The ink of Rosannah’s letter had long since dried against his ribs, yet the warmth of her words continued to radiate through his heavy woollen coat like a localised hearth, enveloping him in a comforting embrace. Jungkook stood at the imposing oak table in the kitchen, its surface scarred by years of meals and memories. The mid-afternoon light streamed through the small, leaded glass window, casting long, golden beams that danced across the worn stone floor, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air.

Before him lay the basket she had left behind, now devoid of vibrant blooms, but heavy with the invisible weight of their shifting reality, as though it carried the echoes of conversations that would never be had and the promise of untold distance.