Cities no longer slept; they breathed — towers shimmering like constellations, rivers of light threading through the air.
But on the observation deck of Aureum Station, orbiting above what once was Nova City, two people stood in the stillness between stars.
Yoon Ha-rin adjusted the thin silver cuff on her wrist — a Memory Band, built to replay fragments of one's life like a film through scent and sound.
She had sworn never to use it again.
Until tonight.
Behind her, a familiar voice cut through the low hum of the ship's engines.
"Still trying to out-think time itself, are you?"
She turned. Kang Jae-hyun — older now, sharper at the edges but still carrying that same quiet light in his eyes.
He smiled the way he always had when teasing her — a half-curve, half-confession.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she said.
"You said it was important," he replied softly, stepping closer. "And you never call anything important unless it's about us."
---
The air between them glowed faintly blue as she activated the cuff.
Holographic petals spiraled outward — not digital perfection, but gentle and imperfect, like memory itself.
The projection unfolded: Aureum-ri, the river, the bridge, two children laughing beneath a paper windmill.
The scent of jasmine and cedar filled the air, even here — hundreds of kilometers above the world that had once held them.
"It's still beautiful," Jae-hyun whispered. "Even after all this time."
Ha-rin smiled. "Because some memories don't age; they evolve."
He reached out, fingers brushing hers where the hologram met their skin.
The technology shimmered, merging light with warmth.
She felt his heartbeat through the projection — steady, real.
"Do you remember," he asked quietly, "what you told me that day by the river?"
Ha-rin nodded. "That if we ever forget, the wind would remind us."
He moved closer, until the stars reflected in her eyes.
"And what if there's no wind in space?"
She laughed, a sound that felt like gravity finding home.
"Then we'll make our own."
---
He tilted his forehead against hers — no rush, no words, just the kind of closeness that rewrote silence.
Every heartbeat synced with the pulse of the orbiting station; every breath became a bridge between centuries of love and memory.
The hologram flickered. The river stilled.
But their reflection remained — older, wiser, still impossibly tender.
"Ha-rin," he whispered, "if the world resets again, promise me we'll find each other sooner."
She closed her eyes. "Or maybe we already have — across lifetimes."
Outside the glass, Earth turned slowly, bathed in sunrise.
Inside, two souls stood beneath the scent of a memory that had outlived time itself.