Chapter Two: That Scar Was Never Mine
The first snow had always felt like a warning.
Eun-woo never liked winters, though he couldn't quite explain why. Something about them itched at the back of his mind — like a memory he wasn't allowed to touch.
He sat alone in his apartment, the heat from the radiator humming in the silence. He was still wearing the same coat from earlier. Still holding the same umbrella.
Still hearing her voice.
> "You saved me."
He closed his eyes.
The image of the woman at the river burned behind his lids. Her face pale from the cold, her eyes wide with something between fear and recognition. Like she was seeing a ghost.
Maybe she was.
---
He poured himself a glass of water.
Tried to distract himself.
But when he looked down at his wrist, the glove was still pushed up.
And the scar was still there.
---
He pressed a finger to it.
> A crescent moon.
He didn't remember how he got it. It had always been there, for as long as he could remember.
His parents once told him it was from a childhood accident — but they could never quite agree on which one.
"Maybe a bicycle fall," his mother had said.
"No, no," his father insisted, "it was from a dog bite. That stray in the alley."
He had stopped asking after that.
Now, he wasn't so sure it was an accident at all.
---
He sat down in front of his bookshelf, pulling out the old leather journal he hadn't opened in years.
Inside were drawings.
Rough sketches. Scribbles. Images from dreams.
A river. A red scarf. A girl with dark hair.
A hand reaching up from beneath the ice.
And one drawing circled in black ink — over and over until the page was soft from wear:
> Her face.
Or at least, the version of her his dreams always showed.
He flipped to a page near the back.
Words written in his own handwriting.
> "She keeps dying before spring."
His hands trembled.
He didn't remember writing that.
But he had.
---
FLASH — A DREAM.
He's standing in a wide frozen field. The snow is falling.
A girl stands ahead, her back turned to him.
He walks toward her.
Each step feels heavier.
When she turns around… it's Ji-hye.
Her lips move, but the wind steals her voice.
He reaches for her.
But the ground beneath her cracks — and she falls into ice.
---
He jerked awake on the couch, breath ragged.
Sweat clung to his shirt despite the cold.
He pressed his hands to his face.
> Who are you?
> Why do I remember your eyes?
> Why do I dream of your death?
---
Meanwhile… back at Ji-hye's apartment.
She replayed the footage she secretly took of him walking away — a shaky clip on her phone.
She paused it on the exact frame where his glove lifted slightly.
The scar was clear.
Tears stung her eyes. Her heart beat like a warning drum.
"This is real," she whispered. "I'm not imagining this."
---
She opened a folder labeled "Unsolved: River Boy."
Inside: sketches, old newspaper clippings about drownings in the Hanseong River, and an old article about a missing boy from thirteen years ago.
Yoon Eun-woo.
No photo.
But the name matched.
Was it him? Or someone using his identity?
Too many questions.
And now — after ten years — too many feelings.
---
She picked up her journal and wrote:
> "Day Two:
He said he doesn't know me.
But his eyes looked like they did.
And I think I'm starting to remember something, too…
Something I shouldn't."
---
BACK TO EUN-WOO
He stood in front of his mirror.
Lifted his shirt.
Another scar — this one just below the collarbone.
He had no memory of how he got that one either.
His eyes met his reflection.
> "Who the hell am I?"
A knock on the door startled him.
He wasn't expecting anyone.
He opened the door.
A young man stood there in a gray coat, holding a letter with no return address.
"You're Dr. Yoon, right?" the man asked.
"Yes."
The man handed him the envelope. "This was left at my clinic last night. For you. No sender."
Eun-woo took it cautiously.
Inside the envelope was a single slip of paper.
No greeting.
Just seven words.
> "The girl must not remember everything."