The apartment was quieter than usual.
Not peaceful—Quiet in the way that comes after a storm, when the air still trembles from what just happened.
His mother sat on the floor with a stack of fabric in her lap—the ones she'd bought with yesterday's wallet money. Her hands hovered uncertainly, as if she was afraid to begin.
On the small table beside her was the business card the boutique woman had given.
Han MirinMirin's Handcrafted BoutiqueInsadong, Seoul
A real business.A real opportunity.A real doorway to freedom.
But she was scared.
He could see it in the way she kept touching the card, then pulling her hand back.Touching it again.Then hesitating.
Fear isn't loud.Fear is quiet, whispering:
What if I fail?What if I'm not good enough?What if they laugh?What if they reject me?
He crawled closer and placed his tiny hand on her knee.
She looked down, forcing a smile."You're always watching me, aren't you?"
He babbled softly, then leaned against her leg as if giving her strength.
She needed it.
Because in the poor part of the city…Success was dangerous.
After a long moment of breathing in and out, she finally picked up the card.
Her hands shook as she dialed.
The phone rang.Once.Twice.
Then—
"Hello?"
It was the boutique owner's voice—strong, warm, steady.
His mother swallowed. "H-Hello… it's… the woman from the market yesterday… the one who made the wallets."
"Oh! Hello!" Mirin said cheerfully. "I'm so glad you called. I wanted to place a real order."
His mother's eyes widened. "A… real order?"
"Yes. I want twenty wallets to start. If they sell well, we'll increase the numbers."
Twenty.
His mother nearly dropped the phone.
She covered her mouth to stop herself from crying in front of the baby.
"I… I can make them," she whispered.
"Wonderful," Mirin said. "Take your time. I'm not rushing you. Quality is more important than speed."
Quality.
Not cheap labor.
His mother nodded repeatedly, though Mirin couldn't see her.
"Thank you… thank you so much…"
After the call ended, she sank to the floor, trembling—not in fear, but in disbelief.
The baby watched her quietly.
This was no longer small hope.
This was opportunity.
This was momentum.
This… was the beginning of her independence.
Later that afternoon, while she bought extra thread and fabric, two older women from the neighborhood stopped her.
"…You heard about what happened? That sewing shop owner is furious."
"Yeah, I heard he smashed a chair this morning, screaming about her."
"He said she betrayed him."
"He said he won't give her any work anymore."
His mother froze.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric bags.
One woman sighed dramatically. "Her life is finished now. Without the shop, she'll starve."
A burning ache entered her throat—the ache of someone who feared she'd thrown her only safety net away.
She bowed quickly and dragged the stroller home.
He watched everything—her trembling hands,her shallow breath,her watery eyes.
He wanted to speak.To say:
"You didn't lose security.You lost chains."
But he couldn't.
Not yet.
When they returned home, she placed him in the crib and began sewing, still shaking from fear.
He didn't cry.He didn't demand anything.He simply watched.
Hours passed.
Her fingers moved mechanically, stitching wallet after wallet with a kind of desperate precision.
She was terrified of failing the boutique's order.
He understood that feeling better than anyone.
Failure meant hunger.Homelessness.Pain.
But he wasn't helpless anymore—not mentally.
When she took a short break to drink water, he climbed out of the crib (clumsy but determined) and crawled to the stack of finished wallets.
He inspected them.
The stitching was good, but inconsistent.Edges weren't clean enough.Some corners were too thick.Some folds weren't symmetrical.
She was rushing because she was afraid.
He needed to fix that.
He lifted one wallet—Held it to the light—And pressed his tiny finger against the uneven seam.
His mother gasped.
"Baby! No—don't touch that!"
She reached for it, but then stopped.
She saw what he was pointing at.
The crooked seam.
The uneven line.
She blinked.
"You… noticed that?"
He nodded.
She picked up another wallet—another flaw he had scanned—and her eyes widened even more.
"These aren't perfect…" she whispered.
She sat back down with new determination, the fear replaced by something sharper:
Pride.Focus.Skill.
"I'll remake them," she said softly.
This time…with confidence.
He watched her back straighten.
Her hands steadied.
Her breathing slowed.
And the sewing became smoother.
Cleaner.
Beautiful.
He didn't need to speak.
He didn't need to explain.
He just needed to guide.
At dusk, as she hung the finished wallets to dry, she froze near the window.
Someone was standing across the street.
The teenage boy.
He wasn't smirking today.
He wasn't yelling.
He was just… watching.
His arms crossed.Expression unreadable.Cold eyes following every movement inside their apartment.
His mother shut the curtain quickly, her hands trembling.
The baby crawled to the curtain and peeked through a tiny gap.
The boy was still there.
Watching.
Not curious.
Not annoyed.
Calculating.
Like someone who had decided they were no longer dealing with a harmless poor woman…
But with a potential threat.
A rival.A competitor.
A problem.
The baby felt calm.
Almost too calm.
Because in his past life, he'd seen this type before:
People who feared losing control.People who grew from petty bullies to real enemies.People who would sabotage others to stay on top.
He wasn't scared.
Because he knew one truth:
Bullies succeed when victims stay silent.But he would not be silent.Not in this life.
Later that night, his mother held him tightly while trying to sleep.
"I'm scared," she whispered to the darkness. "But… I want to try. I want to be strong for you."
He pressed his hand to her chest again—the same place he always touched when she needed courage.
Her breathing steadied.
She fell asleep hugging him, like he was both her child and her shield.
And as he looked at the moonlight casting shadows across the floor, he made a silent promise:
The sewing shop owner wanted her controlled.The teenage boy wanted her frightened.The world wanted her weak.
But he?
He wanted her free.And he would burn the entire city from the ground up before he let anyone break her again.
The world had just made its first real mistake—
It had provoked a man who had already died once.