The photograph wasn't there yesterday.
Yoorin was sure of it. She knew this bookstore like the lines of her palm. Every crooked shelf, every dusty binding, every floorboard that creaked even when she tiptoed.
And yet—there it lay.
On the corner table in the rare books section. Resting atop a stack of 19th-century poetry, yellowed and almost glowing in the early morning light.
A black and white photo, folded once down the middle. Small. Old. Real.
She hesitated before touching it. The room was unnaturally quiet—no cars outside, no ticking of the old grandfather clock in the main hall. As if time itself had paused to let this moment stretch.
She finally reached for it.
It felt like paper, but heavier. Warmer. Like it carried memories.
The photo showed a woman.Dressed in a flowing hanbok—soft white with a pale silver sash—she stood beneath an almond tree in full bloom. Her face was turned slightly away, caught mid-motion, as if she'd just turned to listen to someone.
Yoorin stared.
The woman's features weren't hers—not exactly. But they were close enough to make her stomach twist. The slope of her jaw, the shape of her mouth. Most haunting of all—her expression.
She looked… like she knew something no one else did.Like she was remembering something beautiful and painful all at once.
Yoorin turned the photo over, heart pounding.
There, written in careful slanted Hangul:
"Choi Hana, 1912. Gyeongju."
Yoorin sat down hard on the nearby bench.
Choi Hana.
The name rang in her head like a bell in a canyon—echoing too far, too long. She didn't know it, but some part of her did. Like it had been carved in a place deeper than memory.
"Who are you?" she whispered, staring at the woman.
The air in the room stirred.
Just slightly. Like someone had exhaled behind her.
She spun. Nothing.
But then—
A sound.
The whisper of pages turning.
She rushed to the attic, two steps at a time, and found the book wide open on her desk. A fresh page glowed faintly, waiting for her eyes.
She leaned in.
"You were her.""You are still her."
"I knew you as Choi Hana, and you knew me as Seon."
"You promised me you'd find me again."
Yoorin's knees buckled.
She didn't fall. She couldn't. The words rooted her in place.
She reread them twice. Three times. But they didn't change. Didn't fade.
Seon.Choi Hana.Gyeongju.1912.
A story had already been written. And somehow, she was walking inside it.
"Why don't I remember?" she whispered."If I was her… why is it all gone?"
But no answer came.
Only the faintest silver line of writing appearing on the bottom of the page:
"Because you were taken before you were ready to forget."
Yoorin stared at the book for a long time, unable to move. Unable to breathe.
Outside, the first raindrop hit the window.
She didn't remember making a promise.
But her soul had.
And now, something ancient was beginning to wake.