Morning arrived quietly, too quietly for how fast Yoon Ha-rin's thoughts were running.The pocket watch lay on her bedside table, silent again, as if last night's ticking had been part of a dream she wasn't supposed to remember.
But the drawing wasn't a dream.The sketchbook was open beside her.The bridge. The river. The two figures.Every line exactly as she'd left it.
She traced the pencil strokes with her fingertip, a small part of her wishing she could blame it on stress.Because stress, at least, had logic.This—whatever this was—did not.
When she reached the office, the world looked normal enough:colleagues laughing by the coffee machine, Na-eun gossiping about last night's drama, emails flooding her inbox like nothing in the universe had changed.
But then her screen blinked.
One new message.Timestamp: 8:48 a.m.
Her phone, however, read 8:36 a.m.
Twelve minutes difference.
The exact number from last night.
She stared at the watch in her bag.Still silent. Still accusing.
Na-eun leaned over her shoulder. "You look like you saw a ghost. Or worse—an accounting error."
Ha-rin shut the laptop quickly. "Just… deja vu."
Na-eun squinted. "Okay, that's the official phrase people use right before ghosts enter Act Two of every K-drama."
Ha-rin forced a smile. "Trust me, no ghosts. Just sleep deprivation."
But even as she said it, her phone vibrated with a text from Director Kang Jae-hyun.
"Conference room. Bring your sketchbook."
Her throat went dry.She hadn't told him about the sketch.
He was waiting by the projector, sleeves rolled, eyes darker than usual.On the table in front of him lay a folder—and the same bridge, printed in sepia, in a photo so old it looked like memory itself had taken it.
Ha-rin stopped in the doorway. "Where did you get that?"
"I could ask you the same."He turned the photo toward her. "This came from an archive our heritage-restoration client sent this morning. An old Aureum-ri landmark."He lifted his gaze. "You drew it last night, didn't you?"
She swallowed. "You looked through my bag?"
He exhaled, half-smiling. "No. You sent me a picture of it at 12:12 a.m."
Her eyes widened. "I—what?"
He handed her his phone.There it was. A message from her number.A photo of her sketch. Sent exactly when the pocket watch had stopped ticking.
Her fingers went cold. "I didn't send that."
"I figured."He set the phone down gently. "But someone—or something—wanted me to see it."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the low hum of the projector fan.
Ha-rin took a shaky breath. "This is insane. Watches don't tick backwards, and drawings don't send themselves."
Jae-hyun looked at her steadily. "What if it's not insanity? What if it's history looping?"
She laughed once, without humor. "And we're what—time travelers with Wi-Fi?"
His smile tilted. "Would explain the deadlines."
She tried to glare, failed, and sat down instead. "You don't actually believe—"
He pulled something from his jacket pocket.The pocket watch.
"Look," he said quietly.
The hands moved.Not forward.Backward.
A single rotation every minute, rewinding twelve ticks at a time.
Her breath hitched. "It started again."
He nodded. "At 8:36. The exact minute you got that message."
She pressed her palms to her knees, trying to anchor herself."Okay. Okay. So the universe has a sense of humor."
"Or," he said softly, "it's reminding us of something we forgot."
He opened his laptop and played the archive video that had come with the photo.A historian's voice narrated over black-and-white images.
"Aureum-ri's stone bridge, built during the late 1800s. Local folklore tells of two lovers who promised to meet there after a storm separated them. They never did.Their unfinished promise was said to linger for twelve minutes each night before midnight—time repeating until they meet again."
Ha-rin stared at the screen. "Twelve minutes."
Jae-hyun's gaze found hers. "Twelve minutes."
A small chill ran down her spine.
"What are the odds?" she whispered.
He smiled faintly. "You tell me. You're the one drawing ghosts."
She looked down at her sketchbook.Another page had new lines she didn't remember adding—a faint outline of the bridge, but this time under heavy rain.
"I didn't draw that," she murmured.
He moved closer, peering at the page.His sleeve brushed her arm, the smallest static touch.
For a moment, everything in the room stilled.
The watch stopped ticking.
Then ticked once—backward.
Her mind went blank.
She blinked—and the world shifted.
The air smelled of wet earth.The conference table was gone.They stood on a wooden bridge under a thunder-gray sky.Rain hammered around them.
The same faces. Different clothes.A hanbok. A silver watch. The same eyes filled with panic.
"Ha-rin, please!""You promised you wouldn't—"
Lightning flashed.A scream swallowed by water.The watch slipped from his hand, sinking.
Then nothing.
She gasped, snapping back into fluorescent light.
Jae-hyun was gripping the table, breathing hard.He had seen it too.
His voice came rough. "What… what was that?"
She looked at him, eyes wide, tears she hadn't noticed on her lashes."I think," she whispered, "we just remembered dying."
Neither spoke for a long time.Only the sound of rain, faint and distant, tapping against the office windows like an echo of what they'd just seen.
Finally, Jae-hyun's hand reached across the table, hesitant but sure."Maybe it's not haunting us," he said quietly. "Maybe it's giving us another chance."
Ha-rin nodded slowly, fingers trembling as they touched the edge of the sketchbook.The next page was blank—waiting.
"What do we do?" she asked.
He looked at her with a softness that steadied the room."We draw," he said. "Before time erases us again."