Gyeongju, 1913 – Early Summer
The first letter was never meant to be written.
But Hana had never been good at staying silent.
She wrote it late at night, by candlelight, when the wind outside scratched at the shutters and her thoughts refused to sleep. Ink bled into the grain of the paper as if her heart couldn't bear the weight of all she wanted to say.
Dearest Seon,
You asked me once why I always come back to the almond tree. I told you it was because it's quiet there. But the truth is—it's because that's where you are.
Her pen paused. The silence was too loud.
I'm afraid of time. It keeps moving forward even when we don't want it to. I'm afraid that one day I'll wake up, and you'll be gone. Or worse—you'll stay, but not remember me like this.
Not as Hana. Not as someone you waited for.
She folded the letter gently and placed it beneath the floorboard near her bed—next to the other five she'd never sent.
No one knew about them. Not her aunt. Not her cousin. Not even Seon.
Each letter carried a version of her too fragile to give. And each day, the pile grew.
—
Summer came slowly that year. The heat settled over the village like a secret. The almond tree no longer bloomed, but Hana still met Seon beneath its shaded branches.
They spoke less now.
Sometimes words weren't needed. His sketches filled in the silence—her hands in mid-motion, her hair caught in the breeze, her face tilted toward light.
"You always draw me when I'm not looking," Hana murmured one afternoon.
Seon chuckled softly. "That's when you're most real."
Her chest tightened.
They didn't talk about the future. Not anymore.
Too many rumors. Too much tension. Japan's occupation deepened each month—more taxes, stricter rules, boys being taken to study in Tokyo or serve in the army.
"What if we left?" Hana whispered once."Ran away. Just disappeared."
Seon looked at her for a long time.
"Would you really go?""Leave everything?""Even your name?"
Hana hesitated.
"I already feel like I've lost it."
He didn't answer. But that night, she found a sketch slipped inside her bag.
Her name. 하나.Drawn not with ink, but with gold-leafed strokes.
As if to say: I won't let you disappear.