Three Years Earlier

June 13, 2023

Seattle, Washington

By six in the morning, the community center already smelled like sugar, coffee, and rain.

Seattle had woken beneath a gray sky, the kind that made windows mist at the edges and sidewalks shine like old photographs. Outside, volunteers unloaded boxes from vans with hoods pulled over their heads. Inside, the heater hummed, folding warmth into the wide halls while banners were taped against walls, chairs dragged into rows, donation jars arranged on tables, and the first batch of cupcakes came out of the oven.

The charity program was called Three Days of Light.

It had been organized to raise funds for orphaned children- school supplies, winter clothing, medical checkups, meals, sponsorships, and scholarships. For three days, local artists, business owners, students, teachers, and volunteers would fill the community center with workshops and stalls. Every dollar earned would go toward the children.

Some people had offered paintings. Some had brought handmade crafts. A retired music teacher had agreed to give beginner piano lessons in exchange for donations. A florist had set up a bouquet-making table. A group of college students had arranged storytelling sessions for children.

In the main hall, a photography corner had been built with a simple white backdrop, two lights, and a handwritten sign that read:

 Portraits for a Purpose — Pay What You Can

 Near the east wing, the cafeteria had become the busiest section of the entire building.

That was Cella Vetrova’s fault.

At age of twenty-eight, Cella had somehow been trusted with the responsibility of feeding half the building. Volunteers joked that the organizers had either overestimated her abilities or underestimated her stubbornness.

Cella believed both were possible.

 She had arrived before sunrise with flour on one sleeve, a long braid over her shoulder, and an expression that warned everyone not to stand idle in her kitchen unless they wished to be assigned work.

By eight, she had arranged breakfast for volunteers.

By ten, she had sent trays of sandwiches to the front desk.

By noon, she had corrected three confused helpers, rescued a pot of soup before it burned, stopped one teenager from carrying hot coffee without gloves, and convinced a nervous twelve-year-old boy that, yes, ugly cookies still tasted good.

By three, people were asking who had made the blueberry muffins.

By five, they were asking whether she owned a bakery.

By seven, Cella’s feet hurt enough to make murder seem reasonable.

 Still, she did not stop.

 “Careful with that tray,” she called out as someone moved past the counter too quickly.

The volunteer froze. “Sorry.”

 “You’re not sorry yet. You’ll be sorry when you drop thirty cupcakes and I make you explain it to the children.”

A laugh broke out somewhere nearby. The volunteer slowed immediately. Cella smiled faintly and continued arranging chocolate cupcakes in straight rows.

 The cafeteria was crowded but organized. She had made sure of that. Meals were set along the left side: pasta, roasted vegetables, chicken, rice, soup, and salad. Desserts were displayed along the counter near the window. Drinks sat near the far end, away from the hot food to avoid collisions. She had explained the system to every volunteer twice.

Some still forgot. She forgave them. Mostly.

“Cella?” a woman called from near the back.

“Yes?”

“We’re running low on vanilla frosting.”

“Second shelf. Flower shape-lid container. Not the square-lid one. That’s cream cheese, and if you mix them up, I’ll cry.”

“You don’t cry.”

 “I’ll make you cry, then.”

 Another laugh. Cella reached for the next cupcake liner, fingers moving over the counter with practiced ease. The table had become familiar to her over the last several hours: trays in front, donation jar to the right, napkins beside it, tongs angled near the edge. Every object had its place. When people left things where they belonged, life was simple.

People rarely left things where they belonged.

 “Who moved the chocolate tray?” she asked.

Silence. That guilty kind of silence. Cella slowly lifted her head.

 “I know someone moved it.”

 A young volunteer- Liam cleared his throat. “I thought it looked better in the middle.”

“It looked better where I put it.”

 “It was only 2 feet.”

“Two feet is the difference between a system and chaos, Liam.”

 “Sorry.”

 “Don’t apologize. Move it back.”

The tray slid across the table and Liam muttered, “How do you even notice everything?”

 Cella’s mouth curved. “Fear.”

He laughed, but she heard the curiosity beneath it. People were often curious. Some were polite about it. Some were not. Cella had learned to let curiosity pass through her like weather. Answering every silent question exhausted her more than work ever could.

 So she simply adjusted the tray, brushed a thumb along the edge of the counter, and continued.

 The day had gone well. Better than expected, in fact.

 The children had eaten enough to make the cooks proud. The volunteers from outside Seattle had complimented the meals. The cupcake counter alone had raised more money than anyone predicted. By early evening, the donation jar had grown so full that the organizers had replaced it with a lockbox.

 That mattered.

 When Cella had agreed to volunteer, she had not done it to be praised. She had done it because she knew what it felt like to grow up needing help and hating the word help at the same time.

 People loved offering kindness when it made them feel noble. They loved giving advice. They loved standing over someone’s life like they knew how it should be lived. Cella had no patience for that.

Food was different. Food did not pity. Food simply warmed the hand, filled the stomach, settled the heart. A child did not need to feel grateful for a warm meal. A child needed to eat.

 That was why she was here. That, and because Nyra had bullied her into signing up. You need people, Nyra had said over the phone. Real people. Not ovens, not piano keys, not café plans.

 Cella had told her ovens were less disappointing than people. Nyra had told her to stop being dramatic and volunteer anyway. So here she was, running a charity cafeteria on two hours of sleep, surviving on coffee, spite, and the occasional broken cookie.

Across the building, Kim Taehyung was surviving on less.

His booth had been full since morning. At first, he had thought the photography corner would be manageable. A few portraits, some quick edits, maybe a handful of family shots. He had volunteered because children were involved, and because his studio had finally become stable enough for him to give something back without panicking over every unpaid hour.

He had not expected a line. He had definitely not expected children to discover his sketchbook. By noon, the portrait booth had somehow become two workshops in one.

People paid for photographs. Then children tugged at his sleeve and asked if he could draw them too. Then parents asked if he could sketch their children.

Then a grandmother asked whether he could make her wrinkles “less honest.” Taehyung had smiled at that.

He smiled often when working, even when tired. A camera between his hands made the world easier to understand. People revealed themselves differently when they thought they were being captured. Some became shy. Some performed confidence. Some softened when they stood beside someone they loved.

Taehyung noticed all of it.

The way a little boy gripped his sister’s sleeve before every flash. The way a volunteer laughed too loudly whenever someone praised him, embarrassed by kindness.

Details mattered.

Light mattered. Angles mattered. Silence mattered most of all.

He liked quiet things because quiet things did not demand explanations. Unfortunately, charity events were not quiet.

By late afternoon, his shoulders ached from holding his camera. Charcoal dust stained his fingers. His throat felt dry though he had barely spoken. He had spent the whole day watching faces, reading expressions, catching words from lips when necessary, nodding when people thanked him, smiling when children showed him missing teeth.

A little girl with two braids had insisted he draw her as a princess-warrior.

“Not a princess,” she corrected seriously when he showed her the first sketch. “Princess-warrior.”

He added a sword. She approved.

The donation jar at his booth filled steadily. That made the exhaustion worth it. Still, by the time the organizers announced that workshops would close for the day in thirty minutes, Taehyung wanted three things:

Food, water and five minutes where nobody asked him to make them look “natural” while posing like a frightened mannequin. He packed his charcoal pencils into their tin case and wiped his fingers with a damp cloth. One of the volunteers, a college student named Marco, helped unplug the lights.

“Man, you were popular today,” Marco said.

Taehyung glanced at his mouth, caught the words, and shrugged.

Marco grinned. “You should’ve charged more.”

Taehyung pointed toward the donation jar.

Marco lifted both hands. “Right. Charity. I know.”

A child darted past them, nearly colliding with the tripod. Taehyung reached out quickly and caught the stand before it fell. The child turned around, cheeks round with panic.

“Sorry!”

Taehyung smiled and waved it off. The boy ran away.

Marco looked impressed. “Fast reflexes.”

Taehyung rubbed the back of his neck. Fast reflexes came naturally when the world reached him half a second differently than it reached everyone else.

He did not say that. He rarely said more than necessary.

After locking his camera bag, he lifted the strap over one shoulder and headed toward the cafeteria. Warm air greeted him first. Then the smell.

Garlic. Butter. Coffee. Chocolate. Something sweet with vanilla.

His stomach tightened. He stepped into the meal line and filled a plate with pasta, roasted vegetables, chicken, and bread. The portions were generous. Whoever had been in charge of food had either planned carefully or feared hungry volunteers.

Both deserved respect.

He took a bottle of water and scanned the room for dessert. That was when he saw the cupcake counter.

Rows of cupcakes sat beneath soft yellow lights, each one decorated with a clean swirl of frosting. Some had chocolate curls. Some had little sugar pearls. Others were topped with berries. They looked handmade, not bought in bulk, and something about that made him cross the room without thinking.

Behind the counter stood a woman in a dark green apron.

She was arranging cupcakes as if their survival depended on symmetry.

A loose braid fell over one shoulder. Strands of hair had escaped near her face. There was flour on her sleeve and the kind of exhaustion around her mouth that suggested she had been one inconvenience away from violence for at least two hours.

Taehyung stopped in front of the counter. Before he could open his mouth,

she said, “$2.5 per cupcake. Vanilla or chocolate?”

He paused. She was not looking at him. She was looking somewhere past his left shoulder.

No. Not even past his shoulder. Closer to the wall. Taehyung glanced behind him. No one stood there. He looked back.

The woman waited with a customer-service smile that was polite enough to be dangerous.

He shifted slightly, thinking maybe she had mistaken someone else’s presence. Her face did not follow.

“Two-fifty,” she repeated. “Vanilla or chocolate?”

Taehyung frowned. “What?”

Her smile thinned. “Two dollars and fifty cents per cupcake. Vanilla or chocolate?”

He studied her face. She looked serious. Completely serious. Still not looking at him.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

Her fingers stilled on the edge of the tray. Slowly, she turned her head a fraction in his direction, though not quite enough. “To you.”

“No, you’re not.” He responded too quickly.

A tiny silence. Then she laughed once, without humor. “I’m sorry?”

He looked straight into her eyes, “You’re talking to the wall.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I am talking to the person standing in front of my cupcake counter.”

“Then maybe try looking at the person standing in front of your cupcake counter.”

Cella didn’t have time for this chit-chat and unnecessary explanations.

“Do you want the cupcake,” she asked sweetly, “or did you come here to review my customer service posture?”

His brows rose. “Customer service?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what this is?”

“That was my first attempt.”

“And this?”

“The version you earned.”

He stared at her. She stared at somewhere near his shoulder. Was she mocking him, he thought. For a long second, neither moved. Then Taehyung set his plate carefully on the counter. His jaw tightened. He had dealt with impatience all his life.

People turning away while speaking, covering their mouths, mumbling from another room, snapping when he asked them to repeat themselves. People assumed attention worked the same way for everyone. They assumed communication was easy because it was easy for them.

And now this woman, who seemed perfectly capable of facing him, acted as if he was the unreasonable one for expecting basic respect.

“Do you not have manners?” he asked.

Her expression sharpened. “Manners?”

“Yes. Manners. The little social practice where people look at someone when they’re speaking to them.”

The words landed harder than he expected. Something changed in her face. Not anger. Not exactly. A flicker. A door closing. Something that stung, her eyes suddenly looked hurt, though still looking somewhere over his shoulder.

Her voice dropped. “I would if I could.”

Taehyung hesitated. The cafeteria noise seemed to move around them.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said, each word clipped, “I would look into your deeply offended eyes if I could.”

His frown deepened. Cella exhaled, the kind of breath people took when they had explained something too many times in one life.

“I’m blind.”

Taehyung stared at her. For several seconds, nothing made sense.

Blind.

The word did not match what he saw. Her eyes were clear. Focused, almost. Beautiful in a way that made his doubt feel uglier. They did not look clouded. They did not look different. She stood behind the counter with complete control over everything around her- the trays, the money box, the tongs, the volunteers, the entire rhythm of the place.

He looked at her eyes again. Then at her hands. Then at the neat rows of cupcakes.

“No, you’re not,” he said before he could stop himself.

The second the words left his mouth, he knew they had been the wrong ones.

Taehyung lifted a hand slightly. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to accuse me of lying about my own eyes? Because that is impressive.” She nodded as if genuinely considering it. “Rude, but impressive.”

“I said you don’t look blind.”

“And you don’t look like an idiot, yet here we are.”

A sound escaped the volunteer behind her. Something between a cough and a laugh. Taehyung’s eyes flicked toward him. The volunteer immediately became fascinated by napkins.

Taehyung looked back at her. “I was asking because your eyes look normal.”

“Normal.” Her smile returned, but this time it had teeth. “How comforting. Should I thank you?”

He did not answer quickly enough. She leaned slightly forward. His irritation flared again. She was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

She reached for the tongs again, dismissing him. “Vanilla or chocolate?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“I’m selling cupcakes. That is the subject.”

“I still don’t know if you’re actually blind.”

The temperature around them dropped. Even the volunteer stopped pretending to organize napkins. Cella placed the tongs down with deliberate care. Taehyung should have stepped back. He knew that. A normal person would apologize. A smarter person would buy a cupcake and leave.

But exhaustion made him stubborn. Suspicion made him worse. And something about her calm fury made him want proof.

He lifted his hand. Two fingers, slow and careful, moving toward her face.

He stopped just short of her eyes.

Close enough that any sighted person would have blinked. She did not. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. Not the smallest shift in her pupils. Her expression remained cold and perfectly still. But her voice, when it came, was sharp enough to cut. “Are you done?”

Taehyung lowered his hand. Guilt struck first. Then embarrassment. So, she…she really is blind- realisation struck him. And he has been accusing her all along.

“I didn’t touch you,” he said quietly.

“No. You only tested me like I’m a broken lamp someone returned to a store.”

“I—”

“Do people test your body too?”

The question hit harder than he expected. He said nothing.

She continued, voice tight now. “Do they snap their fingers near your face? Whisper insults to see if you react? Ask if you are pretending because you don’t match whatever sad little picture they carry in their heads?”

Taehyung’s throat closed. For the first time since approaching the counter, he had no answer.

Because yes.

They did, not always. Not everyone but  enough. Enough that his silence had old bruises. Cella seemed to hear something in what he did not say. Her anger faltered for half a second. Then returned, safer than softness.

“I’m blind,” she said. “I’ve been blind long enough to know when someone is waving fingers in my face. How many times do I have to say it before you understand? Are you fucking deaf?”

Taehyung looked away and let out a humorless laugh. “Yes.”

She blinked. Then stiffened. “What??”

She hesitated. Then tested him, “Then how are you answering to everything I just said?”

“Because,” he said with utter clarity, voice slower this time, “I’m reading your lips.”

Her lips parted. Closed. Parted again. “You read lips that well?”

“Most of the time.”

Her face shifted. A faint flash of horror. Taehyung almost smiled.

Then she recovered. “Well, your lip-reading skills are clearly better than your manners.”

“And your hearing is better than your customer service.”

“I have excellent customer service.”

“You called me an idiot.”

“You accused me of faking blindness.”

“You called me an idiot before that too.”

“Because you were behaving like one.”

The worst part was that she had a point. A small one. Still unacceptable. He leaned one hand against the counter. “Do you always speak to donors like this?”

She leaned forward too. “Only donors who question my disability before buying dessert.”

“I hadn’t donated yet.”

“Then you’re not even useful.”

Behind her, the volunteer made a strangled sound and quickly walked away.

Taehyung watched him go.

“You run this counter?”

“I run the cafeteria as a part of three day workshop for donation camp”

His eyes moved over her apron, the trays, the meal line, the volunteers glancing toward her for instructions even while pretending not to eavesdrop.

“You?” words escaped before he could control them. Taehyung immediately realized his mistake.

Her expression turned dangerous again. “You sound surprised.”

“I meant—”

“You meant what? That I don’t look capable either?”

He exhaled.

“No.”

“Then?”

He searched for the right words. For someone who spent most of his life relying on observation, reading lips like professional, he was doing a terrible job with speech.

“I meant this place is organized.”

“It is.”

“And busy.”

“It is.”

“And you’re…”

“Blind?” she completed.

“Tired,” he said.

That stopped her. The irritation did not vanish, but something in her shoulders loosened.

Then she looked away from his direction and reached for a cupcake box.

“I’ve been here since five-thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“No, in the afterlife.”

He stared. This woman is absolute impossible to have a normal conversation with. Even her breaths are dipped in sarcasm.

“You?” She asked.

“Eight.” He said a little too proudly.

“Luxury.” Once again, she has to taunt.

He tried not to break his calm demeanour, “I worked the photography booth.”

“Then you stood in one place all day and pressed a button.”

His eyes sharpened. “Is that what you think photography is?”

“No. But you made assumptions about my work, so I wanted to try yours.”

A laugh rose in his chest before he could stop it. He was right, this woman is a menace. Absolute vixen.

He looked at the cupcakes instead, dismissing the matter. “Chocolate.”

“Finally.” She sighed.

She reached toward the tray and picked up a chocolate cupcake with clean, precise movements. If he had not known, if she had not told him, he might not have noticed the tiny details. The way her fingers brushed the edge of the tray before choosing one. The way each item remained exactly where it belonged. The way her body listened before it moved.

She placed the cupcake into a small paper box and slid it across the counter. It stopped directly in front of him.

He looked down. Then at her.

“How did you know where I was standing?”

She sighed. “Again?”

“I’m asking properly this time.”

Her fingers paused near the donation box. Something in his voice must have convinced her because she answered.

“You dragged your left foot when you walked up.”

He looked down. He had been favoring that leg since noon after crouching too long for children’s portraits.

“You set your plate down with your right hand. Fork shifted against ceramic. Water bottle beside it. You leaned on the counter once. Your camera strap clicked against the edge.”

Taehyung said nothing. She continued, almost bored.

“And you breathe like someone who thinks I owe you an apology.”

For a moment, he forgot about the cupcake. Then he took out a five-dollar bill and placed it near the box. “Keep the change.”

“It’s for the children, not me.” She informed.

“I know.”

He should have left. The conversation had already lasted too long. It had been rude, strange, irritating, and entirely unnecessary.

Instead, he found himself asking, “What’s your name?”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because if I’m going to avoid you for the next two days, I need to know what name to listen for.”

She looked at him with a smile that screamed anything but polite.

“I’m Cella,” she said after a beat. “Cella Vetrova.”

The name settled oddly in his mind. Soft at first. Then sharp. Like wind against glass.

“Taehyung,” he said. “Kim Taehyung.”

Beautiful name. She liked the sound of it but maintained her expression into something unreadable.

“Photographer.” She added

“Cupcake tyrant.” He added too.

“Cafeteria coordinator.”  She corrected

“Same thing.” He muttered.

She made a sound under her breath. Something between amusement and annoyance.

Taehyung looked at the cupcake box in his hand. “Is it good?”

“No.”

He glanced up. She shrugged.

“I wake up before sunrise to bake terrible cupcakes for charity. It builds character.”

This time he did smile. Properly. Then her expression hardened, like she had caught herself noticing.

“Move along, Photographer. There are people behind you.”

Taehyung glanced back. There were no people behind him.

He turned toward her slowly.

“You just lied.”

“I’m blind, not holy.”

He lifted the cupcake box in surrender and picked up his dinner plate.

Before leaving, he looked at her one more time. She had already turned slightly, calling instructions toward the kitchen. Taehyung watched her for a second longer than necessary.

Then he turned and walked toward an empty table. He ate the pasta first because he was starving. Then the roasted vegetables. Then the chicken.

He told himself not to look back at the cupcake counter. He looked back twice.

Cella Vetrova did not slow down. She moved through exhaustion as if it had no permission to touch her. Someone tried to carry too many plates; she scolded them without mercy. A child came to the counter with only a handful of coins, and Cella gave him two cupcakes instead of one.

Taehyung noticed that.

He noticed the child’s shy smile. He noticed Cella pretending not to hear the boy say thank you twice.

Then he opened the cupcake box.

Chocolate.

Dark frosting.

A few curls of chocolate on top.

He took a bite. Unfortunately, it was excellent. So delicious that it annoyed him.

Across the cafeteria, Cella pressed her fingers once against the edge of the table and exhaled. The day was almost over.

Her back hurt. Her feet ached. She had frosting on her wrist, flour on her apron, and a headache forming behind her temples. She still needed to check the dinner count, pack leftovers, clean the dessert station, confirm tomorrow’s ingredient delivery, and make sure Liam stopped rearranging the universe two feet at a time.

And now there was also a deaf photographer with suspicious hands and an irritating laugh lodged somewhere in her mind.

How inconvenient. She did not like him. Obviously.

He had questioned her blindness, insulted her manners, waved fingers in her face, and stood at her counter like an offended prince waiting for the world to apologize.

She definitely did not like him. But the way his voice had changed when he said, I am deaf—

That had stayed. Because she felt guilty. She has been wrong too.

Cella reached for the next tray. Her fingers brushed empty space. She froze.

“Liam.”

From the kitchen doorway came a nervous, “Yes?”

“Where is the vanilla tray?”

A pause. Then, very quietly, “Two feet to the left?”

Cella closed her eyes.

Somewhere across the cafeteria, a soft laugh reached her. Low. Rusty. Unfairly warm. Taehyung! Her head turned before she could stop it.

Not toward him exactly. But close enough. At his table, Taehyung looked away too quickly.

Cella’s mouth tightened. Interesting. She was right, he is a bratty photographer. No need to feel guilty, instead she had urge to punch him. But she won’t, she reminded herself.

The first day of the charity program ended with rain tapping against the windows, volunteers stacking chairs, children carrying leftover balloons, and two strangers pretending not to notice each other from across the cafeteria.

One blind.

One deaf.

Both exhausted. Both offended.

Both absolutely certain the other was impossible.

And neither of them knew, not then, that three years later, when darkness came for them in a different form, this ridiculous argument over a chocolate cupcake would be the first memory they would ache to return to.

For now, all she thought was-  So smug. I can hear his ego from here.

Taehyung stared at her. Then, against his better judgment, smiled.

The first day ended there. But with a blind baker and a deaf photographer standing on opposite sides of a noisy cafeteria, both irritated enough to remember each other.

Sometimes that was how stories began.

Not softly.

Not beautifully.

But with two people colliding so badly that fate, amused and merciless, decided to make them meet again.

Suddenly the bell at the counter chimed again, a melodious voice filled the silence,

“Noona Cella…”