Gyeongju, 1915 – Late Spring
Hana stood beneath the almond tree as the first petal drifted down.
It had bloomed.
Early, this time. White blossoms shimmered in the sun like pieces of light shaken loose from heaven. And still—he didn't come.
She had waited.
Every week since the first frost broke, since the snow melted off the roof of her aunt's house, since the first bird began to sing again. She wore the same ribbon Seon had once untied from her hair. She carried the same letter she never sent.
But spring had arrived…And he had not.
"You lied," she whispered into the wind.
She didn't say it with anger. Only the hollow sort of grief that leaves no echo. A kind of heartbreak that was too tired to cry.
Villagers passed her, some looking, some not. There were new soldiers now—Korean men, forced into Japanese service. Foreign signs on the schoolhouse. The temple bells no longer rang.
Change had crept in like rot beneath the floorboards. And Hana had stayed still—waiting, as if stillness might undo time.
She went home and opened the wooden box.
The one Seon had given her, years ago. Inside: the miniature portrait of her, wrapped in cloth. Beneath it, she found something she didn't expect.
A folded envelope.
It was addressed to her in Seon's handwriting.
March 1915Kyoto (delayed post)
She opened it with shaking fingers.
Hana,
I saw a tree today that looked like ours, but it wasn't.Nothing smells the same here. Nothing feels like home.
They have me copying maps now. Studying railroads. I think they're preparing for something larger than any of us.
But I keep a sketch of you on the desk.I imagine your voice when the room gets too loud.
I will return when I can.Even if the world no longer welcomes me.
Until then... live.
Her hands trembled. The letter smelled faintly of cedar and ink.
But what struck her most was the line he hadn't crossed out.
If I cannot find you in this life, I will find you in the next.
The page slipped from her hands.
Outside, the almond petals fell.
One by one.
As if grieving with her.