Rain fell heavy that night.
The kind that silenced streets and filled the air with old memories.
Yoorin sat by the window, watching the droplets trace ghostly paths down the glass. She hadn't opened the book in two days. But the dreams kept coming.
Different versions of Seon.
Different versions of herself.
In one, she was older—maybe in her 30s—wearing a jade pin and laughing with someone she never saw.In another, she was on a train, gripping a book with no title as someone whispered her name from another cabin.
Each time, she woke with tears on her cheeks and a weight in her chest.
Tonight, though, something felt different.
She opened the notebook again.
A new page had written itself:
Do you remember the beach?You wore white. The sea swallowed your voice, but I still heard you.You said: "If this is all we ever have, it's enough."But it wasn't enough. Not for me.
Yoorin blinked.
She had never been to the sea with him.
Had she?
Suddenly, she remembered—
A flash.
Her feet in cold sand.His coat draped over her shoulders.A seashell placed gently in her palm.
She hadn't known that was real. Or a dream.
The notebook vibrated slightly in her hands.
She flipped the page.
Come back to where you never left.
Underneath, a hand-drawn map.
It pointed to an old house at the edge of town—one she'd passed a dozen times and never noticed.
That night, wrapped in her coat and determination, she followed the path.
When she arrived, the house was dark—but not abandoned.
Someone was inside.
She stepped in, the door creaking open without her touch.
And then—
There he was.
Seon.
Or something like him.
He looked up from a dusty desk, startled.
His face softened.
"I thought you'd forgotten," he said.
"I did," she replied. "But something remembered for me."
Outside, the sea whispered through the rain.