofa, or hugging her from behind in bed.

“I don’t know,” she would admit after a few short silences. “It’s hard to know. People like her… survive however they can. But you did good.”

Survive.

The word seemed heavy and cruel to Zoey, though no less accurate.

There was skepticism in Mira when they talked about the strange woman, yes, but also a quiet concern that Zoey easily recognized. Mira didn't say it, but she was thinking about her too. About the girl with the guitar. About the music. About the way she had left such a deep and fleeting mark on their lives.

Amid the noise of work, the persistent cold, and life moving on, Rumi the street artist became an absent presence. A lukewarm memory in the middle of winter. An unanswered question that, from time to time, returned to sing softly inside their heads.