I was sitting alone in my office, late at night, the city lights painting long stripes across the polished floor. My mind was numb from endless meetings, negotiations, and the relentless pace of running my company.
Then… it hit me.
A fragment. A single, fleeting image.
A boy — small, pale, trembling, sitting by a fountain in the rain. Pink hair plastered to his face. Turquoise eyes wide, fearful. He had whispered something about… books? And I remember… a small laugh. A soft, broken laugh.
I blinked, trying to shake it off, but my chest tightened and my stomach lurched. The room seemed to tilt. That laugh — it was familiar, piercing through years of suppressed memory, yet I had no name. No context. Just… the feeling.
I leaned back in my chair, hands gripping the armrests. Who was he? Why did my heart feel… heavy, achingly heavy, just thinking about him?
The next morning, I woke at 5 AM, as usual. The mansion was quiet, servants still asleep, the house bathed in soft dawn light. But my mind was restless. That fleeting memory gnawed at me. I couldn't place it.
I walked into the kitchen, mechanically pouring myself coffee. I tried to focus on the mundane: the sound of the machine, the steam rising, the bitter taste on my tongue. But every sip brought flashes — small ones — a hand brushing a trembling shoulder, a whispered "I like books," a body trembling in the rain, soft sobs muffled against my chest.
I shook my head, trying to chase it away. It was nonsense. Memories. Dreams. Maybe a subconscious image from a movie I'd seen.
But… no. My chest ached differently. This was real. Real enough to make my pulse spike, to make me clench my jaw in frustration.
I walked to my office, sat in my chair, and stared at the files stacked neatly on my desk. They blurred. The images kept coming in fragments: soft pink hair, small trembling hands, turquoise eyes filled with fear, a quiet laugh in the rain.
And for the first time in years, I felt… regret.
I didn't know who he was. Didn't know his name. Didn't even know why the memory — or what felt like a memory — haunted me so fiercely. He looked like Woo-jin.
But I knew one thing: I wanted to see him. I needed to see him. The feeling was physical, a tugging in my chest that wouldn't stop.
And yet… fear followed it immediately.
What if I couldn't handle it? What if I saw him and… it was too much? Too painful? Too familiar to ignore?
I ran a hand through my hair and whispered to the empty room:
"Woo-jin…?"
The name slipped out before I even thought about it.
My heart jumped. The sound of it — my own voice — made everything shiver. And yet, when I said it aloud, I realized… I didn't know why. I didn't know why that name felt like a key turning in a lock I had long forgotten.
And there, in the quiet, I felt the first ache of a past I couldn't fully remember — a past that belonged to someone I somehow… missed.
The next few days blurred into a monotony of work and restless nights. My office lights burned late into the evening, documents piling up like walls around me. But no matter how busy I kept myself, the flashes kept coming. Small, unbidden: a trembling hand brushing against mine, the scent of rain-soaked hair, a faint laugh that was too soft, too sweet to be from anyone else.
I tried to convince myself it was nothing. Imaginations, I told myself. A subconscious trick. You're imagining things.
But the moments gnawed at me, leaving a hollow ache in my chest that no schedule, no business deal, no success could fill. I found myself staring at my reflection more often, searching for answers in the green depths of my eyes, hoping the mirror could explain why my heart ached at the thought of a boy I didn't fully remember.
During meetings, I noticed the smallest things pulling my attention away. The rustle of pink fabric, a delicate laugh echoing in my mind, turquoise eyes staring up at me like I'd done something wrong. I caught myself zoning out, nodding mechanically, heart thudding painfully in my chest.
And every time, the name slipped out: Woo-jin…
That night, I couldn't sleep. My bed felt like a trap, a soft cage that kept me from running from these intrusive fragments. I wandered the halls of my home, the darkness pressing close, my thoughts loud in my own ears.
I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror in the corridor. My red hair was disheveled, my eyes shadowed with fatigue. And yet, staring at that tired, haunted face, I felt a flicker of longing I couldn't explain.
It was like chasing shadows — reaching out for something that wasn't there. But I knew it had been real. I knew.
I sank into the leather chair by the window, watching the city glow like embers below. And there, in the quiet, I whispered again, almost desperately:
"Woo-jin… who are you?"
The words hung in the air, trembling with an ache I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was loss. And shame. Because somewhere deep inside, I felt guilty — guilty for forgetting him, guilty for letting him slip away, guilty for not protecting him.
I pressed my face into my hands, fighting the overwhelming urge to call out, to run, to search, to fix. But I didn't know how. I didn't even know where he was.
But I can't remember fully.
The next morning, I woke at 5 AM again, automatic as ever. The mansion was quiet, but the ache in my chest had grown heavier overnight. I couldn't focus on emails, on business calls, or on anything. The fragments — the flashes of pink hair, turquoise eyes, trembling hands — haunted me relentlessly.
I went through my day on autopilot, the world moving around me like a blurred painting. Colleagues' chatter faded into white noise. Their jokes, their small complaints, their mundane concerns — I didn't hear any of it. All I could feel was the pull. The invisible tether that yanked at my chest, whispering a name I didn't fully understand: Woo-jin…
By the time I returned home at 4 AM, exhaustion finally overtook me. I collapsed onto the couch in the quiet living room, staring blankly at the ceiling, repeating the name again and again, as though saying it enough times might conjure him into the room.
"Woo-jin…"
It was a whisper, a prayer, a confession. And it broke me. Because I didn't know who he was, I didn't know why I needed him, but I felt it. A deep, gnawing emptiness only he could fill.
And somewhere in the hollow pit of my chest, I knew — I had to find him. Somehow.