The sea wind had a faint smell of salt and roasted beans. It was the kind of scent that stuck to your clothes long after you left, like a memory you didn't realize you had.
Jin-ae led the way down the narrow street, her scarf fluttering in the wind. At the end, nestled between a bookstore with faded gold lettering and a shop selling antique clocks, was a small coffeehouse. The sign read Harbor Light, its letters worn but careful, as if they had been repainted by the same hands for years.
The bell above the door rang when they entered.
It felt warm inside. The low buzz of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, and jazz drifting from a record player in the corner created a cozy atmosphere. Shelves lined the walls, filled with old books and jars of coffee beans labeled with neat handwriting. The glass windows caught the soft light of the sea just beyond the street.
Behind the counter stood a man.
He was wiping the espresso machine, but when he looked up, his gaze landed directly on her—not startled, not searching, just steady, as if he had been waiting for her to come in.
Eli.
"Seol-ah," he said. The sound of her name felt soft enough to unsettle her.
She opened her mouth to respond, but Jin-ae was already stepping aside. "I'll leave you two," she said quietly, as if they had already been talking without her.
Seol-ah watched the door close behind Jin-ae before turning back. "Do I… know you?" she asked.
Something sparked in his eyes—amusement, or maybe something sharper. He walked around the counter, holding a cup of coffee. "You've been here more times than I can count," he said, placing it on a table by the window. "Always in that chair. Always with your camera."
She glanced at the cup. The foam heart was slightly crooked.
"You made this for me?"
"I've been making it for you for years," he replied, taking a seat across from her.
She didn't reach for the cup. "I'm sorry. I don't remember."
He studied her for a moment, then reached into his apron pocket and slid something across the table.
A Polaroid.
In it, she was seated at the same table where she was now, head bent over a cup of coffee, a camera strap looped around her wrist. Eli sat across from her, caught mid-laugh. The window behind them showed the same view of the sea, but the sky was brighter and the air warmer.
Seol-ah traced the edge of the photograph with her finger. "When was this taken?"
"Two springs ago," he said.
"And… you took it?"
He smiled faintly. "You did."
Her heart raced. "Why would I take a picture of us if—" She stopped herself. The words if I didn't even know you felt too sharp on her tongue.
Eli leaned back in his chair, watching her as if every reaction was a page in a book he had read before. "Maybe," he said softly, "you were afraid you'd forget."
Outside, the wind shook the window. A petal from some distant cherry tree floated past the glass, tumbling in the air before vanishing.