Yoorin hadn't meant to fall asleep.
But somewhere between rereading the notebook and the weight of the river's whisper, her body gave in. When her eyes opened again, she wasn't in her apartment.
She was standing in a room.
No windows. No doors. Just paper—endless stacks of it. Pages pinned to the walls, strewn across the floor, suspended midair like frozen feathers.
She walked carefully, her fingers grazing a nearby page.
They were all letters.
But they weren't written by her.
They were written to her.
Yoorin,I still remember the way your laugh felt—like the end of a storm. If this letter ever reaches you, I hope you've forgiven time for what it stole from us.– S.
She turned.
Another:
Even in lives where we never meet, I find myself dreaming of your shadow. Isn't that strange? That love could bleed through lifetimes?– S.
The further she moved, the heavier the air became.
Letters grew darker. Some ink ran red. Some had whole sections blacked out. She saw one page covered in ash.
Then, one that made her freeze:
I burned the pages that remembered you, but they wouldn't stay dead.Why did you leave me in that fire?Why did you choose to live?
She backed away.
The room pulsed—suddenly alive with resentment.
The pages began to fall, one by one, then all at once—fluttering violently like wings. Her breath hitched as the walls began to bleed ink.
She was drowning in words she didn't write.
Then—clarity.
She clutched the notebook he gave her, flipping to the last page.
A line appeared in real-time, etched by invisible hand:
Breathe. I will find you.
She gasped.
The pages froze midair.
Then, the wall ahead cracked—splintering open to reveal a thin corridor bathed in light.
She ran through it.
When she emerged, she was back in her room, the notebook still warm in her hands.