Sleep came slowly to Kang Jae-hyun that night.
The rain drummed softly against the tall windows of his Nova City apartment — steady, patient, like it had something to say.
He turned once, twice, and finally drifted off.
And then the dream began.
---
He was standing in a field again — grass damp from the rain, sky painted in the fading gold of Aureum-ri's sunset.
He was small — a boy no taller than the fence behind him — and there was laughter ahead, light and bright.
> "Jae-hyunnie, hurry up! You'll miss the rainbow!"
A little girl ran barefoot across the field, pigtails flying, a paper windmill spinning in her hand.
He couldn't see her face clearly — only her laughter and the faint scent of jasmine and wet soil that filled the air.
He took a step forward, heart pounding.
> "What's your name?" he called.
"Ha—" she began — but the wind swallowed the rest.
Then lightning flashed. A river. A child crying. A tiny hand pulling his from the water.
The dream broke.
---
Jae-hyun woke with a gasp, heart racing, sheets tangled around him.
Outside, dawn was just beginning — the kind of gray light that blurred dreams and memory into one.
He sat up, rubbing his forehead.
Ha… what?
It couldn't be.
---
At Luma Group, Yoon Ha-rin was already in early, clutching her coffee like armor. She'd barely slept either — her thoughts haunted by the same little boy from her own dreams, the same pair of frightened eyes she'd once saved from the flood years ago.
When the elevator doors opened and Jae-hyun stepped out, she froze.
He looked different — not his usual calm, precise self. His eyes were distant, almost dazed.
"Miss Yoon," he said quietly. "Can we talk?"
"Now?" she asked, startled.
"Rooftop. Ten minutes."
---
The wind was cooler today. Clouds hung low, brushing the edge of the skyline.
"I had a dream," he said finally. "About a place. Near the sea. There was… a girl."
Ha-rin's heart thudded painfully. "Dreams aren't always memories."
"Maybe," he murmured. "But it felt real. Like I'd been there. Like she'd been there."
He turned to her then — eyes searching, voice softer.
"Have you ever had that kind of dream, Miss Yoon? One that feels like it's waiting for you to remember the rest?"
She forced a smile. "I prefer reality. Dreams are dangerous."
He studied her a moment longer, then nodded. "Maybe that's why mine smelled like jasmine."
Her breath caught.
He didn't wait for her reply. He simply turned and walked away, leaving her trembling against the wind.
---
That night, alone in her small apartment, Ha-rin sat at her desk staring at an old wooden box. Inside lay a faded paper windmill — edges curled, colors almost gone.
She whispered into the quiet room,
> "You're remembering, Jae-hyun. Just… not yet."
Outside, the city lights flickered like distant fireflies.
And somewhere above the hum of traffic, the wind carried the scent of yesterday again — sweeter, stronger, and unmistakably alive.