While Jisoo quietly reshapes Moonlight Stationery into a place of warmth and wonder, every shared glance and gentle touch with Suho blurs the line between duty and desire — until she realizes they’re no longer just surviving her borrowed life… they’re building something dangerously real together.
1994 | Gunsan
The swap came not as a fall but as a settling. One moment, the cool, high-thread-count silence of her Gangnam bedroom, the faint glow of the city through blackout curtains, Dalgom’s wheezing snore from his velvet bed. The next, the profound, wool-blanket quiet of a Gunsan night, broken only by the distant, rhythmic sigh of the sea and the soft, nasal whistle of the man asleep beside her.
Jisoo opened her eyes. No disorientation. No three-second panic. Just immediate, tactical clarity.
Moonlight Stationery. Ground floor. Inventory reorganization. Primary objective: increase foot traffic conversion. Secondary objective: implement community hub model. Tertiary objective: do not let him see you cry about how much you missed his stupid off-key humming.
She lay perfectly still, running the memorized plan behind her eyes like a filmstrip. Kids’ section: front left, low shelves. Impulse baskets: register-adjacent. Stationery: reorganize by use-case, not brand. Calligraphy corner: relocate to west wall for optimal natural light. Sooya’s book notes: repurpose as handwritten “Staff Pick” cards. The blueprint was crisp, complete, a ghost of 2026 strategy imprinted on 1994 reality.
Suho stirred. A deep, unconscious sigh that shifted the mattress. He was on his side, facing her, one hand curled loosely on the pillow between them. In the weak moonlight seeping through the hanji paper door, she could see the faint line of his jaw, the dark fan of his lashes against his cheek, the small, pale scar on his left eyebrow.
Carefully, she slid out from under the thin quilt. The wooden floor was cool under her feet. Six months pregnant, and her body in this world felt both foreign and fiercely familiar—a ship she was learning to sail in heavy weather. She dressed quickly in the dark: one of Sooya’s loose, cotton wrap dresses, her hair twisted up and secured with a pencil from the nightstand. A final glance in the dim mirror. Not Kim Jisoo, CEO, global ambassador. Just a woman with a plan and a pronounced bump, ready to wage a very small, very specific war.
Downstairs, the shop was a cathedral of shadows. The familiar shapes of shelves and display cases hunched in the pre-dawn gloom. She flipped the light switch. A single, overhead fluorescent bulb flickered to life with a resentful buzz, painting everything in a sickly, green-tinged white.
She stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips. Her battlefield.
The problem wasn’t the inventory. Suho had good taste. The notebooks were quality, the paper decent, the pens reliable. The problem was the chaos. The story the shop told was one of charming clutter to Suho, and one of overwhelming disorganization to anyone else. School supplies were mixed with office supplies. The children’s books were on a high shelf, accessible only to adults, while the expensive, fragile calligraphy sets were at toddler-grabbing height near the door. There was no logic, no flow, no invitation.
“Okay, kid,” she whispered, a hand resting on the curve of her belly. “Mommy’s about to commit interior design homicide. Try to learn something useful, like how to pivot a failing small business, instead of how to perfect aegyo like your Auntie Jennie would teach you if she could come here too.”
The back door creaked open. Suho stood there, blinking sleep from his eyes, his hair a magnificent disaster. He wore a faded t-shirt and loose cotton pants. In his hands were two steaming mugs.
“You’re up early,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep. He held out a mug. “I heard you moving around.”
She took it. Misugaru. Roasted grain tea. He remembered she liked it in the mornings now. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said, which was true. The engine of her 2026 brain was already revving, and this 1994 body had to keep up.
He sipped his own tea, watching her over the rim. His eyes, still soft with sleep, tracked from her determined face to the shop around them, then back. “You’re plotting something.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re observing with the same face you made when you decided to reorganize the entire kitchen cupboard by material instead of use. I still can’t find the large pot.”
“It’s with the other enamelware. Logic, Suho-ya.”
“The logic of a madwoman,” he muttered, but he was smiling. He set his mug on the counter and began his morning ritual: unlocking the front door, flipping the hand-painted ‘OPEN’ sign, untangling the seashell wind chime that always got knotted overnight. He started to hum. It was a tune she didn’t recognize—something slow, vaguely sentimental, probably from a radio drama.
This was her moment.
“We’re moving the children’s section,” she announced.
His humming stopped. He turned, the untangled wind chime in his hand. “Moving it where?”
“To the front. Where the calligraphy sets are now.”
A beat of silence. He blinked. “The calligraphy display has been there since my father opened the shop.”
“I know. And how many calligraphy sets do you sell a week?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew the answer was somewhere between ‘rarely’ and ‘when Halmeoni buys one for her grandson’s graduation and pretends she understands the difference between a wolf-hair and a goat-hair brush.’
“Your father’s customers were adults who came specifically for calligraphy,” she pressed on, the words from her memorized notes flowing out. “Your customers now are mothers with children. Students. They walk in, see a wall of expensive, fragile things they don’t need, and their first instinct is to leave before their kids break something. The children’s books are in the back, where the light is worst. The stickers and pencils are too high. The entire experience is designed to make your primary customer feel unwelcome.”
Suho stared at her. He slowly hung the wind chime. “Since when did you become a… shop… psychologist?”
“Since I started paying attention.” She gestured around. “Mrs. Park’s daughter, Mal-su. She comes in every Tuesday after school. What does she do?”
“She… looks at the stickers.”
“She stands on her tiptoes and cranes her neck to look at the stickers on the third shelf. For five minutes. Then she leaves when her mother calls her. She never buys anything because she can’t reach them, and her mother won’t get them down because she’s busy looking for notebook prices that aren’t labeled.” Jisoo took a step forward. “What if Min-ji could reach the stickers herself? What if she could sit on that little stool in the corner and look at a manhwa at her own eye level? What if she walked in and the first thing she saw was color and fun, not a wall of serious brushes?”
He was listening now, really listening. His arms were crossed, but his head was tilted, his eyes narrowed in thought. “And the calligraphy sets?”
“We move them to the west wall. The afternoon light there is beautiful. It’ll make the paper and ink look like art. It becomes a destination, a discovery, not a barrier.”
He was silent for a long minute. The only sound was the hum of the fluorescent light and the distant putter of a scooter on the street outside. He looked at his shop—*his* shop, the one he’d built from his father’s fading dream. She could see the conflict warring on his face: pride, habit, fear of change wrestling with the dawning, grudging realization that she might have a point.
“It’s a lot of heavy lifting,” he said finally, a practical retreat.
“I’ll direct. You’ll lift. I’m the architect. You’re the brawn.” She patted her belly. “I have a very good excuse.”
A flicker of a smile touched his lips. Then it faded into a sigh of surrender. “Where do we start?”
The morning became a symphony of grunts, scraping wood, and her own relentless commentary.
“That shelf—rotate it. No, ninety degrees. Think of customer flow, Suho-ya! They should move through the space like water, not like a pinball.”
“I am thinking of my back, which is currently thinking very unkind thoughts about you.”
“Your back is a hero. Tell it I said so. Now, these sticker baskets go on this low table. Yes, that one. Perfect. A seven-year-old’s paradise.”
He moved shelves, his muscles corded with the effort, sweat darkening the back of his t-shirt. She directed traffic, cleared spaces, wiped down dusty surfaces that hadn’t seen a cloth in months. It was physical, messy, and strangely exhilarating. This wasn’t like approving a marketing plan over video conference. This was making something. Together.
During a break, while Suho stepped out back to gulp water from the tap, she was alone in the half-transformed space. She wandered to Sooya’s personal bookshelf, a small, curated collection tucked in the back corner. Her fingers trailed over the spines until she found the one she’d noted in her 2026 journal: a slim novel with a watercolor cover of a train window. She pulled it out. A folded slip of paper fluttered to the floor.
She picked it up. Sooya’s handwriting, neat and looping.
“Finished this in one rainy afternoon. The protagonist misses her train and finds a tiny tea shop run by a widow who speaks only in proverbs. She meant to go to Seoul, but she stays for a week. Sometimes the wrong train takes you to the right place. I think maybe life is like that.”
Jisoo’s throat tightened. She looked from the note to the shop around her, to the swell of her stomach. The wrong train. The right place. The sentiment was so profoundly, painfully apt it felt like a message from a ghost.
She took a fresh copy of the book from the stock shelf. At the small counter, she found a stack of blank index cards and a blue pen. She practiced Sooya’s handwriting in the margin of a newspaper first—the loop of the ‘l’, the slope of the ‘y’. Then, on a clean card, she wrote:
TODAY’S STAFF PICK
For anyone who has ever missed their train.
A story about finding where you’re meant to be, even if it’s not where you were going.
- Sooya
She propped the card against the book on a small, cleared space at the end of the counter. A tiny, handwritten invitation.
Suho came back in, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He saw the display, paused, and read the card. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes lingered on Sooya’s name at the bottom.
By noon, the revolution was complete.
The shop breathed differently. Sunlight from the front door now illuminated a bright, welcoming children’s nook: low shelves of colorful picture books and manhwa, a small rug, the sticker-and-pencil-laden table. The stationery was logically grouped—school, office, art—with clear, hand-lettered signs Jisoo had made. The west wall glowed, the calligraphy sets and fine paper arranged like museum pieces in the stream of afternoon light. The space felt open, intentional, full of potential.
Suho stood in the center of it, slowly turning. He was streaked with dust, his hair damp with sweat. He said nothing. He just looked. At the new paths through the shelves. At the light on the inkstones. At the little reading nook.
Jisoo’s confidence, so fierce all morning, suddenly wavered. This was his world. His father’s legacy. And she, an interloper, had just rearranged it according to a playbook from the future. What if she was wrong? What if this clinical, logical layout killed the soul of the place?
“Well?” she finally asked, her voice smaller than she intended.
He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “It’s… very organized.”
Her heart sank. It was a neutral, diplomatic answer. The kind you gave when you didn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings.
He must have seen something in her face because he quickly added, “No, it’s—it’s good. It makes sense. I can see it.” He walked to the children’s nook, crouched down to the level of a small child. He looked at the shelves, then out the door to the street. “Mal-su will like this.”
Then he stood, brushed his hands on his pants, and looked at her. Really looked at her, with an intensity that made her want to fidget. “Where did you learn all this? The… flow. The sight lines. It’s not just moving stuff around. It’s a system.”
The question she’d been dreading. She’d prepared the lie, but it tasted flat on her tongue. “Books,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the shelves. “You have a lot of books about… things.”
“We have three books on gardening, a broken-spined copy of The Joy of Cooking, and a 1978 almanac,” he said dryly. “Which one taught you retail anthropology?”
She deflected. “Maybe I’m just brilliant and you never noticed.”
“Maybe you are,” he said, and the quiet sincerity in his voice disarmed her completely. He wasn’t teasing. He was stating a fact he’d just discovered. “Let’s eat. I’m starving. And my back is now officially on strike.”
Lunch was a quiet affair of reheated bean sprout soup and rice at the small kitchen table upstairs. The physical exertion had left them both tired, and a new, delicate tension hung in the air—the aftermath of the morning’s upheaval.
Suho ate methodically, his eyes on his bowl. Jisoo could feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts. This was his processing silence. She’d learned to wait it out.
He finished his soup, set his spoon down with a soft clink, and finally spoke, his voice careful. “It looks good. Really. It does.”
“But?”
He looked up, surprised. “There’s no ‘but.’”
“Suho-ya, I can hear the ‘but.’ It’s sitting between us right now, eating all the kimchi.”
A faint smile, gone as quickly as it came. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not a ‘but.’ It’s a… question.” He chose his words like he was walking on ice. “Does this mean… the way it was before was wrong? All this time, was I just… not seeing it?”
There it was. Not a critique of her methods, but a quiet crisis of his own competence. The pain of a man who loved something fiercely, only to have someone show him a fundamental flaw in the object of his love.
Jisoo put her own spoon down. This required precision, not platitudes.
“You weren’t wrong,” she said firmly. “You built a haven. You know the name of every regular. You remember that Mr. Kim’s grandson likes dinosaur stickers and that the middle school girl by the port is saving for the fancy fountain pen. You notice when someone’s had a bad day and you ‘accidentally’ overfill their bag with extra paper clips. That’s not retail. That’s community. That’s the heart. And I can’t design that on a floor plan.”
He was watching her, his brown eyes soft and vulnerable.
“What I did today,” she continued, “was just… dust off the windows. The heart was always there, beating. But if the windows are so dirty no one can see inside, they’ll never come in to feel it. I didn’t fix the shop. I just cleaned the glass.”
The metaphor hung in the air between them. She saw him absorb it, turning it over in his mind. The tightness around his eyes eased, replaced by a dawning, weary acceptance.
He nodded slowly, then looked down at his hands, calloused and ink-stained. "You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. It's just... a different kind of work. The work you do is harder. It's emotional labor. What I did is manual labor with a diagram."
He finally smiled, a real one, reaching his eyes. "You're giving me too much credit and yourself not enough." He reached across the table and tapped the back of her hand with his finger. "The diagram was genius. And you didn't just tell me. You did it with me. That's the part that..." He trailed off, searching for the word. "That mattered."
The air shifted. The tension wasn't gone, but it had transformed into something softer, more complex. An acknowledgment that she had challenged him, and he had listened, and they had built something new together. It was a different kind of intimacy than the quiet hand-holds in the dark. This was daylight intimacy. Partnership intimacy.
"Okay, CEO," he said, standing and gathering the bowls. "The revolution is scheduled for phase two after lunch. We have to actually see if anyone notices."
They did.
The after-school rush was not a rush by Seoul standards, but for Moonlight Stationery, it was a palpable wave of energy. Three children burst in first, stopping dead at the threshold.
"Whoa!"
"It changed!"
Like iron filings to a magnet, they beelined for the new nook. One boy, maybe eight, dropped his backpack and immediately sat cross-legged on the rug, pulling a Slam Dunk volume into his lap. A girl went straight to the sticker basket, her eyes wide at the accessibility of it all. "Umma, look! They're right here!"
Her mother, who had entered with a weary expression, blinked in surprise. "Oh. That's... convenient."
Jisoo, from her stool behind the counter, watched with a critic's eye. The flow worked. The mother browsed the newly organized school supply section, actually finding the reinforced notebooks she needed without having to ask. The girl chose two sheets of puppy stickers. The boy begged for the manhwa.
At the register, another boy pointed to the "Staff Pick" book. "Is this good?"
Jisoo smiled. "It's about taking the wrong train and finding something better. I think it's pretty special."
He studied the cover, then the card with Sooya's name. "My grandma likes books about trains." He added it to his pile.
Suho handled the transactions, his demeanor easy, asking the boy about his soccer game, complimenting the girl's sticker choices. But Jisoo saw the way his eyes flickered to her after each sale, a silent, incredulous communication. It's working.
By 5 PM, the tally was undeniable. They hadn't broken any records, but the average transaction value was up. More importantly, the conversion rate—browsers to buyers—felt higher. People lingered. They touched things. They explored.
As the last customer of the day, a high school student buying a specific type of drafting pencil that Suho actually had in stock (now logically filed under 'Art'), left, Suho flipped the sign to 'CLOSED' and leaned against the door with a long, theatrical sigh.
"I feel," he announced to the empty shop, "like I've been run over by a very small, very determined tractor."
Jisoo, wiping down the new low table, grinned. "The tractor thanks you for your cooperation."
He pushed off the door and walked to the counter, pulling out the cash drawer. They counted together, the ritual feeling newly significant. The numbers were solid. Better than solid for a Tuesday.
He stacked the last of the bills and looked at her. "Fifteen percent up from last Tuesday. And Mrs. Park actually smiled when she left. I think her face might crack."
"See? Clean windows."
"Clean windows," he agreed softly. Then he did something that made her breath catch. He reached out and very gently brushed a smudge of dust from her cheekbone. His thumb was rough, his touch fleeting. "You've got... shop war paint."
Her skin tingled where he'd touched it. "A necessary sacrifice for the revolution."
His hand dropped, but his gaze held hers. The air in the shop felt charged, thick with the dust they'd stirred up and something else, something sweet and terrifying. The partnership of the day had blurred a line, and they were both standing on the new, uncertain edge of it.
The moment was broken by a familiar rap at the glass of the back door.
Halmeoni Ok-soon’s face, round and wrinkled as a dried persimmon, was peering in, a cloth-covered basket in her hands.
Suho laughed, the tension dissolving. "The cavalry arrives with reinforcements. We're saved."
Halmeoni didn't just bring food; she brought an atmosphere. She bustled in, took one look at the shop, and let out a low whistle. "Aigoo! Did a typhoon blow through here? A tidy one!"
"We're calling it a 'strategic repositioning,' Halmeoni," Jisoo said, helping her with the basket. The smell of garlic chive pancakes and fresh kimchi wafted up.
"Strategic," Halmeoni repeated, nodding sagently as she looked around. She walked to the children's nook, nodded. She eyed the calligraphy wall, hummed approvingly. "Good. The chi is better. It was stuck in the back before. Now it can move." She turned, fixing Jisoo with a sharp look. "You did this?"
"Suho did the heavy lifting."
"I did the complaining," Suho corrected, setting out plates on the counter. "She did the thinking."
Halmeoni’s eyes, bright and bird-like, studied Jisoo. "The thinking is new. I like it." Then she waved a dismissive hand. "Enough shop talk. You two look half-dead. Eat. The baby needs strength, and the father needs to stop looking like a ghost."
They ate at the counter, the three of them, the shop warm and golden in the late afternoon sun. Halmeoni talked about the price of leeks at the market, about Mrs. Choi's new perm ("a tragedy, my dear, a tragedy of chemistry and poor life choices"), about the fishing boat that had come in with a miraculous catch of mackerel.
But as the meal wound down and Suho went upstairs to wash, Halmeoni stayed, sipping the barley tea Jisoo had made. The bustling energy faded, leaving a quieter, more pensive woman in its place.
"Sooya-ya," Halmeoni said, her voice losing its performative edge. "Sit with me outside. My old bones need the evening air."
They took the two small stools from the shop out to the narrow strip of concrete behind the building that passed for a yard. It faced a tiny, struggling garden and a view of laundry lines and tiled roofs leading down to the distant, glimmering smear of the sea. The sky was bleeding from orange to deep violet.
Halmeoni was silent for a long time, which was so unusual it felt significant. Jisoo waited.
"My husband," Halmeoni began, not looking at her, "was a beautiful fool." The words were fond, etched with a lifetime of loss. "He could make a dumpling that made you remember your childhood, your first love, your happiest day—all in one bite. But ask him to price a dozen? He'd get a faraway look and say, 'What is the price of joy, Ok-soon-ah?'"
A soft laugh escaped her, a dry rustle of leaves.
"He gave food away to anyone who looked hungry. He let debt slide for seasons. He believed a full belly was a moral right, not a business transaction. When he died, this shop," she gestured back towards her own dumpling place next door, "was a hollow shell. More debt than flour. Everyone had a plan for me. Sell. Move. Live with my daughter in Busan. Be a burden gracefully."
She took a slow sip of tea.
"I was so angry at him. For leaving me with this mess. For his beautiful, stupid principles. So, I decided to be the opposite. I counted every grain of rice. I charged exact change. I refused credit. I was going to run a proper business, since he never could."
She fell silent again, watching the first star appear in the darkening sky.
"It almost killed me. Not the work. The… emptiness. The shop was quiet. The regulars stopped coming. They were afraid of me, this grim little widow with her abacus and her cold heart." She turned to Jisoo, her eyes gleaming in the twilight. "Then one day, old Mr. Park from the pharmacy came in. His wife had just passed. He didn't say it. He just stood there, looking lost. And I… I made him a bowl of dumpling soup. The way my husband made it. I didn't charge him. I just put it in front of him and said, 'Eat. Grief is heavy work.'"
Halmeoni's knobby hands tightened around her cup. "He cried into that soup. And I cried with him. For him, for my husband, for all of it. And I realized… I hadn't been running from his failure. I'd been running from his gift. The gift was never the dumpling. It was the space he made for people to be hungry, and sad, and human."
She looked at Jisoo, her gaze direct and powerful. "You changed the shop today. You made it smarter. That is good. Survival is smart. But remember this, girl. This place," she tapped her chest, "this heart-space. That is what he is good at. That is his gift. Don't let your smart diagrams wall that off. The light needs to get in, but the heart needs to stay warm."
The words landed deep inside Jisoo, resonating with a truth that vibrated in her bones. She was trying to save the shop with 2026 strategy, but the soul of it, the reason to save it, was entirely a 1994 creation. Suho's creation.
"I understand, Halmeoni," she whispered.
Halmeoni patted her knee. "I know you do. Lately, you understand more than you should." She looked up. "Ah. Look."
The moon had risen, a perfect, luminous pearl over the rooftops. It was full, bathing the dusty yard and the laundry lines in silver.
"Beautiful," Jisoo murmured, her hand automatically dipped into the pocket of her dress, seeking her phone to capture it. Her fingers closed on empty fabric. Right. No phone. No camera. No way to share this on BLACKPINK group chat, to post it, to frame it in a digital memory. For a second, she felt a sharp, lonely pang—the disconnect from her other life.
Then it passed, replaced by a deeper, more profound fullness. The moon wasn't for capturing. It was for witnessing. And she was witnessing it with a woman who smelled of flour and grief and hard-won wisdom, while a man who hummed off-key above her head, and a daughter she hadn't met yet turned somersaults beneath her heart.
Halmeoni stood, groaning slightly. "This old body needs a bed. You should rest too. Revolution is tiring work." She paused, looking down at Jisoo. "The thinking is new. But the feeling… the feeling in there today? That was always there. You just turned the light on it. Good night, clever girl."
Jisoo sat alone as Halmeoni left, the moon climbing higher. She whispered to the active bump under her hand. "You have a wise halmeoni. And a stubborn appa. And a mom who's… figuring it out. We're all just figuring it out, kid. But I think the heart-space is okay. I think it's going to be just fine."
Upstairs, the apartment was quiet. Suho was already in bed, reading a battered paperback by the light of the small bedside lamp. He looked up as she entered.
"Halmeoni’s philosophy session end?"
"She's a secret business guru wrapped in a dumpling-maker's apron," Jisoo said, changing into her nightclothes behind the folding screen.
"She likes you," he said, his voice soft. "She really likes you. She doesn't give out compliments like that."
Jisoo emerged and slid into her side of the bed. The distance between them was nominal now, just a dip in the mattress. "I like her too."
He marked his page and set the book aside, turning off the lamp. Darkness, softened by moonlight, enveloped them. They lay on their backs, side by side, staring at the ceiling.
"Sooya."
"Mm?"
"Today was…" He searched for the word. "It was a good day."
"It was," she agreed.
"But it was more than that." He turned onto his side, facing her. In the moonglow, his expression was serious, open. "For weeks, it's felt like you were… away. Even when you were here. Like you were on the other side of a thick glass wall. I could see you, but I couldn't… reach you."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was the closest he'd come to naming the chasm her arrival had created.
"Today," he continued, his voice a low rumble in the dark, "the glass felt thin. For a while, it wasn't even there. We were just… us. Working on the same thing. In the same room. Not you over there, and me over here. Just… us."
The honesty was devastating. He had felt her absence, her performance, her desperate attempt to be Sooya. And he had felt the moment she stopped trying and just was.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words torn from her. "For the glass."
"Don't be sorry." His hand found hers under the covers. Not a tentative brush, but a firm, warm clasp. A claiming. "Just… be here. Like you were today. That's all I want."
Tears pricked her eyes. He was asking for Jisoo. He didn't know it, but he was. He was asking for the strategist, the organizer, the stubborn, determined woman who moved furniture while six months pregnant. He was asking for the real her, and calling her Sooya.
"I'm here," she said, squeezing his hand. And for the first time, it wasn't a lie.
He brought her knuckles to his lips, a brief, warm press in the dark. "Good."
They lay like that, hands clasped, the moon painting a path across the floor. The shop was rearranged. The numbers were better. The heart-space, as Halmeoni called it, was warm and open.
Jisoo closed her eyes, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of Suho's breathing beside her, the flutter-kicks within her. The wrong train had taken her to the right place. The glass was gone. And the terrifying, beautiful truth was that the "us" he wanted—the partnership, the collaboration, the quiet solidarity—was being built not by the ghost of Lee Soo-ya, but by the living, breathing reality of Kim Jisoo.
She fell asleep anchored by his hand, her last conscious thought a simple, profound revelation:
I'm not just living her life. We're building a new one.