Yoorin began writing.
Not in the notebook, but on the walls of the house.
It started with her name—then his.
Then memories from dreams she hadn't yet had. Faces she didn't know but felt like family. A poem in a language she never studied.
Each word glowed faintly for a few hours before fading like mist.
Seon didn't stop her.
"This is how it always begins," he said, sitting beside her. "You start remembering what was never yours. And then… we break the loop."
She turned to him.
"What loop?"
"The loop where we find each other, but never at the right time. One of us always remembers too late."
She touched the wall again.
Wrote one more line.
Let this be the life we get right.
He froze.
"I wrote that to you once."
"I know," she whispered.
"I never sent it."
She nodded.
"I still got it."
Suddenly, the house shook.
Not violently—but like it had exhaled.
The hallway lights flickered. The door at the end creaked.
And then—
A key appeared in Yoorin's hand.
She didn't ask where it came from.
She knew.
It had always been hers.