Chapter 1

1715words2026-02-06 07:22

The sky was clear that morning — soft blue, scattered with drifting white clouds. The sound of wind chimes came from a small wooden house at the edge of the street, where a little girl sat by the window, holding a crayon in her tiny hands.
Her name was Chaerin Lee, six years old, barefoot, hair tied in uneven pigtails. She loved to draw the sky — not because it was beautiful, but because it never looked the same twice. Every morning, she would tell her mother,
Mommy, the sky is smiling today.”

And her mother would laugh, gently brushing her daughter’s hair.
“Then smile back, my little sunshine. The world smiles at those who smile at it.”
That line stayed with Chaerin her whole life.
The alarm clock had not yet rung when Chaerin’s eyes opened. Morning light filtered through the thin curtains of her small bedroom, painting the walls with a golden warmth. She lay there for a moment, still in her dreams, before rolling out of bed with the quiet discipline her parents had instilled in her. She brushed her hair carefully, tying it back with two white ribbons that fluttered as she moved.
“Chaerin, breakfast!” her mother’s voice called from downstairs.
She ran down, her bare feet pattering against the wooden floor. At the table, the smell of rice and miso soup filled the air. Her father folded the newspaper, looking at her with that steady gaze of his.

“Be a good girl today,” he said, as he always did.
Chaerin smiled, her eyes bright. “I always am, Papa.”
At school, Chaerin’s kindness shone even brighter. When she entered the classroom, a quiet boy sat at his desk, his lunchbox empty. He avoided everyone’s eyes. Without hesitation, Chaerin broke her sandwich in two and slipped half onto his desk.
“You need this more than I do,” she whispered.

The boy blinked, his lips parting as though to say something, but instead he gave her the faintest smile—the first anyone had seen from him in weeks.
Later, when another student was mocked for failing a test, Chaerin didn’t laugh with the others. She sat beside the girl, placing a hand on her arm.
“Don’t worry. Next time, we’ll win together. I’ll help you study,” she promised.
Her teachers noticed, too. Teacher Wae, the literature teacher, handed back Chaerin’s essay with a nod of approval. “Your words carry sincerity. Don’t lose that.”
But instead of basking in praise, Chaerin glanced around the room. She wanted to make sure the others had done well too. She never wanted to stand above anyone; she wanted to bring them alongside her.
After school, Chaerin and her closest friend, Asumi, walked home beneath the cherry blossoms.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Asumi asked, tossing a petal into the wind.
Chaerin’s eyes softened. “A nurse. Because the best thing a person can do is care for others—heal them, even when no one else does.”
Asumi laughed, nudging her shoulder. “You’re too good for this world.”
Chaerin smiled. “Maybe. But the world needs people who believe in goodness, don’t you think?”
Sundays were her favorite days. Her family gathered at church, voices blending as they sang hymns. Chaerin’s voice wasn’t the loudest, but it was the most sincere. She prayed, not for riches or success, but for her friends, her neighbors, even strangers she passed in the street.
“Let them know love,” she whispered. “Let them know kindness.”
The church elder often remarked, “Chaerin, you remind us what faith looks like when it’s lived, not just spoken.”
But her truest sanctuary was the garden behind her house. Her father loved the soil, and he taught Chaerin how to plant seeds and wait for life to bloom. One spring evening, he placed a tiny bulb into her hands.
“This is yours,” he said. “A white lily. Take care of it, and it will remind you who you are.”
Chaerin knelt in the dirt, pressing the bulb gently into the earth as though tucking in a child. Each morning after that, she checked the soil, whispered to the ground, and smiled when the first green stem broke through.
“Grow strong,” she told it. “We’ll grow together.”
And like the lily, Chaerin bloomed—gentle, bright, untouched by the shadows that lingered just beyond the edge of her world.
For now, innocence surrounded her like a shield. For now, the whispers of corruption had not yet reached her ears.
The Bread and the Bird
One spring day, Chaerin walked with a small basket, heading toward the park. Inside the basket were pieces of bread her mother baked earlier that morning. The scent of butter followed her with every step.
At the park, a small injured sparrow lay under a bench, its wing trembling. Other children passed by without noticing. But Chaerin stopped.
She knelt down, her small fingers trembling, and whispered,
“Don’t be scared… I’ll help you.”
She tore a small piece of bread and placed it near the bird. It didn’t move at first, but then it hopped closer. Chaerin smiled — the kind of smile that could melt the clouds themselves.
When her friend Asumi, a year older, found her there, she asked,
“Why are you talking to a bird, silly?”
Chaerin looked up, holding the sparrow in her palm.
“Because maybe no one ever talked to it kindly.”
Asumi tilted her head. “You’re weird, you know that?”
Chaerin giggled. “Maybe. But if I can make even a bird happy, then I’m happy too.”
They both sat there under the sunlight, watching the bird slowly flap its wing again.
The Garden of Little Dreams
Chaerin loved flowers — especially lilies. Behind her house, there was a tiny garden her father made for her. Every evening, she’d water each flower carefully, whispering small prayers to them.
One evening, when the sun was about to set, Asumi came running.
“Chaerin! Come play hide and seek!”
Chaerin shook her head gently. “Not now. They’re thirsty.”
Asumi rolled her eyes. “They’re just plants!”
Chaerin smiled, holding the watering can close to her chest.
“Maybe. But they bloom because someone loves them.”
When she finished watering, she plucked a single white lily and gave it to Asumi.
“Here. This one’s for you.”
Asumi looked at it, puzzled. “Why?”
“Because white lilies mean kindness. And you’re kind to me.”
That was how their friendship began — in the middle of sunlight and soil, surrounded by flowers that carried secrets of innocence.
The Christmas Snow
That winter was the first time Chaerin saw snow. She ran outside barefoot, hands spread wide, trying to catch the flakes that fell like feathers.
Her laughter echoed through the neighborhood — soft, pure, untamed.
Asumi followed behind, slipping on the snow and yelling,
“Wait for me!”
Chaerin turned back, cheeks red, hair full of snowflakes.
“Faster, Asumi! The snow will stop soon!”
They built a small snowman near the fence. Chaerin placed her red scarf around its neck, even though her own hands were freezing.
Asumi frowned. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Chaerin smiled. “But Mr. Snowman looks happier now.”
Asumi watched her for a moment and whispered,
“You’re strange… but I like you, Chaerin.”
Chaerin giggled. “Then we’ll always be friends, right?”
They made a pinky promise right there — under the falling snow.
A Letter to Heaven
A few months later, Chaerin found a baby bird that didn’t survive the storm. She buried it gently in the garden and wrote a tiny note on a piece of torn paper:
“Dear Heaven, please let this bird fly again somewhere beautiful.”
She folded the note, placed it under the soil, and whispered,
“I hope God reads it.”
Asumi, standing beside her, said softly,
“You really think He does?”
Chaerin looked up at the sky — that endless blue she always loved — and said,
“Yes. Because I talk to Him every day.”
Asumi didn’t understand then, but she remembered it for years.
The Promise
One night, Chaerin’s father was sitting in the living room, watching her color in her sketchbook. He asked,
“What are you drawing, sweetheart?”
Chaerin smiled. “I’m drawing everyone I love — you, mom, Asumi, and the sky.”
Her father laughed. “The sky too?”
She nodded. “Because it’s always watching over us.”
He kissed her forehead. “Then promise me one thing — always keep that heart of yours safe. Don’t let the world make it hard.”
Chaerin looked at him, eyes wide. “I promise, Daddy.”
And that night, when she fell asleep, she dreamt of flying — not as a bird, but as light itself, spreading warmth over everyone she loved.
But the world was patient. And shadows always wait.
One afternoon, Chaerin and Asumi lay under the shade of a tree near the schoolyard, eating ice cream.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Asumi asked, gazing at the sky.
Chaerin’s eyes lit up. “I want to be a nurse. Helping people is the best thing a human can do.”
Asumi smiled. “That’s so you. Always thinking of others.”
But then Chaerin hesitated. The memory of Ms.Wae’s praise echoed in her mind. Slowly, her tone shifted.
“Actually… maybe I don’t just want to help people. I want to be the best. I want everyone to know my name. And if anyone tries to stop me, I’ll crush them. I’ll be rich, Asumi. Rich and untouchable.”
Asumi froze, her ice cream dripping onto her hand. The words didn’t sound like Chaerin—the gentle, humble girl she knew.
“Chaerin… why would you say something like that?”
Chaerin laughed it off, a little too loudly. “I’m just joking! Don’t look so serious.”
But Asumi’s eyes lingered on her friend. She had seen something—just a flicker—something sharp beneath the innocence. And though she smiled, her heart carried a quiet unease.
That night, Chaerin watered her lily. The flower swayed gently under the moonlight.
“You’ll grow strong,” she whispered to it. “Just like me. No one can stop us.”
Her words were soft, but they carried a new edge—something her family and friends had yet to notice. The white lily stood tall in its pot, but in Chaerin’s heart, a shadow had begun to form.
Her innocence was not lost, not yet. But the first crack had appeared.