The next few days passed in a blur of ideas and late-night messages.
Soo-ah and I met after class almost every evening, notebooks in hand, sitting by the same café window we always ended up at.
The one with warm light and quiet music that somehow made everything feel possible.
"So," she said one night, resting her chin on her hand, "what kind of project are we talking about?"
I grinned. "Something creative. A space where art, design, and tech meet."
"Like a studio?"
"Exactly. But not just for us. For anyone who wants to make something—music, paintings, code, anything. I'll handle the funding and logistics. You handle the artistic side."
She tilted her head. "You make it sound easy."
[It is, with infinite resources,] Nova whispered in my mind.
"Not easy," I said aloud, smiling faintly. "Just worth it."
Soo-ah's eyes softened a little. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"I do."
Over the next week, we started building the foundation—literally.
I found an empty floor in a small glass building near Hongdae and bought it without hesitation.
We spent two days cleaning, setting up, painting walls, and dragging furniture around like two exhausted kids building a fort.
There were boxes of art supplies, computers, instruments, and soundproofing foam scattered everywhere.
It was chaos, but a good kind of chaos.
"Okay," Soo-ah said, wiping paint off her cheek. "It's starting to look like something."
"Yeah," I said, looking around the half-finished room. "Like a dream that doesn't know it's real yet."
She laughed softly. "That's one way to describe it."
At night, when she'd gone home, I stayed behind.
Nova projected quiet music as I walked through the dim studio.
The walls still smelled like paint. The floor creaked under every step.
And yet it felt alive.
[You're building again, Rin. But this time, it feels different.]
"It is," I said quietly. "This isn't about growing bigger. It's about creating something that matters."
[You've changed.]
I smiled faintly. "Maybe I just remembered who I wanted to be."
The studio opened two weeks later under the name Silver Strings — a name Soo-ah picked.
She said it sounded like connection, like threads pulling people together.
The first day, we had five members: two art students, a guitarist, a programmer, and a quiet film major.
By the end of the week, there were twenty.
Music drifted through the halls; paint splattered on floors; laughter echoed against the windows.
It was messy, imperfect, and absolutely beautiful.
One evening, Soo-ah stood beside me by the window as the city lights came alive below.
She looked tired, her hair tied back, but her smile was peaceful.
"Look at them," she said softly. "They're creating because of you."
I shook my head. "Because of us."
She turned to me, her eyes catching the reflection of the city lights.
"Do you ever stop and realize how much you've changed?"
I thought about it. "Yeah," I said quietly. "But I think it's the first time I actually like who I'm becoming."
She didn't say anything.
She just smiled—and in that moment, the silence between us said more than words ever could.
[Heart rate rising again,] Nova teased softly.
[You're either nervous or in love.]
I laughed under my breath. "Maybe both."
As the night deepened, Soo-ah packed up her sketchbook and looked over her shoulder.
"Don't stay too late," she said. "Even geniuses need sleep."
"I'll try."
She grinned. "No, you won't."
And she was right.
Because when she left, I sat there long after the lights dimmed—
just listening to the quiet hum of creation around me,
and realizing that maybe, just maybe, I'd found something worth more than infinite money.