A chance.

After Minho's calculated performance with Doyeon, and his grim "confirmation" of Jisung's supposed betrayal, he lingered at the coffee shop, the bitter taste in his mouth doing little to mask the sharp pang of self-loathing. He had done it. He had twisted the knife. But the satisfaction was hollow, replaced by a deep, unsettling ache.

He finally made his way back to the apartment in the early evening, the building quiet in the fading light. He unlocked the door as softly as possible, pushing it open a crack and peeking inside. The living room was dark, but a warm, soft glow emanated from their bedroom. He slipped off his shoes, trying to make no sound, and padded quietly towards the light.

He pushed the bedroom door open a little wider. Jisung was seated at his small vanity, a compact mirror propped open, his brow furrowed in concentration. The soft glow of the vanity light illuminated his face as he meticulously applied a sheer layer of foundation, then carefully blended a touch of blush along his cheekbones. He looked surprisingly formal, dressed in a crisp, dark shirt Minho recognized as one he usually saved for special occasions.

Minho frowned, pulling himself from his bleak reverie. He hadn't expected Jisung to be home, let alone getting ready to go out. "Going? Going where?" he mumbled, his voice thick with a mixture of feigned nonchalance and genuine confusion.

Jisung startled, his hand freezing mid-air, a blush brush poised near his temple. He gasped softly, turning quickly in his chair, his eyes wide. He dropped the brush with a clatter.

"Minho! You're home! You scared me!" Jisung signed, his hands moving quickly, his expression one of surprise melting into a hint of hurt. He looked at Minho, then at the clock on the wall, a clear question in his gaze.

Minho ignored the question, his eyes fixed on Jisung's formal attire, the carefully applied makeup. He's getting ready to go out. To meet someone. Is it him? Is it already starting, so openly? The cold certainty from the coffee shop earlier solidified into a fresh wave of sick dread.

"Where are you going?" Minho asked again, his voice now sharper, a hint of suspicion lacing his tone. He didn't sign, his hands stiff at his sides, refusing to engage in their usual silent communication.

Jisung's bright expression softened, a hint of disappointment touching his features. He reached out, his hands making the familiar, gentle gesture to touch Minho's arm, then quickly stopped himself, dropping his hands slightly, as if remembering Minho's distance. "You... you forgot?" he signed, a flicker of deep sadness passing through his eyes before he quickly composed himself. "It's Sister Agnes's birthday today! We promised we'd go visit her this evening, remember? And the kids from the orphanage are putting on a small show for her."

Minho's breath hitched. Sister Agnes. His caregiver. His 'sister.' The sweet, kind nun who had raised him, who had been the closest thing to family he'd ever known. Her birthday. How could he have forgotten? He had been so consumed by his own pain, his obsessive need to protect himself from a future he believed was inevitable, that he'd completely erased this date from his mind. Jisung was getting ready for that. Not for some secret meeting.

A sharp pang of regret shot through him, far more potent than any self-inflicted 'cut' he'd made on Jisung today. In his previous life, consumed by despair and detachment, he had neglected to visit Sister Agnes in her final months. He remembered the phone call – Jisung, frantic and heartbroken, telling him Sister Agnes had passed away just a week after her last birthday. He had been too numb, too lost in his own spiraling grief over Jisung's 'betrayal,' to even visit her in the hospital. The regret had been a heavy, suffocating shroud around his heart, a weight he'd carried until his final, desperate plunge from the bridge.

This is it, Minho thought, a sudden surge of something akin to gratitude piercing through his gloom. The angel... it gave me a chance. A chance to fix this one unforgivable regret.

"Right. Of course," Minho managed, his voice still a little rough, but his face now registering a genuine, if still pained, realization. "Just... give me a minute. I'll get ready." He swung his legs out of bed, the weight of the day's earlier actions momentarily forgotten in the face of this unexpected, precious opportunity.

The drive to the orphanage was a stark contrast to the strained silence of their university commutes earlier. Jisung, clearly excited about the visit, signed animatedly, telling Minho about the new song he'd taught the children, the decorations they'd prepared. Minho listened, offering genuine nods and a few soft smiles he didn't have to force. For a brief period, the consuming dread lifted, replaced by a tender anticipation.

The orphanage was a cheerful chaos, a testament to Sister Agnes's enduring spirit. Children, a mix of boisterous toddlers and shy adolescents, scampered around, their laughter echoing through the brightly painted hallways. The smell of freshly baked bread and crayon wax mingled in the air.

Sister Agnes, small and frail but with eyes that twinkled with an ageless warmth, sat by the window, a shawl draped over her shoulders. Her face, a roadmap of gentle wrinkles, broke into a radiant smile when she saw them.

"Minho! Jisung! My dear boys!" she exclaimed, her voice thin but joyful, extending a hand to them.

Minho knelt beside her, taking her frail hand in his, his heart aching with a tenderness he hadn't allowed himself to feel in days. "Happy Birthday, Sister," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Jisung placed a gentle hand on Minho's shoulder, then presented Sister Agnes with a hand-drawn card from the children.

The next few hours were a balm to Minho's fractured soul. He sat by Sister Agnes's side, holding her hand, listening to her soft voice. She told him about the children's latest antics, about a new garden they were planting, about the quiet joys of her days. She asked him about his architecture studies, about his future plans, her eyes gleaming with pride. Minho found himself answering honestly, a rare ease settling over him. He even spoke of Jisung, his voice soft, a genuine smile touching his lips as he recounted a funny story about Jisung getting lost in the university library. The joy in his voice betraying no hint of the silent torment raging within him.

"And Jisung," Sister Agnes said, turning her gentle gaze to him, "he looks well. He always loved you so, Minho. He always saw past the quiet boy and saw your wonderful heart." Her words, simple and true, were a painful reminder of the love he was deliberately pushing away, of the trust he was shattering. He nodded, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes, the familiar internal pain now a dull ache beneath the warmth of her presence.

As the evening waned, Minho remained by Sister Agnes's side, even after Jisung had gone to help the younger children with their 'show.' He listened as she drifted off, her breathing soft and shallow. The golden light of dusk, filtered through the old stained-glass window, cast colorful patterns across her serene face.

Minho watched her sleep, his own face contorting with unshed tears. He saw the wisdom in her gentle features, the years of selfless love etched into her skin. He leaned down, carefully, reverently, and pressed a soft kiss to her wrinkled forehead, the warmth of her skin a fragile comfort against his trembling lips.

"Thank you so much," he whispered, his voice cracking, the tears finally overflowing, tracing hot paths down his cheeks. He stayed there, holding her hand, letting the silent sobs wrack his body, the first truly honest tears he'd shed since his return to the past.