Chapter One: The Day the River Spoke Again
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> "The river remembers what we try to forget."
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The snow fell in slow, deliberate silence — not the kind that danced like in movies, but the kind that watched. Heavy. Still. Unblinking.
Ji-hye hated winters, but she kept coming back.
Every year, on the same day — the first snow of December — she stood by the Hanseong River. Alone. Waiting.
No one ever came.
Until tonight.
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It had been ten years since the ice cracked beneath her and nearly pulled her under. Ten years since she felt fingers wrap around her wrist — cold, steady, alive — and drag her back into the light. And ten years since that boy, whoever he was, vanished before she could say a single word.
She never saw his face.
All she remembered was his voice.
And the scar on his left wrist, shaped like a crescent moon.
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Now 26, Ji-hye was no longer the frail high schooler who once believed in fairytales. She had grown into a woman with tired eyes and a mouth that only smiled for cameras. A documentary filmmaker who told everyone else's stories… except her own.
She stood by the riverbank, red scarf wrapped tight around her neck — the same scarf she'd worn that night. Its color had faded, but the memory hadn't.
She closed her eyes.
"Are you real?"
The question didn't escape her lips this time. She no longer expected an answer.
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The wind blew, slicing against her cheeks. She pulled her coat tighter.
Behind her, the city glowed — a blur of light and breath. But here, at the edge of the river, the world felt frozen in time.
She looked down at the ice.
Beneath its thin layer, water still moved.
Like a heart still beating.
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FLASHBACK – TEN YEARS AGO
A scream. A splash. The weight of water swallowing her whole.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream again.
Her hand reached up into nothing… and then —
Fingers.
Cold, but sure. Holding her. Lifting her.
A voice she would never forget:
> "Don't be afraid."
And then the world went dark.
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PRESENT
Ji-hye opened her eyes.
"I still don't know your name," she whispered. "But if you're out there… If you remember me…"
She sighed and stepped back from the edge, brushing snow from her coat.
That's when she felt it.
A presence. Behind her.
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A figure stood a few feet away, holding a black umbrella. Tall. Dressed in a charcoal coat. His back to the city, his face partially hidden beneath the shadow of the umbrella.
Ji-hye froze.
He hadn't been there a moment ago.
She stared at him, heart racing with something too old to name.
Then he stepped forward.
And spoke.
> "You shouldn't stand that close to the water."
Her breath caught.
She knew that voice.
Deep, calm, threaded with a strange sadness.
She turned — slowly, cautiously — and looked into his face.
His eyes were dark, like the river. His features sharp, elegant. Familiar.
But not possible.
Because he looked the same as ten years ago.
Exactly the same.
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Ji-hye stared.
He didn't flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, studying her as though they were strangers meeting in passing.
"I…" she began, but the words didn't come. Her voice felt like ice cracking in her throat.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
She nodded, even though she wasn't.
He glanced at her scarf. "You've been standing here for a long time."
"I do that," she said softly.
He gave a small nod. "Then I'll leave you to it."
He turned.
"No—wait," she said, stepping toward him. "Have we met before?"
He paused. Looked back.
A long silence passed between them.
"No," he said. "I don't think so."
Ji-hye's heart twisted.
But her eyes drifted down — to his hand.
And just beneath the edge of his glove, something caught her eye.
A pale scar. Crescent-shaped. Faint, but still there.
She gasped.
He noticed.
---
"You…" Her voice trembled. "That scar…"
He glanced down, then quickly tugged the glove tighter, hiding it.
"It's nothing," he said.
But she stepped closer, her fingers brushing his sleeve. "You saved me."
"I think you're mistaken."
"No," she insisted. "It was you. Ten years ago. The river — I fell in. You pulled me out. You had that scar."
"I get mistaken for people a lot," he said quietly, almost gently. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes burned, not from the cold.
"I waited," she said. "Every year. I came here, hoping… praying I'd see you again."
He didn't speak.
"What's your name?" she whispered.
He hesitated. Then finally answered:
> "Eun-woo."
Her heart clenched.
"Eun-woo…" she echoed.
The name didn't ring a bell. But her soul felt it.
"Ji-hye," she said, barely audible.
He gave the faintest smile. But it didn't reach his eyes.
"Well, Ji-hye," he said, stepping back, "it was nice meeting you. Take care."
---
And then he walked away — just like that.
As if nothing had happened.
As if her whole chest hadn't cracked open.
She stood there, watching him disappear into the foggy light, the snow swallowing his figure whole.
But she knew what she saw.
She knew that scar.
She knew that voice.
Even if he didn't remember her...
Her heart remembered him.
---
Back at her apartment, Ji-hye sat on the floor surrounded by old journals and newspaper clippings. She flipped through the journal she'd written in as a teenager — pages of messy handwriting, sketches of that night.
There it was.
A drawing of the crescent scar.
A line she had written over and over:
> "If I see him again, I'll never let him go."
She traced the ink with her finger, her mind racing.
Why didn't he remember?
Or was he pretending not to?
Was there something else?
Her fingers trembled as she picked up her camera and turned it on, speaking softly into the lens.
"This is Day One," she said. "Of finding the boy who saved me… and figuring out why he never aged."
She looked into the camera, eyes steady.
"And why he always disappears… when winter ends."