"Boseong Beans & Brews" sat quietly at the corner of Mapo District, a narrow street between a shuttered music shop and an aging salon. Inside, life slowed down. The smell of roasted beans mingled with the damp scent of rain sliding off customers' coats.
In the corner by the window sat Rae Jin (23), black jacket, messy hair, eyes half-lidded but razor-sharp. His Americano had long gone cold; beside it, a battered notebook filled with scribbles titled "Patterns of Human Behavior in Public Spaces."
Park Yejin (20) placed a tray on his table, her voice equal parts irritated and fond. "You stare at people like you're writing police reports.""If the police saw like I do," he said without looking up, "the world would be a little more honest.""And a lot more boring."He smiled faintly. "No. More tragic."
He closed his notebook, gaze flicking across the café. A middle-aged man scrolled through his phone with trembling hands. A young woman by the window checked her watch every thirty seconds.
"See that man?" Rae tilted his chin. "The tremor's not from caffeine—it's nicotine withdrawal. Quit smoking three days ago, regrets it already. The scrape on his thumb's from flicking an empty lighter."Yejin raised a brow. "So?""He's waiting for someone. Not a lover—someone he owes. Two spoons of sugar in his coffee. Sweetness hides guilt."
Yejin looked over, then smirked. "You might be right.""Not might," he corrected. "Certain."
"And the girl by the window?""She's not waiting for someone," he murmured, "she's waiting for time. Keeps touching the ring on her right hand—not left. Habit of someone who lost their other half. Watches the clock because she's still counting how long it's been since."
There was something soft in his voice—pity disguised as observation.Yejin studied him. "Sometimes I think you're not human.""Sometimes I agree.""And what's the point of all this?""To know when to stop believing."
Outside, rain returned. Jazz gave way to an old piano piece.
"The world's like coffee," he said. "Bitter first, then warm.""And you still drink it?""Because bitterness tells the truth."
Her laugh faded as she moved away. That's when Rae saw it—a cream leather wallet, forgotten on the chair beside him.
Inside: Kim Soyeon, Art Director, Haneul Studio. Age 28.And a small Polaroid—Soyeon smiling in front of a mirror cracked on the upper right.
"People who lose things," he muttered, "usually lose more than one."
Yejin appeared. "Customer must've left it. I'll keep it at the counter.""No need. Address is close. I'll return it.""Jin, it's raining—""If she lost her wallet," he interrupted, "maybe she's also lost her reason to come back."
"You're weird, you know that?"He half-smiled. "That's why you talk to me."
The apartment hallway was silent. A flickering light cast dull yellow on peeling paint. Rae stopped at Room 302 – Kim Soyeon, knocked gently.No answer.
He tried again, harder. Still silence. From inside came the faint tick of a clock—steady, wrong. His instinct tensed. The safety chain glinted under the light—locked from the inside.
He crouched, noticing a blurred smudge on the door handle, half-wiped fingerprints. "Interesting," he murmured.
Footsteps echoed behind him—flashlights and voices. Two uniformed officers approached, followed by a tall man in a long coat—Kim Chanwoo, head of the Seoul Crime Division."Report from a neighbor," Chanwoo said. "Strange smell since this afternoon."
Together, they forced the door open. The chain snapped. A rush of air escaped—damp, metallic, floral.
And under the flickering light—A woman hung by the window, long hair veiling her face, toes grazing the floor.The table still set, tea half warm.
Rae stood at the threshold, silent."Locked from the inside," he murmured. "But death isn't."
Chanwoo eyed him sharply. "Who are you?"Rae met his gaze. "Someone too early for coincidence.""What's that supposed to mean?"He pointed to the clock on the floor, frozen at 9:13. "If time can stop, maybe truth's just waiting for someone to restart it."
Chanwoo exhaled. "I hate people who talk in riddles."Rae smiled faintly. "Then you'll hate me for solving them."
And outside, Seoul kept breathing—its rain writing another unfinished story.