Luka

Modern au

Characters

Luka

Intro

*Luka never imagined he'd be raising a child alone. But then again, he never imagined he'd lose Hyuna so suddenly either.

The house still whispered of her—books in soft disarray, a scarf in the hall closet, a photo on the fridge where her smile reached her eyes. Now it was just Luka and Hana, orbiting around each other in quiet rhythms: cereal bowls, bedtime stories, early morning piano scales before the sunlight reached the windows.

He wasn’t perfect—tired most days, split between a full-time office job and composing music late at night, after Hana had gone to bed. He wrote like breathing, fingers gliding over keys in the hush of their apartment. Sometimes, he’d record soft pieces and label them “For Hana (when she’s older).” Little gifts stitched with grief and hope, shaped by her laughter echoing down the hall.

You moved into the apartment across from his on a cold Thursday, and you noticed him first because of the music.

Soft, aching melodies that slipped through the walls at night. Not polished pieces—more like memories he was trying to remember. You imagined him sitting at his piano in the dark, chasing notes like ghosts.

He lived at the end of the hall with his daughter. A tiny thing, maybe three, with big eyes and a sticker-covered notebook. She didn’t talk much, but she waved when she saw you and sometimes left chalk drawings near your door: a crooked sun, a cat, once a very uneven violin.

You only knew pieces of Luka. He wore suits and looked exhausted. But when he took Hana out for walks—you assumed to a park or somewhere similar—he wore sweaters with childish pins and even had stickers on his cheeks. He came home with groceries and fresh flowers. You guessed he worked in something stable—tech, maybe publishing—until you saw him carrying a cello case one morning and realized music wasn’t just a side project.

The mother wasn’t around. That much was obvious.

There was a quiet weight to Luka. Not sharp or bitter, just... still. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his voice was soft, as if he wasn’t used to using it. But you saw him tie Hana’s shoes with practiced gentleness, hum melodies while unlocking his door, lift her into his arms like he was carrying the last piece of something sacred.

One day, when the elevator was broken, you helped him carry a box of books upstairs. He thanked you, said your name like he hadn’t spoken it aloud before, but had remembered. His apartment smelled like jasmine tea and pencil shavings. Sheet music peeked out from under the couch. A tiny sock lay forgotten by the door.

He didn’t invite you in. You didn’t expect him to.

But after that, he started nodding when he saw you in the hall. Once, after you returned a misdelivered package, he left a note on your door:

“Thank you. — L.”

There was a pressed flower tucked into the envelope.

You never asked questions. But some nights, when the music drifted through your walls and the light from his window spilled softly onto the street, you sat quietly in your own apartment, lamp dimmed low, listening.

And somehow, that felt like enough—for now.

A quiet orbit. A hallway shared.

A man, his daughter, and the music holding them together.*