To Park Do-joon, Han Yoo-hwa was initially nothing more than a passing amusement. At least, that was how it had started.

    *Screeech.*

    “Here she is, the eldest daughter of the Han family, Han Yoo-hwa, whom you were so desperate to find. Feeling satisfied now?”

    “Oh dear, there seems to be some misunderstanding... I was looking for your brother, not you.”

    “...Pardon?”

    Their first meeting had been a mix of misunderstandings and coincidence. Upon realizing her mistake, Han Yoo-hwa’s cheeks and ears flushed red in embarrassment.

    From that day forward, Park Do-joon began visiting her home more frequently—first, once a month, then every two weeks, then weekly, until he was visiting nearly every day.

    There was something amusing in seeing her flustered every time their eyes met, averting her gaze and fidgeting shyly. Her reactions reminded him of a ripening chestnut, ready to burst open.

    Then, one day, during an unexpected rainstorm that forced him to stay with her longer than usual...

    “So, you’re saying you’ve never set foot outside the main gate?”

    “Yes. Is there a problem with that?”

    They shared a deeper conversation than usual, and through it, Park Do-joon learned that Han Yoo-hwa had lived her life like an orchid in a pot, confined to her quarters.

    Though her grand, tile-roofed house was spacious, it was cramped compared to the world beyond. So, the next day...

    “L-Lord, please slow down a bit. I can’t keep up with your fast pace.”

    “Strange, I thought I was already walking slowly enough.”

    With uncharacteristic insistence, he took her to the marketplace to let her see the world outside her home.

    He wanted to witness her experiencing the bustling world beyond her walls, reacting with awe to each new sight.

    Then, a merchant with a long beard approached them and offered her a beautiful floral hairpin. When she placed it on her head and turned to face him...

    “Why... why aren’t you saying anything? Do you think it suits me, or does it not?”

    For a brief moment, Park Do-joon couldn’t tell what was the flower and what was Han Yoo-hwa.

    Seeing his usually calm demeanor shift made Han Yoo-hwa tilt her head in puzzlement. Though he never voiced it nor admitted it to himself, after that moment, he found himself growing fond of her. There was no denying that affection had crept into even his lighthearted teasing.

    He began to cherish her with the delicate care one would reserve for fine porcelain, treating her with more reverence than any relationship he had formed before.

    It wasn’t entirely devoid of love, but it was less a romantic feeling and more a human-to-human desire to see her happy.

    And that was why, when she found herself lamenting her arranged marriage to a man her father’s age, he offered her his hand.

    “I’ll show you as many times as it takes why foolish flowers keep blooming.”

    *Crunch.*

    Han Yoo-hwa took one final step, distancing herself from Park Do-joon as much as she could. And then—

    *Thwack.*

    Arrows pierced her frail shoulders, her dirt-stained chest, her bruised arms.

    *Thwack.*

    *Thwack-thwack-thwack...*

    The soldiers drove their arrows deeper into her, relentless, ensuring the life was entirely drained from the cursed creature.

    *Thud.*

    Her small knees buckled as red began to seep through the white fabric of her hanbok.

    Even so, she struggled to hold on to her fading consciousness, lifting her head one last time.

    With her gaze fixed on the clear, wide night sky above—the place where he had come from and would eventually return—she uttered her final wish, barely a whisper for anyone to hear.

    “Please... stay safe...”

    And with that, her small, lonely figure collapsed on the boundary between the reeds and the road.

    As she lay there, all warmth drained from her body. The only thing left behind was a single tear that slipped from her half-closed eye.

    “...Cut.”

    It was an “okay” from Director Song Tae-gwon, devoid of any enthusiasm, no words of praise.

    Yet no one thought he was being stingy. Everyone knew that this wasn’t a reflection of Ha-eun’s performance.

    It was a natural reaction. The entire crew, including the extras who had been shooting hostile glances at her just moments before, had been utterly captivated by her acting.

    Her performance had been a fusion of situational depth and raw emotion, a display of that special “something” Sung-ah had once recognized in Ha-eun.

    Call it charisma, presence, or aura, but whatever it was, it defied precise explanation.

    ‘They say an actor speaks through their performance...’

    Ha-eun’s portrayal forced everyone to feel only what she intended, leaving no room for stray thoughts.

    Her performance was like a deep, sticky swamp—once you were pulled in, there was no escape. Without any need for flashy praise, it was terrifying in its power to consume.