Rain had perfected its art overnight — loud enough to drown out thoughts, soft enough to make you listen.
Han Yura sat on her bed, the photo spread before her like evidence from a crime scene she wasn't sure she committed.
Same face. Same cold stare. Same unnervingly familiar smirk.
The only difference was that the Yura in the picture wore a 1960s-style uniform — pleated skirt, old Hanrim crest, and the confidence of someone who already knew how this story ended.
"Okay," she muttered. "Either time travel's real, or genetics just pulled the world's creepiest prank."
A voice from the doorway replied, "You talk to photos now? That's new, even for you."
Daejun stood there, damp from the rain, holding a coffee cup like it was a peace offering.
Yura glanced up. "It's called coping. Cheaper than therapy, more effective than hope."
He walked in, shutting the door behind him. His gaze fell on the photo. "…That's you."
"Apparently," Yura said. "Either I'm immortal or someone had a cloning hobby before it was trendy."
Daejun sat beside her, scanning the grainy picture. "Who took this?"
"No idea. It was slipped under my door like a love letter from Satan."
"Romantic," he said dryly. "You kept it?"
"Of course. You don't throw away potential identity crises."
---
THE LECTURE HALL
The next morning, Hanrim buzzed with gossip about the Founder's Exhibit. Posters were everywhere, featuring cheerful slogans that felt vaguely threatening —
'Honoring Our Legacy, Inspiring the Future!'
Yura muttered, "Translation: 'Hiding skeletons with better lighting.'"
Haerin joined her at their bench, clutching her umbrella and looking like she'd aged ten years overnight. "Yura, you look… terrible."
"Thank you," Yura said. "It's the trauma glow."
"Did you even sleep?"
"I tried," she said. "But my doppelgänger from 1964 kept haunting my self-esteem."
Haerin blinked. "You're… joking, right?"
Yura slid the photograph over. Haerin took one look and froze. "This—this looks exactly like you!"
"See? Told you I had a vintage aesthetic."
Haerin covered her mouth. "This isn't normal, Yura. Maybe she's your ancestor?"
"Maybe," Yura said. "Or maybe Hanrim has a recycling program for souls."
Haerin groaned. "Don't joke about that."
"I'm not joking. I'm branding my anxiety."
---
THE DEAN'S OFFICE
By noon, Yura and Haerin were summoned to Dean Seo's office — a room so sterile it could have doubled as an autopsy suite. The Dean's face was unreadable as ever, framed by silver hair and an aura of command.
"Miss Han," she said calmly, "I heard you found something unusual during Exhibit preparations."
Yura smiled faintly. "Define 'unusual.' Hanrim's full of that."
Dean Seo slid a folder across the desk. Inside — the same photograph.
Yura's stomach dipped. "You have this too?"
"I have everything that concerns this school," the Dean said. "Including you."
Yura arched a brow. "That sounded much less comforting than you think."
The Dean studied her. "Tell me, Yura. Do you believe in inheritance?"
"Of what kind?"
"Memory," Dean Seo said simply. "Some say it's genetic. That trauma leaves fingerprints even DNA can read."
Yura forced a smile. "So my ancestor had unresolved issues, and now I get nightmares as an elective?"
Dean Seo didn't react. "Stay away from the archives, Miss Han. Curiosity here is… terminal."
Yura stood slowly, eyes meeting the Dean's. "If curiosity kills me, at least I'll die educated."
Haerin tugged her sleeve nervously as they left. "Why do you always provoke her?"
"Because she already hates me," Yura said. "I might as well earn it."
---
THE LIBRARY BASEMENT
That evening, Yura slipped into the restricted section of the library — because naturally, when someone told her not to, she considered it an invitation.
Dust blanketed the shelves, the air heavy with the smell of forgotten things. A lone bulb flickered above as she flipped through old yearbooks.
1964. 1965. 1966.
Then she found it.
A name beneath the face that mirrored hers:
Han Yuna — Top of Class, Founder's Research Intern.
Yura traced the name. "Yuna," she whispered. "Close enough to be a typo. Or a reincarnation."
She turned the page — and froze. A section was torn out, leaving jagged edges. But scribbled in the corner of the remaining page were faint words in ink:
'The experiment succeeded. But she doesn't remember.'
A chill danced up her spine. She closed the book quickly — too quickly.
Something shifted behind her. Footsteps.
"Breaking curfew, Miss Han?"
Professor Min Haesoo stepped out of the shadows, holding a flashlight. Her smile looked gentle; her eyes, anything but.
Yura kept her expression calm. "I was… doing light reading."
"Light," Min repeated. "How ironic."
Her gaze dropped to the open yearbook. "Ah. Yuna. You do look alike, don't you?"
"You knew her?" Yura asked.
Min tilted her head. "I know everyone who never officially left Hanrim."
Yura frowned. "Meaning?"
Min smiled wider. "Meaning she's not gone. Not exactly."
Before Yura could speak, the professor gently closed the yearbook and stepped closer.
"You shouldn't dig too deep," Min whispered. "You might find yourself."
Then she turned and left — leaving the air colder, and Yura's curiosity blazing like a warning siren.
---
THE TRIO'S MEETING
Later that night, Yura gathered Daejun and Haerin in the dorm kitchen — their unofficial war room.
"So, update," she began. "I might be the reincarnation or clone of someone named Han Yuna who worked with the founders on an experiment that 'succeeded.' Which probably means it didn't."
Haerin blinked. "You think you're her?"
"I think Hanrim has a terrible habit of recycling people."
Daejun frowned. "What if you're related?"
"Then family reunions are about to get really awkward."
Haerin rubbed her temples. "This is insane."
"Welcome to Hanrim," Yura said. "Where insanity is a prerequisite."
Daejun leaned forward. "We need proof. That experiment — maybe the files are still somewhere."
"Then we'll find them," Yura said.
Haerin's eyes widened. "You mean… break in again?"
"Of course," Yura said, smirking. "We're already in a mystery. Might as well upgrade it to a felony."
---
FINAL SCENE
That night, Yura couldn't sleep. The rain had stopped, but her mind hadn't.
She got up, turning the photograph over in her hands one last time — tracing the faint symbol on the back.
Her reflection in the window watched her — calm, pale, still.
Then it smiled.
Only she hadn't.
The photo slipped from her fingers, landing face-down.
From the mirror, her reflection whispered — soft, clear, unmistakably her own voice:
> "You're almost awake."
Yura's breath hitched. The reflection didn't move again.
Hanrim wasn't just repeating the past.
It was trying to finish what it started.