A sudden gasp escapes my throat as I wake up abruptly, my body soaked in icy sweat. The final memory I have is being at that funeral, collapsing to my knees as the intense sorrow engulfed me entirely.

The name "Yiso Kenoly" resonates in my mind. I clutch the fabric below me, my hands shaking.

The space I occupy is softly illuminated, with the gentle hum of an air conditioner being the sole noise. I attempt to shift, yet my extremities are rigid, my physique burdensome. Then I listen to a voice.

Mr. Han. His tone is soft, infused with worry. There's another voice...a woman's, replying in soft whispers, but I can't discern the words.

I attempt to sit up, but a sudden, intense pain pierces my head. I flinch, pressing my eyes closed tight. And that's when it takes place.

A burst of brightness engulfs my sight and instantly I experience a sudden *thwack* on my head.

I perceive red.

A yell, my yell, echoes in my ears.

I open my eyes wide, inhaling sharply, clutching my head. It disappears, yet the fear endures.

I place a hand against my forehead. What was that? A recollection or an image?

The door groans open as Mr. Han enters. His demeanor is serene, yet his eyes reveal his concern.

"You're conscious," he murmurs gently. "How do you feel?"

I gulp down. "What... took place?" My voice is just above a murmur.

"You fainted at the funeral," he clarifies, moving nearer. "It must have overwhelmed you."

Excessive. That's putting it mildly.

I attempt to fend off the panic and survey the area. The space feels strange yet refined, featuring dark wooden furnishings and a big window that faces the city.

"Where am I located?"

"My residence," Mr. Han states. "I didn't want you to be alone at the hospital when you woke up, so I brought you here, and you can remain for as long as you want."

I nod gradually, yet my thoughts continue to whirl.

That picture......the hammer and the dazzling light endure.

Hands tremble, and heartbeat thunders in my ears.

"Miso?" Mr. Han's voice appears faraway, altered.

I compel myself to blink, to take a breath, yet my body won't settle down.

He observes and approaches slowly, as if he fears I might shatter.

"Miso, speak with me," he implores. I part my lips, yet the words refuse to emerge.

At last, I indicate the hammer, and he swiftly takes it as though aware of my anguish.

"The laborers must have abandoned it," he says. I stay quiet since I'm unsure of what to express.

I'm not sure why a basic hammer urges me to flee. Why it seems like a tool designed for me.

Later that night, I am seated in the living room, gazing vacantly at the TV screen. Mr. Han is seated close by, perusing a newspaper.

I'm unable to concentrate. My thoughts are a jumble of disjointed pictures and emotions that lack coherence.

The memorial service. The mallet. The title "Yiso Kenoly".

Who is that woman? Why does contemplating her make me feel as if I'm plummeting into a void?

The voice of the news anchor draws me out of my contemplation.

"We provide you with urgent news about Jang Foods, one of the top food firms in America based in the bustling city of New York."

I become immobilized.

"Jang Foods?" I murmur. The name seems to be a place known.

I shift my eyes to the display. A woman and a man stand in front of a line of microphones, their expressions serious. The journalists encircle them, cameras lighting up.

The man... there's something about him that turns my stomach. His defined features, how he poses.

The woman's face appears in my thoughts, just beyond my grasp.

I lean in closer, feeling my heart race.

Karen. Marshall. Their names surge into my thoughts unexpectedly. How can I recognize them?

I hold onto the armrest, my fingers sinking into the material. My breaths grow shallow.

"Miso?" Mr. Han speaks with caution.

I can hardly hear him.

The updates keep coming. "Recent controversies surrounding Jang Foods have sparked worries, especially about their CEO's abrupt exit after allegations..."

Abrupt exit? Accusations? I'm not sure why, but I have a sense that I ought to understand what's going on.

Karen and Marshall share a glance on screen. Next, Marshall begins to speak. "We are collaborating with the relevant authorities to address any misconceptions." The term seems incorrect.

A new wave of dizziness hits me. Karen's features. The voice of Marshall. Jang Food Products.

I shut my eyes tight, but rather than darkness, I see flashes.

I have blood on my hands and a set of frightened eyes looking at me. A soft voice tells me, "Run."

I inhale sharply, my body lurching forward as I return to the present.

Mr. Han is beside me in a flash, holding onto my shoulders.

"Miso, take a breath," he says with conviction. "You are secure."

Secure. I lack a sense of security. I sense I'm submerged in recollections I can't recall.

I grip his sleeve, my voice scarcely a murmur. "What is going on with me?"

Mr. Han's gaze becomes somber, and following an extended silence, he utters the phrase I hadn't anticipated. "I believe you ought to consult a therapist."

I've been living with Mr. Han for a few weeks now, and he has acted like my guardian angel. He motivated me to visit a therapist and even covered the substantial costs.

I can't even picture repaying him, so I've concluded that the minimum I can do is to improve myself and ease his worries.

I began visiting the therapist last week, and to be honest, it has been beneficial. I've also chosen to find employment since I can't continue relying on Mr. Han, regardless of how often he encourages me to do so.

Today, I attended a therapy session and am currently walking the streets looking for any job postings I come across. The city is more crowded than I expected.

Unexpectedly, I navigate the bustling streets as if I've done it countless times before.

I clutch the strap of my bag more firmly and pause in front of a stylish corporate building, examining the job board by the entrance.

"Administrator, Custodian." "Interns required," I whisper while running my fingers along the list, browsing through job advertisements.

Out of the blue, a voice I recognize calls out from behind me, "I know you."

The words cut through the air like a knife.

I become immobile.

Chapter 7 Unraveling The Past

You might like