Gyeongju, Spring 1912
There were rules.
Girls from respected families didn't walk alone at dusk. They didn't speak to boys they weren't promised to. And they certainly didn't sit under almond trees in full bloom, trading words like secrets.
But Hana was never good at rules.
The tree stood just past the old stone path behind the market. It bloomed too early every year, a stubborn thing—just like her. Its petals fell like snow whenever the wind stirred, a thousand soft rebellions against time.
She came every Friday, before the evening bell, careful to avoid her aunt's eyes.
And every time, he was already there.
Seon didn't speak first. He never did. He'd just be sitting in the grass with a sketchbook on his knees, brush between his fingers, as if he'd always been waiting.
Tonight was no different.
"You're early," Hana said, stepping over a root with practiced grace.
Seon looked up, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"You always say that," he replied, "but maybe I just never leave."
She sat beside him, smoothing her hanbok over her legs. Her fingers fidgeted with the ribbon at her waist.
"If someone sees us—"
"They won't."
His voice was calm. Not arrogant—just sure.
Hana didn't ask how he knew. He always knew things. He wasn't from her district, but he had the mind of someone who saw too much and spoke too little. His father was a nobleman's advisor in training. He was supposed to become a civil servant.
But instead, he painted.
His sketchbook was filled with things he was never supposed to draw—her eyes, her laughter, the shape of her hand when she reached for plum blossoms.
"You'll leave someday," Hana said quietly. "All boys like you leave."
"And girls like you?" he asked.
She shrugged. "We stay. We're told to."
There was silence for a moment. The kind that isn't awkward, just heavy with all the things they weren't allowed to say.
Seon put his brush down.
"Maybe I don't want to leave.""Maybe I'm waiting for something."
"For what?"
He turned to her then, really looked at her.
"For someone to say she wants me to stay."
Hana's throat tightened.
She wasn't a girl who cried easily. But Seon always made her feel like everything mattered—every word, every look. Like she wasn't invisible.
"Would that change anything?"
He smiled softly.
"Everything."
They didn't kiss. They didn't touch.
But something ancient settled between them that night. Not promises, but recognition. Like they'd been walking toward each other for a very long time.