The sky didn't forget to rise that morning, she just didn't have the strength to look up.
Outside, Seoul woke in quiet shades of gray. The city murmured softly, buses coughing to life, street vendors setting up their stalls, the hum of neon lights fading into day. The world kept moving, stubbornly alive.
Inside Han Areum's one-room apartment, time refused to.
The alarm clock blinked 7:00 a.m.
She'd been awake since 3:12.
An unfinished painting sat on her easel, streaks of crimson dissolving into pale blue, like a wound that refused to close. The colors bled where they shouldn't, as if the canvas itself had lost control. A sunrise, or maybe a sunset. She couldn't tell anymore.
Her phone buzzed again.
Unread messages stacked endlessly: her mother, her agent, her therapist. All voices in a world she had quietly abandoned.
The only sound she allowed was the dry tap of her brush against a coffee cup, forgotten hours ago.
Areum glanced at the window. Even the light seemed hesitant to touch her.
She didn't cry anymore, not because she was healed, but because the ache had settled. Like dust. You stopped noticing it until sunlight caught it in the air again.
Across the city in the part of Seoul where glass buildings touched the clouds, Kang Joon-ha was running late. Again.
The car hummed down the road while his manager scrolled through emails beside him. Joon-ha leaned against the window, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion pooling beneath his eyes.
To the world, he was still the nation's lost prince, a fallen idol turned songwriter, heir to a powerful political family. But behind the headlines and the practiced smiles, he was just tired.
"Coffee," he muttered, tapping the car door.
His manager blinked. "Now? We're already—"
"Five minutes," Joon-ha said simply, stepping out before the car even stopped.
The small café beside the art gallery was one he passed often, though he'd never gone inside. The bell above the door chimed cheerfully, a sound that somehow felt out of place against the dull rhythm of his thoughts.
He wasn't expecting anything to change.
He wasn't expecting her.
Through the fogged glass, he noticed a woman sitting alone near the window, brush in hand, her eyes distant. Something about her stillness unsettled him. She looked like someone waiting for the world to apologize.
He didn't know her name then.
Later, he would remember every detail, the red paint on her fingers, the fragile way morning light curved around her face, as if afraid to touch her too.
Areum hadn't planned to go outside that day.
But her paintbrush snapped, an absurdly small thing that felt like the world's final insult.
She grabbed her coat, hair unbrushed, mind empty, and stepped into the morning like a ghost remembering it once had a heartbeat.
The gallery across the street caught her eye, the same one that had once displayed her work. The Dawn I Lost.
That was before her brother's death. Before she stopped painting sunrises altogether.
She kept walking. She didn't want to see her reflection in that glass again.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
"Excuse me—"
The voice was soft but sure.
She turned and found herself face to face with a man holding out a dropped glove. His features were sharp yet gentle, eyes too tired for his age.
"Oh," she said, her voice barely there. "Thanks."
Their eyes met and for a moment, the city fell silent.
He smiled awkwardly, as if afraid of startling her. "You're the artist, right? The Dawn I Lost?"
Her breath caught. "That was a long time ago."
"I know," he said quietly. "But… your painting stayed with me."
Her brows furrowed. "Stayed with you?"
He shrugged, eyes flicking away. "It looked like loneliness, but you made it… beautiful."
She wanted to laugh. Instead, she whispered, "It wasn't supposed to be beautiful."
He smiled again, softer this time. "Maybe that's why it was."
For the first time in months, Areum felt something faintly move inside her, not hope, not peace, but the fragile awareness that maybe she wasn't entirely gone.
Joon-ha left first, a quiet ghost blending back into the world that demanded too much of him.
But her face lingered in his mind, her eyes, her voice, the silence she carried.
When he reached the company, his manager was already waiting outside his studio with a tablet full of names.
"Joon-ha," the manager began, "we've shortlisted some top photographers for the album visuals. You'll have to—"
"I don't want the top ones," he interrupted, scrolling absently through his phone.
"Sir, these are the best in Seoul—"
"I said I don't want known names," he said flatly, tone calm but final. "Find a freelancer. Someone quiet. The others are too loud."
His manager frowned. "You're impossible, you know that? The label won't—"
"Min Joon," he said, finally looking up, "you asked for authenticity, didn't you? I don't want another perfect photoshoot. I want someone who understands imperfection."
He didn't say her name. He didn't have to.
That night, a new email appeared in Areum's inbox.
To: Han Areum (Freelance Photographer)
From: Lee Min Joon, KS Entertainment
"We're interested in offering you a short-term project album visuals for an upcoming artist. Your raw, emotive work caught our client's attention. Please confirm your availability for a preliminary meeting this week."
Areum blinked at the screen, confusion swirling with disbelief. She hadn't submitted any portfolio in years.
Who had even seen her recent photographs?
She hovered over delete… but something maybe the memory of that morning, stopped her.
Her hand trembled as she typed a single reply:
"Available."
Across the city, Kang Joon-ha smiled faintly when his manager confirmed the booking.
"She's an unknown," Min Joon warned. "No agency backing, no big exhibitions recently."
"Good," Joon-ha said, setting his phone aside. "That's exactly what I want."
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the half-written lyrics on his notepad, words about light and distance and the ache of remembering.
Somewhere between the lines, he realized he'd started writing about her.
That night, as rain whispered against the glass, Areum stood before her unfinished painting again.
For the first time in years, she reached for her brush and this time, the colors didn't resist.
Outside, dawn was still hesitant.
But it was coming.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
The sky never truly forgets the dawn, it just waits until someone is brave enough to look up again.