18 years earlier…
Nari decided very early on that promises were heavier than they looked.
She was seven years old, sitting on the swings at the neighborhood playground, her legs dangling uselessly above the ground while Hanbin stood in front of her, kicking at pebbles like he was trying to delay time itself.
"My dad got a job," he said again, quieter this time. "In Seoul."
Seoul.The word felt too big to fit in her chest.
"So… you're leaving?" Nari asked, even though she already knew the answer.
Hanbin nodded. "Tomorrow."
The chains of the swing creaked softly as she leaned forward, fingers curling around the cold metal. "That's not fair."
"I know." He looked at her, eyes serious in that way that made him seem older than he was. "But we'll find each other again."
She scoffed. "How? Seoul is huge."
"Then we'll look harder." He smiled, small but certain. "When we're older. Promise?"
Nari hesitated only a second before holding out her pinky. "Promise."
They hooked fingers, sealing it like it was unbreakable.
The next day, Hanbin was gone.
The playground felt wrong without him. Too quiet. Nari sat alone beneath the slide, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the ground and pretending she wasn't waiting for someone who wasn't coming back.
Then—
Clink.
Something cold tapped the top of her head and slid into her lap.
She blinked.
It was a charm bracelet.
Thin silver chain. Tiny dangling trinkets. A heart. A star. And one small white flower charm that caught the sunlight just right.
Confused, Nari looked up.
A plane streaked across the sky, white against blue, leaving a faint trail behind it.
Her chest tightened.
"That's you," she whispered. "Right?"
She didn't know why she believed it. She just did.
Reaching down, she plucked a small white flower growing through a crack in the playground concrete. She held it carefully, like it could hear her.
"I'll find you," she vowed softly. "No matter what."
She paused, then added, "I want eleven chances."
Because eleven was Hanbin's favorite number.And because promises were heavy—but she was willing to carry them.
But in present day…
Chapter One – The First Time I Met You
Nari woke up to sunlight tickling her eyelids, not the blaring shriek of her alarm.
She stretched luxuriously, toes curling against the soft edge of her rug. It was Friday. That meant coffee on the balcony, a little extra time scrolling her favorite game development forums, and maybe a pancake if she felt fancy.
She rolled over and glanced at her charm bracelet on the nightstand, still glimmering faintly in the morning light. Habitually, she fastened it around her wrist. Heart, star, flower. The flower caught the light, and Nari smiled. It had always been a quiet companion, an ordinary little sparkle of charm and reassurance.
"Good morning, Nari," she whispered to herself, tying her hair back.
The city beyond her window was waking. Cars honked politely, buses lumbered past, and somewhere a vendor was already shouting cheerfully about fresh fruit. She inhaled deeply. Seoul always smelled like possibility in the morning—bread from bakeries, wet pavement from last night's sprinklers, the faint hum of electricity running through a city that never truly slept.
Nari's morning routine was efficient. Shower, tea, toast, a small stretch to get the blood moving. She packed her tote, kissed her cat hello and goodbye, and locked the door behind her. Even on busy days, she carried a small spark of optimism. Today would be fine.
The subway ride to the studio was predictably crowded, but she didn't mind. Standing on the platform, she watched reflections pass across the dark glass of the subway walls. Young professionals buried in phones, friends laughing, the occasional lost tourist with a map upside-down. She smiled at their little bubble-worlds. Everyone had their own story. Everyone had a chance to do something amazing today, just like her.
At work, the office was already alive. Keyboards clicked, monitors glowed, coworkers greeted each other with cheerful nods. Nari's desk was neat—two monitors, a mug with a cat cartoon, and a small succulent that she watered diligently. She booted her computer, opened her to-do list, and got started on debugging a complex AI pathfinding algorithm for their new game.
Hours passed in a pleasant rhythm. Occasionally, she hummed under her breath or whispered comments at the screen.
"Why won't you just go straight?" she muttered, gently tapping a line of code.
Her coworker, Jinwoo, leaned over. "Talking to your code again?"
"I swear it listens better when I do," she said, smiling.
"Sure, Nari. Sure," he said, laughing, and walked away.
Around mid-afternoon, something unusual happened. She paused mid-typing. The office noises seemed softer. Not gone—just… distant.
The monitor flickered lightly. Her hands froze over the keyboard.
Then the world tilted.
Not violently, but enough to make her heart beat a little faster.
A soft, white light appeared, filling her vision. The office disappeared. Gone. No keyboards, no screens, no hum of air conditioners. Only her.
"You remembered the promise," said a voice, gentle and clear, echoing like it came from inside her head rather than anywhere in space.
Nari blinked. "Promise?"
"Yes," the voice said. "For eleven chances."
Images formed around her: a playground, a swing set, a plane in the sky, a small white flower held in tiny fingers. Her chest warmed at the memories, like sunlight brushing against her heart.
"You will see the flower again," the voice continued, "and each time, a new beginning awaits you."
"I… wait. A new beginning?" Her mind tried to catch up.
"Different life, same city, same soul," the voice said kindly. "Find him. Give him what you carry. And when the flower appears, your time there ends."
"Hanbin?" Nari asked softly. "Do I… find him every time?"
"You will know when," the voice replied. "But the journey is yours. Do not fear it. Do not rush it. Each life will be full of joy, of experiences you will treasure. Eleven chances. One purpose. And happiness is yours along the way."
Then the vision faded. Nari exhaled, standing again in the office, hands on the desk. Jinwoo looked at her, eyebrows raised.
"You okay?"
"Perfect," she said, and smiled brightly, brushing off the lingering awe. "Just… thinking about a code problem."
By late afternoon, she had almost forgotten the vision, returning fully to work. But then she glanced out the window at a patch of grass between the office buildings—and there it was: a small, perfect white flower, trembling gently in the breeze.
Her pulse quickened, but it was a thrill, not fear.
"Oh," she whispered. "It's time."
Morning sunlight spilled into her eyes, warm and unfamiliar.
Nari woke with a sharp inhale, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The ceiling above her wasn't the one she knew. It was lower, painted a soft cream color, with a faint crack running near the corner like a scar that had healed badly.
She didn't move at first.
She listened.
A distant hum of traffic. The clink of dishes. Footsteps—someone else was here. Her heart sped up, not with fear exactly, but with the strange awareness of being out of place.
Okay, she told herself calmly. Breathe. You knew this would happen.
She sat up slowly, careful, like sudden movement might break the illusion. The room was cozy, lived-in. A desk by the window cluttered with sketchbooks and pens. A laundry basket half-full. Clothes draped over a chair. This wasn't a guest room. This was someone's real life.
Her wrist felt familiar.
She looked down.
The charm bracelet was there.
Relief washed through her, steadying her just enough. Heart. Star. Flower.
A voice called from outside the room.
"Mika? You awake?"
Her stomach flipped.
She hesitated before answering. "…Yeah."
Her voice sounded right. Natural. Like she'd used it a thousand times before.
A boy appeared at the doorway, mid-twenties, hair still messy with sleep, wearing a hoodie that looked too thin for the weather. He leaned against the frame casually—but Nari noticed the quick scan of her face, like he was checking if she was okay.
"You're up early," he said. Then he frowned slightly. "You feeling sick or something?"
Nari shook her head a bit too quickly. "No—just… tired."
He squinted at her, unconvinced. "You're acting weird, dummy."
The word didn't sting. It landed like something affectionate, familiar—but she didn't lean into it. Not yet.
"I'll be out in a minute," she said, carefully neutral.
He shrugged. "Don't forget you said you'd help with groceries later."
"Right," she replied automatically.
When he left, she exhaled.
Brother, she thought. Okay. That's manageable.
She moved to the mirror.
The face staring back was unfamiliar in the smallest ways—same eyes, same smile shape, but younger, softer. Less tired. She touched her cheek like she needed proof it was real.
On the dresser sat an ID card.
Kim Mika.Age: 22Residence: Seoul, South Korea
Her pulse steadied.
Still me, she reminded herself. Just… sideways.
Breakfast was quiet, and she was grateful for it.
She sat at the small table while Minjae moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity. He slid a bowl of rice and eggs in front of her, then glanced at her again.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "You're barely talking."
Nari smiled politely, careful not to overdo it. "Just didn't sleep great."
He accepted that easily, already distracted by his phone. "Figures. You stayed up drawing again, didn't you?"
She nodded, even though she had no memory of it.
The apartment felt warm. Safe. She observed everything—the way the window rattled slightly when a bus passed, the magnet-covered fridge, the faint scent of laundry detergent. This life wasn't empty. It was full.
After breakfast, Minjae grabbed his jacket.
"I've got work," he said. "You're off today, right?"
"Yes," she said, hoping it was true.
"Good. Don't forget groceries. And don't burn the place down."
"I won't," she promised.
The door closed.
Silence.
Nari stood there for a long moment, just existing in someone else's kitchen.
Then she laughed softly to herself.
"Okay," she murmured. "Let's see who Mika is."
She spent the morning learning.
Mika worked part-time at a small stationery shop—she found the uniform folded neatly in the closet, name tag clipped to the pocket. Today was her day off. She skimmed through Mika's phone carefully, not invading too deeply, just enough to understand her rhythm.
Friends. Group chats. Photos of cafés and handwritten notes. Mika liked walking along the river. She liked sketching strangers. She liked quiet joys.
Nari felt something warm settle in her chest.
She's happy, she realized. This life is happy.
She went out late morning, walking carefully through the neighborhood. Seoul felt different from this angle—not the rush of her usual commute, but a slower, residential pocket. She stopped at a café Mika clearly frequented; the barista smiled.
"Same as usual?" the barista asked.
Nari hesitated for half a second, then nodded. "Yes, please."
The drink that arrived was sweet and comforting. She sat by the window, watching people pass, letting herself exist without urgency.
For the first time since the vision, she didn't feel like she was chasing something.
She was just living.
Evening came gently.
She cooked dinner with Minjae, awkward at first—copying his movements, careful not to seem clueless. They talked about nothing important. Work complaints. A neighbor's loud dog. A show they both watched.
She laughed at the right moments. Listened more than she spoke.
After dinner, she stood on the balcony alone.
The city lights blinked on one by one. The air was cool, carrying distant laughter and traffic noise. She rested her arms on the railing, feeling strangely full.
If this were all, she thought, it would still be enough.
Then she saw it.
Down below, in a small patch of grass near the apartment building, a single white flower swayed gently under a streetlamp.
Her breath caught.
Her bracelet warmed against her skin.
She didn't panic. She didn't cry.
She smiled softly, a mix of gratitude and resolve.
"So this is how it works," she whispered.
The world blurred—not violently, not painfully. Just like a curtain lowering at the end of a play.
As Mika's city faded, Nari closed her eyes.
Ready.