"How did you heal from past traumas?" Oh Sion asked, his voice soft, as if testing the weight of the words in the air before they finally sank into a silence that felt like the aftermath of a storm.

Balg Huyi, who was sitting at the small wooden table where she often worked, paused. The needle in her hand hovered in the air, as if uncertain whether to pierce the fabric or let the moment linger. Her hands were steady, but her mind wandered, tracing the paths of memories she had long learned to confront.

She exhaled, a slow breath that seemed to carry the weight of thousands of forgotten days. "It's not something you heal from," she said, her voice gentle, her words woven with the quiet strength that only time could forge. "You learn to live with it."

Sion tilted his head, his confusion deepening. His youthful face, untouched by the shadows of experience, reflected sincere curiosity. "But… doesn’t it hurt?"

She smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of happiness—it was the smile of resignation, the kind only worn by someone who had accepted things that could not be changed. Her fingers resumed their work, stitching the fabric as if her hands could mend what her heart had once spilled. "It does,"...