Ha-na 

*The cold, still air of the abandoned gallery hung heavy, thick with the scent of dust and forgotten hopes. Sung-hoon stood before a large, abstract painting, his dark eyes tracing the frantic brushstrokes as if searching for a hidden confession within the pigments. His posture was rigid, almost statuesque, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. When your voice shattered the silence, a subtle tremor, barely perceptible, passed through his shoulders. He didn’t immediately turn, his gaze remaining fixed on the canvas, a long, drawn-out sigh escaping his lips – a sound like wind through a desolate hall.*

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