She didn't seem bothered by his silence. If anything, it gave her more room to talk. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had a persistence to it, like rain tapping steadily against glass.
"…back then, I always sat near the windows in class. You probably don't remember. I didn't talk to many people. Too shy, I guess. Everyone else was louder, brighter. I blended in so well I was almost part of the wallpaper." She gave a small laugh, quick and quiet, the kind of laugh someone used when they weren't sure if it was safe to take up space.
Baeksan said nothing. His eyes drifted to the side, not to avoid her, but because something in the carriage tugged at him.
Seated as though he had been there all along, as though the missing days had never stretched like empty hallways between sightings. Baeksan's chest tightened, though his expression remained the same.
The old man was smiling. Not in the way he usually did, with sharpness behind the teeth, but with something softer. There was warmth in it, an ease that could have belonged to anyone's kindly relative. It should have been harmless. Comforting, even. But it wasn't. Because his eyes ruined it.
Those eyes never softened. They stayed wide and alert, bouncing back and forth between Baeksan and the woman seated beside him. It wasn't just looking—it was measuring, marking something invisible, as though taking notes in his head.
Baeksan felt the weight of it. His chest prickled. He could almost hear the smile, feel it wrapping the air around him like a blanket that was just a little too tight, just a little too heavy.
But on his face, nothing moved. His mouth stayed flat, his gaze only flickering toward the old man for moments at a time, as if even looking too long would give something away.
The woman went on, unaware. "We even ended up at the same company. That's funny, right? Same school, and now the same office. It's strange how people cross paths again when you least expect it. I noticed you right away… though I doubt you noticed me."
Her tone was light, but her smile was careful, as if she already knew the answer.
Baeksan didn't nod. He didn't frown. He just sat there, eyes flicking once more between her and the man across the carriage. The old man's grin never wavered, never faltered, as steady and bright as a lamp that would not burn out.
And for reasons he couldn't explain, that smile felt more dangerous than any of the questions he had ever asked.
Her chatter finally stumbled into silence. For the first time since sitting down, she didn't look at Baeksan but glanced past his shoulder.
Her eyes widened slightly, and then she smiled—an open, unguarded smile Baeksan had never seen from her before.
"You're here," she said, almost in relief.
He followed her gaze. The man in grey was already watching. His eyes softened, his lips curving with a warmth that seemed so at odds with the man who had once spoken of cracked skulls and shallow breaths. He didn't hesitate to answer her.
"And you finally decided to speak to me," he said, voice carrying that teasing weight only an older man could get away with.
Her cheeks warmed. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear, still smiling. "I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
"Remember you?" His chuckle was low, but it rolled through the carriage like it belonged there. "How could I forget a face that used to hide behind books, pretending not to listen while listening to everything?"
She laughed softly, the sound light and natural, almost surprising herself. "So you did notice."
"Of course I noticed," he replied, leaning forward slightly, eyes glinting. "Quiet ones always think they're invisible. But they never are. They're the easiest to spot."
She shook her head, embarrassed but happy, and their words began to weave together with ease. They spoke of nothing monumental—classrooms, teachers they remembered, the way the school windows fogged up in winter, the way the company cafeteria still served food that somehow tasted like punishment.
Every mention tugged at something faint in Baeksan's memory, but he didn't move, didn't nod, didn't give anything away.
To anyone else, it would have looked like a reunion. A cheerful, easy exchange between an older man and a younger woman, their smiles reflecting each other's warmth. The kind of scene you might pass by without a second thought.
But Baeksan's gaze flicked between them, unblinking.
Because beneath the smiles and laughter, there was something he couldn't place. The way the man in grey looked at her—fond, almost paternal. The way she leaned in slightly, trusting him without hesitation.
It wasn't just conversation. It was connection. A bond Baeksan hadn't known existed until now, unfolding in front of him as if it had always been there.
His chest tightened, though he didn't let it show. His face remained blank, his posture unchanged. Yet his eyes stayed wide, tracking every word, every glance, every shift in the air around them.
For once, the man in grey wasn't throwing sharp questions at him. No riddles about losing arms, no scenarios about choking lungs. Just easy warmth, like a father speaking with a daughter he hadn't seen in years.
And Baeksan sat in silence, caught between the two of them, watching that warmth spill into a space he couldn't reach.