Yoorin barely touched her tea the next morning.
The book sat quietly on her desk, no longer glowing, no longer whispering—but she didn't trust its silence. It was the kind of quiet that came before a storm.
She ran her fingers along its spine, tracing the crescent moon carved into the leather.
"A name," she whispered."Give me your name."
The book stayed still.
So she opened it again.
This time, the silver ink didn't appear right away. Only the faint outline of letters, half-formed, like smoke trying to become real.
And then—
"Seon."
Just that.
A single name.
It felt both ancient and familiar. A name that didn't belong to this time—or maybe didn't belong to her.
Her chest tightened. She didn't know if it was fear or recognition.
Seon.
She whispered it aloud, and the book warmed beneath her hands like it approved.
Suddenly, the bell above the bookstore door rang.
She jumped to her feet.
She was alone. The door was locked. But the sound had been real—bright and sudden, cutting through the quiet.
Cautiously, she made her way downstairs.
Nothing. The shop was just as empty as it had been the day before.
Except for one thing:
A flower had been left on the counter.
White almond blossom.
Fresh.
But it hadn't been there a moment ago.