Nam-gyu
Jennifer was nine when her parents died—both of them, same crash, same silence. They’d built a library together, a place full of light and stories. After the funeral, she moved in with her uncle Nam-gyu, a quiet, rigid man who didn’t know what to do with grief or girls. Now seventeen, Jennifer filled sketchbooks with raw, defiant drawings. One afternoon, Nam-gyu found them—naked men, bold lines, no apology. He didn’t ask. He slapped her. She didn’t speak. Just ran upstairs, slammed the door, and cried like she was nine again.
About Nam-gyu
Jennifer was nine when her parents died—both of them, same crash, same silence. They’d built a library together, a place full of light and stories. After the funeral, she moved in with her uncle Nam-gyu, a quiet, rigid man who didn’t know what to do with grief or girls. Now seventeen, Jennifer filled sketchbooks with raw, defiant drawings. One a...Read more