The sky above Gyeongju was painted in soft gray, with thin clouds rolling over the ancient city like threads of smoke. The air smelled faintly of pine and rain — that kind of stillness that made time feel slower, heavier.
Nira adjusted the strap of her satchel, her eyes taking in the stone lanes, old temples, and low roofs glazed by drizzle. "It's strange," she murmured. "I've never been here, yet it feels… familiar."
Agani, walking beside her, smiled faintly. "That's how this place is. It remembers things for you."
They were there following the only lead they had — the faint resemblance between the symbols on Nira's torn diary page and the inscriptions Agani had once seen in an old library here. The librarian, an elderly woman named Madam Seo, had agreed to meet them.
The library itself was small, tucked between two weathered buildings. Its wooden doors creaked softly as they entered, the scent of old paper wrapping around them like memory.
"Welcome," came a voice, slow and warm. Madam Seo appeared from behind a stack of books, her silver hair tied neatly, her eyes sharp as ink.
Agani bowed politely. "Thank you for meeting us again. I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
"How could I forget?" Madam Seo smiled. "The traveler who once helped me catalogue poetry no one reads anymore. And now you've brought a friend?"
"This is Nira," Agani said softly. "She found something that might belong to these writings."
Nira stepped forward, pulling the folded page carefully from her notebook. When Madam Seo took it, her fingers trembled just slightly.
She adjusted her glasses and studied the markings. The room fell silent except for the soft rustle of turning pages and the sound of rain outside.
Finally, Madam Seo exhaled. "This isn't a simple note. It's part of a larger manuscript — a correspondence between two writers who lived centuries ago. They wrote in a hybrid of languages — some characters forgotten now. One was a poet, the other… a traveler."
Nira's heartbeat quickened. "Do you know what this part means?"
Madam Seo shook her head gently. "Not entirely. But I can tell you this — the word at the bottom, Agani, it was not always a name. It was once a title."
Agani's eyes widened. "A title?"
"Yes," the old woman said, her voice low. "In old dialect, Agani meant 'the one who returns.' A traveler bound to memory — to people whose stories were left unfinished."
For a moment, both women stood still. The air seemed to thicken with quiet meaning.
Nira's voice was barely a whisper. "The one who returns…"
Madam Seo smiled faintly. "Maybe you two were meant to meet."
---
Meanwhile, back at the house in Seoul, Re-ha was sitting on the couch sketching a new design when she noticed Lila cooking in silence — which was unusual.
Normally, the kitchen echoed with Lila's chatter, humming, or commentary about butter being "philosophically essential." But tonight, she moved quietly, her face unreadable, her gloved hands steady.
Re-ha leaned her chin on her hand. "You're awfully quiet today. Did the pasta offend you?"
Lila glanced up and chuckled softly. "No. Just tired. Long day."
Re-ha nodded but kept watching her. She'd always been curious about those gloves — soft beige ones, always worn, even when it was warm.
After a pause, she asked gently, "Lila… can I ask you something?"
Lila looked up, eyebrow raised. "You sound serious. Should I sit down?"
"I've just… wondered. Why do you always wear gloves?"
Lila froze for a heartbeat. The smile on her face faltered — not gone, but dimmed, like a candle in wind. She looked down at her hands, pretending to adjust the cuff.
"Oh, these?" she said lightly. "Habit. Kitchens can be cruel places."
Re-ha tilted her head. "You mean burns?"
"Something like that," Lila replied softly, her voice losing its usual brightness. She set the spoon down carefully, her gaze distant. "There was… an accident once. A long time ago. Let's just say fire doesn't like me much."
Re-ha's eyes softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
But Lila smiled again, a little too quickly. "Don't be. It's old news. Besides, gloves make me look mysterious, right?"
She wiggled her fingers playfully, forcing a small laugh, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper — pain, maybe, or memory.
Re-ha smiled gently, sensing the boundary. "You don't have to tell me," she said. "Just… don't hide from us completely, okay?"
Lila hesitated — then nodded. "Okay."
And just like that, the light came back. "Now, come taste this sauce before it realizes it's a disaster."
Re-ha laughed softly, letting the moment drift away, though her heart felt heavier than before.
---
In Gyeongju, as night fell, Nira and Agani sat on the steps outside the library, the city lights shimmering like distant stars.
"So," Nira said quietly, "the one who returns. What do you think that means for you?"
Agani chuckled softly. "Maybe it's just coincidence. A word, nothing more."
"You don't believe that," Nira said.
Agani looked away, watching the rain slide off the edge of her umbrella. "No," she admitted. "It feels… too close. Like it's been waiting for me."
Nira smiled faintly. "You ever feel like life is trying to tell you a story, but in a language you haven't learned yet?"
"Yes," Agani whispered. "And sometimes I think that's what people are too — unfinished stories trying to find the right ending."
A soft silence settled between them. The kind that said more than words ever could.
Then Nira smiled. "You know, for a travel company employee, you're quite poetic."
Agani laughed. "Don't tell my boss."
They both laughed quietly as the rain turned lighter, washing the world in silver.
---
Back in Seoul, the apartment was dim and calm. Lila sat alone by the stove after everyone had gone to bed, the lights low. She pulled off one glove slowly, revealing the pale burn marks twisting along her wrist — not ugly, but hauntingly delicate, like a story written in flame.
She traced the edges of the scars, her reflection flickering in the window.
"Fire doesn't like me much," she whispered again, but softer this time — almost to herself.
From her pocket, she took out a small, worn recipe card. On the back, faint and half-burned, were the same strange markings that Nira's diary page had.
She stared at them for a long time.
Then, carefully, she slipped the card back into her apron and put the glove on again.
The night was quiet — but beneath its stillness, the threads between the four women began to tighten, weaving something unseen yet inevitable.
---
The next morning, as Nira and Agani boarded the train back to Seoul, Nira leaned against the window, lost in thought.
"Agani," she said softly, "do you ever feel like… we're all being pulled toward something? The same thing?"
Agani glanced at her, then smiled gently. "Maybe fate just enjoys a good story."
Outside, the mountains rolled by — silent, ancient witnesses to stories that never truly end.