[2030, Coastal Restoration Zone at Sunset]
The shoreline was still under restoration.
Crimson light from the setting sun stretched long across the water's surface.
Wearing her activist vest loosely draped over one arm, Se-ah walked alone with a plastic picker in hand.
Parts of the beach had been artificially restored, but the rest remained closed off—strewn with rough gravel and tangled debris.
Signs stood like warnings in the fading light:
"High-risk avian contamination – Avoid contact."
"Coastal restoration site – Restricted access."
Two low-flying drones skimmed the waves, repeating the same message: "Collecting plastic debris."
Se-ah crouched near the surf and carefully lifted a strip of waste plastic stuck in the sand.
Beneath it lay a small crab, limp, no longer moving.
She stared at it for a long moment, lips pressed tightly shut, before sliding the plastic into her trash bag.
"…This isn't a campaign. It's a decoration that keeps repeating itself."
The words slipped from her mind like a bitter whisper.
"It piles up again, gets forgotten again… And someone, somewhere, will still call this work meaningless."
The policy draft in her hand crumpled as she folded it and shoved it deep into her pocket.
She lifted her head toward the sea.
Far on the horizon, the silhouettes of offshore wind turbines blurred into the crimson haze.
Moisture welled at the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall, but never did.
Instead, only the wind tugging at her hair—and the dull hum of machinery—brushed past the moment.
[2030, Marine Environment Agency Office]
It was late at night.
Under the dim glow of her desk lamp, Se-ah sat alone with a half-cooled mug in her hand.
On the monitor, a search window stood open—lined with keywords like "ocean waste cleanup participation rates" and "failed environmental campaigns."
She scrolled idly, eyes dull with fatigue, until her gaze caught on a banner ad at the bottom of the page:
"LUKA – Virtual Advisory System (BETA)"
"Your worries—someone, somewhere in time, is ready to listen."
"Conversations that change the future. Connect now."
A faint, humorless smile tugged at her lips.
"…Advice, huh. Guess even AI pretends to be wiser than people these days."
Her cursor drifted. Then, it stopped.
And clicked.
The browser screen flickered into a darker interface.
"LUKA Adaptive Counseling System v7.3 – Real-time connection available."
"You may be connected to an unspecified user. Responsibility lies with the user."
A blank input box blinked, waiting.
For a moment, Se-ah simply stared at the cursor's steady pulse.
The room was silent except for the hum of the air conditioner,and she thought, fleetingly, of how silence sometimes felt heavier than noise.
Like a shoreline waiting for a tide that never returned.
Almost without thinking, Se-ah set her hands on the keyboard.
"They say actions matter more than words. But all I've done lately… feels like just words."
She pressed send.
The screen shifted smoothly, the words "Searching for connection…" flashing across it.
And as the letters glowed on the screen, she felt—irrationally, impossibly—that someone, far away in time, had just turned their head toward her.
[2050, Second Floor of Yunseul's Café]
Outside the window, the early September sun of late summer spilled through the glass like it was trying to pierce its way inside.
Even at the tail end of summer, the sunlight still felt sharp against the skin, and the lingering heat refused to leave the corners of the city.
But on the second floor of Yunseul's café, it felt like a quiet shade where the weight of the season could be set down for a while.
The soft, stream-like music flowed through the air, while sunlight seeped past insulated blinds, warming the tables and sofas—not uncomfortably, but in a slow, drowsy way.
There, the three of them sat, each absorbed in their own time.
Jian sat by the window, her eyes on the laptop screen.
Logs from LUKA and previous connection scenarios were neatly organized across the display, but her keystrokes were far more relaxed than before.
Her gaze, too, was brighter. Something inside her had begun to shift since that day by the sea.
Across the table sat Shia.
Her hair was tied back more neatly than usual, and she was decorating her tablet with strips of yellow masking tape while solving math problems in between.
Every so often, she muttered things like, "No, that's not right…" and spun her pencil idly,
but her expression carried not irritation—just a familiar steadiness.
At the innermost table sat Jihyuk.
His laptop was open to a document titled "Structural Changes in Coastal Ecosystems."
On the screen, maps of seaweed distribution sat side by side with graphs charting marine pollution trends along Korea's southern coast from the 2030s to 2040s.
Shia tilted her head at the sight.
"Jihyuk, are you suddenly into marine science now? Weren't you saying before you didn't know what you wanted to do?"
Jian lifted her head as well.
"Yeah, what happened? Did something inspire you?"
Jihyuk hesitated, then answered quietly.
"I went to the sea not long ago… and I just got curious. My mom really loved the ocean.
I never really knew much about it, but now… I want to understand it properly."
At that, silence settled between them.
Shia nodded, and Jian gave a small smile—it looked like encouragement.
And so, time flowed on in the quiet café—
each of them holding, in their own way, a question about the future.
From downstairs came Yunseul's voice.
"Kids, I set out some herbal tea! Not iced—hot this time!"
Almost by reflex, Jian called back softly, "Okay~!"
A moment later, Jihyuk carried the drinks over and slid a cup toward Jian.
"No sugar this time. You think you can drink it like that? Last time you said you couldn't handle anything bitter."
Jian laughed as she took the cup.
"I did say that. But now… I'm practicing."
For a fleeting moment, their eyes met—brief, natural, almost warm.
Shia narrowed her eyes.
"…Hey, why do you two look so cozy? I can't sit here if you're going to keep that up."
Jian widened her eyes.
"What are you talking about, all of a sudden?"
Jihyuk gave a short laugh and turned his gaze out the window.
With her arms crossed and lips jutting forward, Shia muttered,
"Whatever. My mouth feels too sweet now—I'll just drink the strongest of these teas."
And at that, all three of them broke into laughter together.
The late afternoon sunlight settled quietly over their laughter.
Faint steam rose from the herbal tea on the table,
and for that fleeting moment, none of them carried a weight on their shoulders.
But then— ding.
A short, strangely clear notification cut through the calm.
In the upper-right corner of Jian's laptop,
the standby screen of the LUKA system flickered to life.
A quiet message appeared at the edge of the window.
[Incoming Connection Detected]
2030 – Ryu Se-ah / Environmental Sector User / Emotional Link Request
Message: "They say actions matter more than words…"
Jian's hand froze above her teacup.
Jihyuk and Shia's eyes snapped to the screen at the same time.
For a moment, silence.
Then Jian whispered, almost breathless:
"…It's here. This time, for real."
And with that, the air in the room seemed to shift ever so slightly—
as if someone, unknown and distant, was speaking to them
through the seam of time beyond the sea.
The LUKA standby window pulsed faintly.
Jian carefully set her fingers to the keyboard.
『Hello. You mentioned you were involved in environmental work, correct?』
The message was sent.
All three of them held their breath.
A few seconds of stillness.
Then, the reply appeared.
『…Yes.』
Jian turned to Shia,
who was already flying across her tablet screen.
"Compiling 2030 environmental movement keywords… got it.
Coastal cleanup project. Centered around Busan and Yeosu."
Jian nodded.
Jihyuk, meanwhile, was digging through his own files.
"That project ties directly to current patterns between 2030 and 2032.
Busan–Yeosu currents, floating waste density spikes, coastal pollution surge.
Records show pollution levels rose more than 12% on average.
For pebble shorelines, the contamination index peaked in June."
Shia typed quickly, consolidating the data.
『2030–32, Busan–Yeosu coastal cleanup project.
Pollution surged due to backflow currents and waste concentration.
Average contamination rose over 12%.
Pebble shoreline index spiked in June.』
Jian's gaze stayed on the screen.
She added softly:
『If you were the one standing on that shore,
I can only imagine how lonely that fight must have felt.』
A moment later, Se-ah's reply appeared.
『…That's not in any government report.You're not experts, are you? Just who are you?』
Jian glanced at Jihyuk.
He gave a small, steady nod.
Jian drew in a deep breath and typed.
『…We're high school students. We live in the year 2050.』
The cursor blinked in silence.
Then, slowly, another line appeared.
『…Is this supposed to be a joke?』
Jian didn't hesitate.
『It's true.
We've changed some people, and failed with others.
We've made mistakes… but that's why we refuse to give up.
Because we want to believe what you're doing still matters—even now.』
For a long while, the screen stayed still.
Then at last, a quiet response surfaced.
『Real or fake, it doesn't matter.
What's certain is… you really are just kids.』
The cursor drifted toward the "End Chat" button.
But it never pressed down.
Instead, in the corner of the screen, a tiny icon pulsed softly—
"Connection Pending."
Amid the cooling herbal tea and the low hum of the air purifier,
the three of them exchanged glances.
Jihyuk spoke first, almost in a whisper.
"…It's still connected."
Jian allowed herself the faintest smile.
And without a word, she rested her hands back on the keyboard.
[2050, Doyoon's Workshop]
A damp late-summer night.
Jian was sprinting through the alley, clutching her laptop tightly against her chest.
Behind her, Shia and Jihyuk ran alongside, their short, ragged breaths breaking the silence.
"Faster—before it's too late!"
Doyoon's workshop door was shut, but Jian didn't hesitate.
She twisted the handle and pounded her fist against it.
"Doyoon-!"
Inside, only the cold whir of machines and the low hum of the air circulator filled the air.
Doyoon sat before his desk, three monitors glowing as they cycled through recovery simulations.
"You need to see this—now!"
The moment he opened the door, Jian stumbled in, still breathless, and placed her laptop on the desk.
Across the monitors, complex log data and flickering connection signals filled the screens.
Doyoon halted the program and began analyzing the logs with careful precision.
Jihyuk caught his breath and leaned over his shoulder.
"There—look. The time-lock filter's offline.
If the transmission went through like this… the entire log might have been exposed."
Doyoon's brow furrowed as he nodded.
"…The restoration structure collapsed.
Neither the time filter nor the flow restriction was working."
Clutching her tablet tightly, Shia's voice trembled.
"Then… we just leaked the real future into the past?"
Jihyuk gave a heavy nod.
"Yeah. All of it—raw and unfiltered."
On the monitors, a red warning spread slowly across the display.
[Data Overload – Filter Malfunction – Access Restriction Failed]
Doyoon exhaled sharply.
"There's no taking it back now."
The three of them stood in silence, staring at the monitors.
The only sound was the low vibration of the air circulator, pressing down heavy on the room.
Then Jian spoke—quiet, but clear.
"…Then, if that's how it is… can't we at least send them more?"
Doyoon and Jihyuk both turned to her.
Jian looked calm on the surface, but her fingertips trembled almost imperceptibly.
"If the past already has fragments of the future…
isn't it better to give them something accurate?
That way… whatever choice they make, at least they'll regret it less."
Jihyuk stayed silent. Doyoon lowered his head, shoulders heavy.
At that moment, the tiny connection icon on the monitor flickered once more.
[Transmission Pending – Recipient Available]
[Warning: Unstable Connection / High Risk of Termination]
Doyoon set his hands back on the keyboard.
"…All right. Let's try again."