Nari's eyes opened to dim, gray light slipping through half-closed curtains. She yawned, stretching, but felt an odd heaviness pressing against her chest. Strange. Tired. Gloomy. Not her usual bright energy—yet she was still Nari, still noticing, still thinking clearly.
Her gaze swept the unfamiliar bedroom. Clothes draped over a chair, a stack of books on the nightstand, a coffee mug with dried stains. A sticky note on the desk caught her attention:
Leave for work at 9 AM. Don't be late.
She frowned, blinking. Work? Right. She had a life to live today. She swung her legs off the bed, feet touching a soft, worn rug. Her wrist tingled—heart, star, white flower. Always there. Always hers.
Nari pushed herself up and walked toward the kitchen. The small apartment smelled faintly of burnt toast and coffee. A toaster sat on the counter, smoke curling faintly from one charred slice. Nari muttered, half amused, half exasperated: Oh no… breakfast already trying to sabotage me. She picked up the toast carefully, the blackened edges threatening to crumble into the crumbs on the counter.
She noticed a small envelope beside the toaster, written in slightly shaky handwriting:
For Hana—Lunch in fridge, take your meds, don't forget your meeting at 11.
Hana. That had to be her name in this life. Someone out there recognized her as Hana. Nari nodded to herself, filing it away. Good. Now we know.
She dressed in muted tones—navy blouse, gray skirt, simple flats—and surveyed the apartment. This life carried a subtle heaviness, a melancholy she could sense radiating from everything: the untidy pile of laundry, the faint scent of unwashed dishes, the dull hum of the refrigerator. Nari's own brightness contrasted sharply against it. She felt a little guilty for being cheerful inside this sad shell.
We'll do our best. That's all we can do.
The city greeted her in soft, gray drizzle. Seoul looked muted under the clouds, the streets quieter than usual. Nari adjusted her coat, holding her umbrella as she moved carefully. She noticed a man struggling with a delivery box, a group of teenagers laughing as they cut across a crosswalk. The ordinary chaos of the city was strangely comforting.
She arrived at her workplace—a small office tucked between a café and a stationery shop. Inside, the hum of printers and murmured conversations filled the air. A colleague waved as she approached, voice cheerful:
"Hana! Over here. Don't forget the Johnson file is due today."
Nari froze briefly, confirming the name in her mind. Hana. Yes. That's me here. She nodded, smiling politely, and followed to her desk.
Morning passed in a series of small tasks. Nari typed, filed, and sorted, always observing, always cautious. She noticed the melancholy in her body—the slump in her shoulders, the slow movements, the subtle sighs that came without thought. She tried to keep her usual brightness alive inside her, telling herself: It's fine. We're just visiting this life. Observe. Adapt.
Lunch brought another small reminder of this life's heaviness. A leftover sandwich sat on the counter, mold starting at one corner. Nari frowned but shrugged. Not ours to judge. She made tea, sat quietly, listening to the hum of the office and the faint murmur of colleagues chatting in the distance.
Afternoon was uneventful, the gray skies hanging low outside the window. A colleague asked for help with a report, and Nari assisted politely. Another misfiled document caused a minor scramble—Nari stepped in, organized it carefully, and kept everything smooth. Her internal cheerfulness made her work efficient, though no one noticed, and no one thanked her.
Nari realized, with a pang, that this life wasn't about joy today. It wasn't about Hanbin. This life was… routine, heavy, sad, small victories barely noticed. She felt herself adjusting to the rhythm, keeping her tone bright inside, but she understood something important: sometimes, the life simply doesn't allow the encounter, the chance.
Failure doesn't feel good, she thought, letting herself feel the disappointment briefly. But it's not the end. Not yet.
By evening, Hana's apartment felt even smaller, quieter. The sticky note on the fridge reminded her of medications, bills, and tasks she would never fully feel the weight of. Nari tidied up some papers, washed a few dishes, and peeked outside. The city's lights reflected in puddles from the earlier drizzle, small sparks in the dimness.
And there it was: a small patch of grass along the edge of a nearby park, faint in the twilight, a delicate white flower swaying gently.
Nari crouched carefully, brushing her fingers over the petals. Her heart pulsed with a warmth she had come to recognize—familiar, gentle, reassuring. She smiled softly, accepting the lesson of this life. No glimpse of Hanbin today. No connection. Just the reminder: another life, another chance.
Next time, she whispered, standing slowly. Next time, I'll do better.
The city blurred softly around her—the streets, the puddles, the dim lights, folding into memory. Nari exhaled, letting the day, the melancholy, the subtle failures, all settle. She was still bright inside. Still her. Still alive.
The white flower swayed in the night breeze, delicate, quiet, unchanging. It marked the end of Hana's day—and the promise of another life, waiting just beyond the horizon.