The days blurred.
Yoorin couldn't explain it, not to her roommate, not to herself. She still went to class, still drank coffee from the corner bakery, still listened to playlists filled with acoustic heartbreak.
But in the quiet moments—between dreams and morning light—she was somewhere else.
The book began to change.
It no longer followed a narrative. It jumped, spiraled, looped. Some pages bled through. Others had writing that only appeared in candlelight.
One night, she found a folded letter tucked between two chapters.
It wasn't addressed to her. But she read it anyway.
Dearest Moonlit Girl,If time has brought you here again, it means I've failed once more.There's a river beneath the words we speak. And I drowned in it.But if you're reading this… you didn't.Remember me not for the endings, but for the promise that never changed.I will always wait for you, even if I'm born in silence again.– S.
Her vision swam.
The words shimmered and dripped like ink melting in water.
When she looked up, she was no longer in her room.
She stood at the edge of a vast river, dark and shimmering. It moved without sound, reflecting no stars. A bridge of glass stretched across it, narrow and cracked.
On the other side—him.
But he wasn't alone.
A girl stood beside him. She wore red. Her hand was in his.
Yoorin opened her mouth to call out—but no sound escaped.
The Seon across the river looked… different. Colder. More distant. A version of him that hadn't known her. Or had already forgotten.
"Don't go," she tried to say.
But her voice belonged to another life.
The girl in red turned.
Her face was Yoorin's.
But not quite.
She smiled, cruel and soft. Like a reflection that knew too much.
The bridge cracked.
Yoorin gasped, stumbling back—
And woke.
The letter burned in her hand, then dissolved.
The book was gone.