The first time Yoon Ha-rin noticed the pattern, it was because of a cup of coffee.
She poured it at 10:17 a.m., sat down, blinked—and it was full again.Untouched.Clock on her screen: 10:05 a.m.
Her breath stuttered.She looked at her phone.Ten-oh-five.
Twelve minutes.
Again.
By noon she and Kang Jae-hyun were locked in his office, blinds drawn, laptop timers running.
"Ready?" he asked, thumb poised on the pocket watch's crown.
She nodded, heart in her throat."If it jumps again, we need proof."
He pressed the button.
Tick. Tick. Tick.Then silence.
The office light flickered.
Her pencil rolled off the table and stopped mid-air—hovered for one impossible second—then dropped.
When the world righted itself, her watch read 12:36 p.m.
Theirs: 12:24 p.m.
Twelve minutes gone.
Ha-rin gasped. "You saw that?"
He exhaled. "I felt it."
They stared at each other, both shaking slightly, adrenaline and disbelief mixing in their blood like static.
They tested again.
At first it was small things: a pen on the desk, a flicker in the hallway lights, a plant leaning the other way.Then the memories began to double—two versions of the same moment overlapping like reflections on water.
Ha-rin pressed a hand to her temple. "If we can change twelve minutes, maybe we can—"
"Stop the storm," Jae-hyun finished quietly. "Save them. Save us."
Her eyes searched his. "But what if fixing the past breaks the present?"
He smiled faintly. "Then we'll build another present."
She wanted to believe that. She really did.
That evening, rain returned to the city—the kind that blurred buildings and made time feel slower.
They stood by the window, the pocket watch ticking in his hand.
"Let's try one last time," he said. "Together."
She nodded. "What do we do?"
"Think of the bridge."
The air thickened. The scent of wet earth.A hum that wasn't sound, more like gravity remembering itself.
The room tilted.
They were there again—the old bridge, moonlight fractured on the water.The storm gathering.
Jae-hyun's hand tightened around hers."This is it," he whispered. "The moment before it ended."
Across the bridge, a flash of movement—the white-robed girl from their visions, the jealous friend, face twisted in fear or regret.Lightning cracked the sky.
Ha-rin stepped forward. "We can stop it—!"
"Wait—!"
But she ran, instinct leading her where memory failed.The bridge trembled beneath her feet, wind screaming like time itself protesting.
She reached the other side just as the figure turned—and saw her own face, eyes wide with shock.Not the girl.Herself.
Her breath caught. "No…"
The world folded inward—one Ha-rin reaching, another fading.
Jae-hyun shouted her name—and suddenly they were back in the office, both gasping, soaked as if pulled straight from rain.
He grabbed her shoulders. "Ha-rin! You disappeared—"
"I saw myself," she whispered. "Not a dream version. Me."
He touched her cheek, shaking his head. "You're trembling."
She laughed weakly. "I think I broke physics."
He pulled her into his arms without thinking. "Then let it stay broken."
For a moment, everything else—the ticking, the time, the fear—fell away.There was only the sound of two heartbeats, trying to keep up with each other.
When they finally pulled apart, the pocket watch lay on the floor, its glass cracked.
It still ticked—but slower, softer, as if exhausted.
Jae-hyun picked it up. "Maybe time's tired of chasing us."
"Or maybe," she said, eyes glistening, "it's letting us catch up."
He smiled, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face."Ha-rin… if the universe resets again, I'll still find you."
She smiled back through tears. "Then promise you'll remember this version—the one where we're alive, even if nothing makes sense."
"Always," he said. "Twelve minutes, twelve lifetimes—same promise."
Outside, thunder rolled.The watch gave one last faint tick—and stopped.
They waited.
Nothing rewound.No flicker. No blur.
For the first time since it started, time held still - as if it had finally decided to let them stay.