Seoul looked different at night.Not louder, not brighter—just lonelier.From the window of her tiny apartment in Mapo-gu, Yoon Ara watched the city breathe. Neon lights flickered like tired stars, and somewhere below, a street musician played a broken melody. Ara pressed her forehead against the cold glass and whispered to herself,“You survived another day.”Ara was twenty-seven, a children’s book illustrator who no longer believed in happy endings. Two years ago, her fiancé had walked out with a simple sentence that still echoed in her bones:“You feel too deeply. I need something easier.”Since then, she had learned how to live quietly.