"Ugh, Dad learning to play the flute properly is slower than a butterfly crossing the ocean."
"...Dad will practice hard," the voice from the memory replied.
A voice that only existed within memories. A voice that could only be heard in the echoes of the past.
"Don’t worry, Dad. Everyone’s clumsy at something."
"You’ve grown up more than I thought, my little girl," the voice said fondly.
New n𝙤vel chapters are published on freeweɓnøvel.com.
The exchange was a relic of the past, a conversation long since transformed into a cherished memory—one that could no longer continue.
"Still, someday you have to play this song for me, okay? This one, ‘Ocean Butterfly.’"
"I promise."
It was a promise made so long ago that even remembering when it happened was impossible. A promise forgotten, one thought never to be fulfilled.
And yet.
"♩♪♬───"
Through the blaring cacophony of warning sirens, the faint, clumsy sound of a flute pierced the air. It was so vivid, so clear, that it couldn’t be ignored, even if there was no longer any certainty left to grasp.
"...I’m sorry. I made you wait far too long."
Those words, laced with genuine feeling, slipped through the rigid mechanical tone of the voice. And in that moment, their gaze finally met.
Rising from where they had collapsed helplessly, the figure leaned forward, stepping into that cold, unyielding embrace.
The reunion of the player and Il-hong filled the broadcast screen with a poignant illustration. The frozen cursor, stuck motionless for what felt like an eternity, mirrored the gravity of the moment.
Beyond the soft background music, all that could be heard was the ragged breathing and faint sobs of the two figures on screen. Il-hong’s tearful voice, muffled as she wept into the player’s chest, drowned out even the flood of donation messages pouring in.
"...Ugh... Huuuuh..."
This scene always makes me cry. 😭😭😭
[User 가르자그 has donated ₩10,000!]
Diah’s tears just broke my heart. 😭😭😭
[User 슈우야 has donated ₩10,000!]
Seeing someone who never cries start to weep—it’s even more heartbreaking.
The chat and donation feeds were livelier than ever, and the viewer count had surged exponentially.
Though Ocean Butterfly had been out for years, its reputation remained untarnished, and its reach was still formidable. Viewers flooded in from every corner of the web, drawn by the promise of witnessing the game’s iconic, heart-wrenching ending in real time.
And then, there was the streamer’s unfiltered, raw sobbing—a rare and deeply genuine moment being broadcast to the world.
The phenomenon only accelerated as viewers shared clips across social media, turning the moment viral. It all culminated in Diah reaching a monumental milestone: surpassing 10,000 concurrent viewers.
However.
"Can’t we just... run away? Please!" Il-hong begged.
"I’m sorry," the player replied.
"No, no, I can’t live without you anymore! What’s the point of life without the ones you love?!"
In this moment, nothing else mattered but Il-hong and the player. A daughter and a father on the verge of yet another farewell.
It had been revealed that the player was not human but a humanoid robot—a being that embodied the ultimate taboo, a machine instilled with a consciousness.
The sinking of <Internal City> was a direct consequence of the player’s existence. If they were exposed, everyone connected to them would be arrested without exception.
The true culprits behind the player’s death and the creators of the illegal "Daydream" models were none other than the rulers of <Internal City>.
To cover their tracks, they intended to submerge the entire city into the ocean, erasing all evidence of their crimes.
For the sake of a few corrupt individuals, the entirety of <Internal City>—its residents included—was sinking beneath the waves.
"Il-hong," the player began.
"Stop! Don’t say anything. I won’t listen. Just live. Please," she pleaded.
One of them had to stay behind in the city’s control room to activate the anti-gravity protocol and prevent the city from sinking completely.
There was no option for both of them to survive.
"You know how much I love you, right?"
The player, who had already died once, could not allow their daughter to face any more danger because of them.
Il-hong, who had only just reunited with her father, could not bear the thought of losing him again.
Neither wanted the other to sacrifice themselves.
But time was running out.
"Remember me. Remember what I meant in your life. That’s enough."
—Step.
"I’ll be watching over you."
The player made their decision, and the goodbye they dreaded was carried out.
Steps that could not be controlled.
A sacrifice that could not be stopped.
All that remained was to watch.
All that remained was to endure the unbearable.
Through tear-filled eyes, Il-hong could only watch as the father she had waited so long to see once again faded into the distance.
The parent Ha-eun had wished for her entire life—a parent who loved their child more than anything—vanished.
What was left behind was Il-hong, a girl the same age as Ha-eun.
“..................”
Having long wished for a parent, Ha-eun understood the immense weight of their presence. And having finally witnessed one, she also understood the depth of the loss.
[It was good.]
[Yeah. It’s a well-made game.]
While typing her impressions, something began to rise on the monitor.
<An Incomparable and Fearless Father>
A crude, childlike drawing of the player, sketched by a young Il-hong.
“...Ugh.”
The chat and donations continued pouring in, but she couldn’t bring herself to pay attention anymore. Exhausted, both physically and emotionally, she shut everything down.
After a long time sitting numbly in her chair, Diah finally moved.
Collapsing onto her mattress, she tossed and turned, unable to settle.
Her memories, sharper than usual, replayed vividly, like bubbles briefly rising to the surface before bursting.
All that filled her mind were countless hypothetical scenarios.
Even though she had parents, they hadn’t been the kind she needed.
"...Would it have been better to have no memories at all?"
Having already cried her heart out, no more tears came.
That was the only solace she could find.
***
Hey, Cream, did you see Diah playing Ocean Butterfly?
"Oh, yes. She’s still young, so she’s very sensitive and emotional."
Call Diah and ask if she’s okay, and I’ll donate ₩30,000 more.
"Hmm..."
With such a reasonable mission, streamer Cream (real name Jung Maria) hesitated. She was genuinely worried about Ha-eun, who had been far more emotional than usual throughout the Ocean Butterfly stream and had even struggled to speak by the end.
After a moment of consideration, Maria decided to call Ha-eun. Even a brief chat might help Ha-eun feel a bit better.
However.
[...Hello?]
"D-Diah! Unnie’s live right now!!"
It only took a few seconds for Jung Maria to realize she’d made a huge mistake—a colossal, irreversible mistake.
To be fair, having Diah on a live call during her streams wasn’t anything new. They’d had casual chats about Diah’s streams several times before.
But this time.
[...Oh.]
And it was the first time her audience had ever heard it.
The contrast was striking, making the moment even more memorable.