Present Day, Seoul – Bookstore Basement Archive
Yoorin sat cross-legged on the cold tile floor, the scroll painting still in her lap.
She hadn't moved in over an hour. The world outside could have collapsed, and she wouldn't have noticed.
"Seon…" she whispered again.
She didn't understand how. Or why. But she knew now with bone-deep certainty that the dream was real. That the girl in the painting was her. And the boy who painted it had loved her once — perhaps still did.
She gently rewrapped the scroll and tucked it into her backpack. She needed space to breathe.
But before she could stand, something caught her eye.
A drawer.
Old, wooden, warped from time. It was slightly open. Yoorin knelt and pulled it toward her.
Inside were yellowed envelopes.
Dozens of them.
All labeled in neat handwriting.
Some were sealed. Others had already been opened and carefully refolded. They smelled faintly of ink and cedar.
She picked one at random. Her hands shook.
"April 3, 1914"
The same date carved on the brick wall outside.
She opened it.
Inside was a letter, written in Korean.
To the girl who remembers the rain,
I saw you again today, beneath the almond tree, even though it no longer blooms.You didn't smile. I think you knew.
They want to send me away. Japan. Or maybe further.But how can I go when I've left so much here?
I don't know if these words will reach you.But if they do—please don't forget me.
You are the first thing I ever painted that truly mattered.
Yours,Seon
Yoorin clutched the paper to her chest.
This wasn't just a past life.
This was a love story that had refused to die.
And suddenly… she knew what she had to do.
She would find every letter. Every page. Every name, every sketch. And she would tell their story.
Even if it unraveled her in the process.