The house smelled like forgotten ink and wood soaked with memory.
Yoorin stepped carefully, following Seon's quiet lead down a hallway lined with cracked picture frames. Most were empty, but one still held an image: a blurred silhouette of two figures holding hands at dusk.
"It's not this life," Seon said, catching her gaze. "But I remember the moment. I remember the way your hand fit in mine."
He looked tired. Not physically, but somewhere in his soul. Like he'd held too many versions of her for too long.
"How long have you been here?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "Since before I knew how to wait."
The room at the end of the hallway was locked.
He knelt beside the door and pulled up a floorboard. Beneath it, stacks of notebooks—some identical to the one she had, others faded beyond recognition.
"They're all us," he murmured. "Lives we had. Lives we lost. Words I kept trying to send to you, hoping one would reach the right version of you."
Yoorin knelt beside him, her fingers brushing one of the older books. It crumbled at the touch, turning to dust.
"It's happening more often," Seon whispered. "Memories collapsing. Letters unwriting themselves."
She looked at him.
"What happens when the last notebook fades?"
He didn't answer.