Seoul, Present Day.
The rain arrived suddenly, thin, silver needles falling through the gaps between glass towers and neon lights. In the heart of Gangnam, the world moved at the speed of blinking advertisements, honking taxis, and people too busy to look up. Except for him.
Jisoo stood still, head tilted slightly toward the sky, as if waiting for something in the downpour. His tailored suit clung to his frame, untouched by the umbrella in his hand. Around him, others rushed for shelter. But he didn't move.
There it was again.
A whisper.
A woman's voice, soft as mist, carried by the wind.
"Jisoo..."
He turned sharply.
But the sidewalk behind him was empty.
He exhaled slowly. His chest tightened, not from fear, but from familiarity. He'd heard that voice before. Not just in dreams, but in moments like this, when the city slowed just enough for the past to slip through.
He gritted his jaw and walked on, ignoring the ache pulsing behind his eyes.
Across the city, tucked behind the marble halls of the National Museum of Korea, Hana Kang's fingertips trembled as they unrolled the brittle edge of an old Joseon-era scroll.
"No gloves," she muttered to herself, catching the archivist's glare. "I'm careful. Promise."
The image on the parchment was faint, but distinct: a palace maid kneeling at the foot of a burning gate, a letter clutched to her chest. Her features were detailed with haunting precision. The downward slant of her eyes. The small scar on her jaw.
Hana blinked once. Then twice.
It was her face.
Not similar. Not vaguely reminiscent.
It was her.
She reached for her phone to take a photo, but the light above her flickered once, then exploded, showering sparks across the desk. The fire alarm triggered instantly, shrieking into the silence. Red lights pulsed.
Hana backed away from the parchment, heart racing. The scroll remained untouched.
Then came the second wave.
The room swayed.
Not physically, but viscerally.
The air thinned. The temperature dropped. She smelled burning pine. Heard the scream of horses. Her knees buckled as a vision overtook her a memory not hers, but buried deep inside.
A man's voice, hoarse and broken.
"I'm sorry... I was too late."
The echo slammed into her chest, and then
Silence.
She opened her eyes to find museum staff rushing in. Her supervisor was yelling her name.
She couldn't speak.
She could only hear the sound of the fire in her ears. And one name repeated in her mind like a heartbeat she'd never owned.
"Jisoo…"
Later that night, the city returned to its usual rhythm.
In a private club nestled above the Han River, soft jazz played in the background while men in pressed suits toasted over imported whiskey. Jisoo leaned against the bar, glass untouched, staring blankly at the skyline. His assistant, Yunho, appeared beside him, adjusting his tie.
"Still not sleeping?"
Jisoo didn't answer.
"You've got another auction tomorrow," Yunho continued. "Old Joseon letters again. Rare stuff. Art historian from the museum will be there too Dr. Kang something."
Jisoo's brows lifted faintly.
"Kang Hana," Yunho supplied, scanning his tablet. "Brilliant. Youngest to join the National Archives. Bit of a recluse. Obsessed with pre-colonial romantic literature."
Jisoo's glass finally met his lips. "Romantic literature?"
Yunho shrugged. "Maybe she's just lonely."
A beat passed. Then Jisoo replied, voice low and almost... strained.
"Or maybe she's looking for someone."
The auction the next morning was drenched in early spring sunlight and anxiety. Hana arrived late, hair still damp from her rushed shower. She didn't want to be here she needed to be back at the museum. But her supervisor insisted. Said her knowledge of court love letters might be useful.
She adjusted her name tag and approached the viewing table.
That's when she felt it.
Not saw but felt.
Her body stopped moving.
Somewhere across the room, someone had entered. She didn't turn. Couldn't. Her heart had started pounding, and a sharp heat stabbed behind her eyes.
"You'll know him before you see him," her dreams had whispered last night.
And she did.
Then she turned.
And her world cracked.
The man by the exhibit wasn't extraordinary to anyone else. Hands in pockets. Cool eyes. Sharp, tailored lines. But Hana's vision dimmed, narrowing to him and only him. She took one shaky step toward him, and he looked up.
Their eyes locked.
And in that single moment, the world went wrong.
The air thickened. Her knees trembled.
His expression didn't change but his grip on the edge of the table did.
Knuckles white.
Jaw tense.
You've found each other, something ancient whispered in the space between them.
Hana tried to breathe. She couldn't.
Because this wasn't a stranger.
This was the man she'd seen holding her hand as she bled out beneath a flaming sky.
This was the man she had kissed in a corridor centuries ago.
And from the look in his eyes
He remembered too.
Jisoo didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe in much at all.
But the moment he saw her, everything collapsed.
Not in fear.
In memory.
He saw flashes her face lit by candlelight, her mouth forming his name, her body disappearing into smoke.
He saw himself on his knees, covered in ash, screaming.
And now there she stood. In a white blouse, with damp hair and eyes wide with recognition.
They said when you meet your soulmate, you'll feel peace.
Jisoo felt panic.
Because it meant the dreams were real.
The deaths were real.
And this woman
She was the beginning of it all.
And maybe the end, too.
The room suddenly darkened as the blinds auto-shifted for a presentation. People moved, murmured, laughed. The auctioneer began speaking, but neither of them listened.
Hana walked toward him.
Jisoo didn't move.
"Hi," she said, breath catching. "I'm... Hana."
He stared at her.
Then, softly like a confession he couldn't hold anymore
"Do you dream of fire, too?"
Her lips parted. Tears brimmed.
"Yes."
Before either could say more, the lights flickered.
Then cut out completely.
Screams erupted as the room plunged into darkness.
A crash. Shouting.
And a single sound just behind Hana
A whisper she hadn't heard since her dreams as a child:
"You shouldn't have found him."