Adanna barely remembered how she got back to the hostel that night. The Han River's quiet, Jinwoo's voice soft against the rippling water, and the way he looked at her as if he were seeing her not as a stranger but as someone who had simply wandered into his orbit looped in her head like a song on repeat.
It wasn't fireworks or love confessions. It was something quieter, something she couldn't even name. And maybe that's why it unsettled her more.
When she finally crawled into the small bed in her narrow room, her purple hoodie still damp from the river breeze, she lay awake staring at the ceiling. Seoul buzzed outside her window, traffic humming, neon signs blinking, the chatter of late-night walkers. Yet inside her chest was a silence heavy enough to press into her ribs.
She whispered into the darkness, "What am I doing here?"
But she already knew. The Purple Jar hadn't been emptied for a coincidence.
-
The next morning, Seoul felt brighter than it should have. Adanna tugged her braids into a loose bun and walked toward the nearby convenience store. The glass doors slid open, releasing the smell of fresh kimbap, microwaved ramyeon, and coffee in little cans. She scanned the aisles, the weight of last night pressing against the ordinariness of the shelves.
She picked up a packet of triangle kimbap, fumbling to read the label. Korean words danced across the packaging, and though she'd practiced some phrases, her tongue still felt clumsy. She was about to give up when a soft voice spoke beside her.
"Do you need help with that?"
Adanna froze. For half a second, her stomach dropped. Her heart leapt to the only voice it wanted to hear, but when she turned, it was just a university student with headphones draped around his neck.
"Ah, uhm, no, thank you," she stammered, heat creeping up her neck. She paid quickly and left, her pulse pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the boy.
Seoul was dangerous that way. Every sound, every passing face tricked her into thinking she might stumble across him.
-
Meanwhile, Jinwoo was living a day that should have been like any other. Rehearsals at the company building, vocal warm-ups, endless run-throughs with Eclipse7's choreographer shouting counts over blaring speakers. Sweat dripped down his temple, his shirt clinging as he fell into rhythm with the others.
But something was off.
During breaks, his mind wandered. He'd find himself staring at the condensation running down his water bottle, remembering the way Adanna's eyes followed the river's current. When the group sat down for lunch, his bandmate Haneul cracked a joke, and the others burst into laughter. Jinwoo smiled automatically, but the sound didn't reach him. His mind was elsewhere.
No one noticed, at least, not fully. Except Minjae. Eclipse7's leader always had an uncanny way of seeing through people. He leaned back in his chair, chopsticks paused mid-air.
"You're quiet today, Jinwoo."
"I'm fine," Jinwoo said quickly, sipping from his cup. But Minjae's gaze lingered a little too long, like he didn't believe him.
And maybe he shouldn't. Because Jinwoo couldn't explain it himself. What was he supposed to say? That he'd run into a stranger who felt strangely not like a stranger at all?
He shook the thought away, focusing back on practice. But every time he closed his eyes, Adanna's voice hesitant, accented, yet certain, came back to him.
-
The days that followed moved like this: ordinary on the surface, restless underneath.
For Adanna, Seoul became a labyrinth of small discoveries. She wandered into bookstores where the covers felt foreign under her fingers. She lingered at street food stalls, burning her tongue on hot tteokbokki. She scribbled in her sketchbook at quiet cafés, designing dresses inspired by the colors of the city, the neon pink of signs, the steel gray of subway trains, the soft gold of lanterns strung above side streets.
But every step carried an invisible thread tugging her closer to Eclipse7's world.
One afternoon, she visited a tiny record shop tucked between a bakery and a laundromat. Posters of old K-pop groups plastered the walls, and soft music trickled from the speakers. She was flipping through vinyl sleeves when the shopkeeper placed a cardboard box on the counter, muttering about "new deliveries."
The top record stared back at her: Eclipse7's debut album.
Adanna laughed under her breath, shaking her head. Seoul had a cruel sense of humor. She picked it up, her thumb tracing the glossy photo of Jinwoo's younger face, sharper jawline, less tired eyes. She remembered the night she had saved every naira to buy the digital version online, praying her phone wouldn't crash mid-download.
Now here it was, in her hands, like an echo of the past folding into the present.
She bought it without hesitation, even though she had no player to use it with. Maybe it wasn't for listening. Maybe it was proof.
--
For Jinwoo, the thread pulled tighter.
Late one night, after another exhausting rehearsal, he slipped out of the company building with a mask pulled high and a cap shading his face. The streets were quieter, but not empty. He walked aimlessly, letting the night air cool his damp skin.
He ended up near the very convenience store where Adanna had bought her kimbap days before. He didn't know why his steps led him there. Maybe because it was near the river, maybe because some invisible map was sketching itself without his permission.
He bought a canned coffee, leaned against the store's glowing wall, and let the bitterness roll over his tongue. He thought of Adanna again, the way she had looked both out of place and perfectly placed at the same time, her words soft yet carrying a weight he couldn't shake.
It wasn't an attraction alone. It was recognition. As if he had known her long before that night, though he was certain he hadn't.
"Strange," he muttered to himself, tipping the can back.
And yet, even in the strangeness, he didn't feel like pulling away.
-
Their second encounter wasn't planned. It was never going to be.
Adanna was sketching at a café near Hongdae, sipping a latte she couldn't really afford. Her journal lay open, pencil scratching against paper. She wasn't drawing Eclipse7 this time. She was drawing the city, the way a streetlamp bent over the sidewalk, the curve of a passing woman's hanbok, the reflection of neon in a puddle outside.
She didn't notice the door chime, or the soft footsteps. Not until someone stopped beside her table.
"Still drawing?"
Her pencil froze. Slowly, she looked up.
Jinwoo stood there, his mask pulled low this time, but his eyes unmistakable. They held hers, steady and unflinching, with the same quiet curiosity as before.
Adanna's throat went dry. "You"
He raised a finger to his lips, glancing around. The café was nearly empty, but idols lived on the edge of exposure. Then, softer, he said, "Can I sit?"
She nodded, unable to form words.
He slid into the seat across from her, pulling his cap lower. For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the espresso machine filled the silence. Then Jinwoo tilted his head toward her sketchbook.
"May I see?"
Adanna hesitated, then pushed it toward him. He flipped through pages ,buildings, fabrics, designs,and people. His gaze lingered on one drawing: a stage lit with purple, seven silhouettes standing tall.
"This is us."
Her cheeks flushed. "It's… inspiration."
He smiled faintly, and for the first time, it wasn't a stage-smile. It was small, almost secret.
"You see things differently," he said. "Not just what's there, but what could be."
Adanna swallowed hard. "Maybe that's the only way I know how to survive."
Jinwoo looked at her then, not at the hoodie, not at the braid, not even at the sketchbook. At her. And Adanna felt something shift, as if the thread between them had tightened another knot.
-;
The café meeting was brief. Jinwoo left quietly, careful not to draw attention. But the moment stayed with them both.
For Adanna, it was proof that Seoul wasn't just a dream, it was real, messy, unpredictable, and maybe, just maybe, holding space for her.
For Jinwoo, it was a reminder that not every connection had to be scripted by management or polished for fans. Some things just… happened.
And sometimes, the most ordinary moments carried the heaviest weight.
That night, Adanna returned to her hostel and placed the debut vinyl beside her pillow. She whispered, "The jar wasn't emptied for nothing."
And somewhere across the city, Jinwoo lay awake in his dorm, his mind restless. He didn't know what this was, or where it was going. But for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like running from it.
Because sometime
s, the universe doesn't shout. It just ties two lives together with an invisible thread, pulling them closer, one ordinary day at a time.