The second time she saw him, she followed him.
It wasn't intentional. She'd just stepped off the bus near Insadong, chasing a rumor that an antique dealer had recently acquired a new batch of pre-colonial scrolls.
But then—he was there.
Brown coat. Black scarf. Same slow walk.
He turned down a narrow street between two tea shops.She hesitated, then followed.
The street curved.
She blinked.
Suddenly, there it was.
A small bookstore with no name. Ivy on the sign. Windows fogged with time. No one else seemed to see it.
He stepped inside.She hesitated.
When she entered, the bell didn't ring.The air smelled like parchment and memory.
Inside, he was gone.
Books lined the walls, but they weren't labeled. Just stacks and stacks of tomes wrapped in twine and cloth.
At the far end, a woman sat behind a counter, skin like porcelain, hair silver.
"You're late," the woman said without looking up.
"I—what?"
"You were supposed to come yesterday. But perhaps it's better this way."
Yoorin stepped closer.
"Do you know me?"
The woman looked up. Her eyes shimmered—gold, like candlelight.
"You used to wear red ribbons. You used to carry ink under your nails."
Yoorin gasped.
"Hana," the woman whispered, "you're almost home."
The shelves around her creaked. One book slid out, landing softly on the counter.
The cover read:
The Moon Remembers Youby Seo Seon-hwan
Her knees buckled.
She touched the cover.
The words pulsed beneath her fingers, as if alive.