The rain hadn't stopped for three days.
The streets of Haneul Province glistened under gray skies, the world caught between sleep and memory. People went about their lives with the unbothered rhythm of those who had never tasted war — but Eunha felt the storm in her bones.
Each drop against the window sounded like a heartbeat she couldn't name.
She'd been dreaming again.
The same dream.
A battlefield burning red. A sword flashing through fog. A man shouting her name — not "Eunha," but something else, something the wind always swallowed before she could hear it.
When she woke, her wrist ached. The skin there shimmered faintly under the candlelight, like light trying to escape.
She hid it beneath her sleeve.
---
⚜️
In the mornings, she went back to the bookshop, arranging dusty tomes and pretending she belonged to this tranquil world.
But lately, the books had started whispering.
When she touched their spines, faint voices flickered — half-words, fragments, names she didn't know but somehow did.
> "Vara… Joon… Myung…"
The same names from the forgotten journal.
She'd close the books quickly, forcing herself to breathe.
The old shopkeeper noticed her distraction. "You look like you've seen a ghost, girl."
She smiled weakly. "Something like that."
"Dreams again?"
She nodded.
He chuckled softly. "Dreams are like debts. They come back when they're unpaid."
If only he knew how literal that was.
---
⚜️
That afternoon, Jiheon returned.
The rain soaked his cloak, and he looked like a man walking through the wrong century — weary, alert, carrying an invisible burden.
"Still chasing your promise?" she asked as he entered.
He smiled faintly. "I think it's chasing me now."
He bought no books this time, only lingered. When she offered him tea, he accepted without a word.
They sat together by the window, the rain blurring the world into watercolor.
"Do you believe," he said slowly, "that some people are meant to find each other — even if they forget why?"
Eunha's pulse quickened. "Maybe. Or maybe they just never stopped trying."
He studied her. "You talk like someone who's lost something."
She met his gaze. "And you talk like someone who's afraid to find it."
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the rain — relentless, patient, eternal.
---
⚜️
That night, Jiheon dreamed for the first time in months.
He stood on a hill of ash beneath a crimson sky. Below him stretched a city in flames.
In the distance — a woman in white, holding out her hand.
When he tried to reach her, the ground split open, swallowing everything.
He woke with his heart pounding, his hand outstretched toward nothing.
In the darkness, he whispered, "Eunha."
The name came naturally, like breathing.
He froze.
How did he know that name?
---
⚜️
At the shop the next morning, Eunha noticed him lingering outside before entering — as if testing whether the world was real.
He looked… different. Haunted.
"Rough night?" she asked.
"Dreams," he said. "Too real to ignore."
"What did you see?"
He hesitated, then said, "You."
Her breath caught. "Me?"
He nodded. "Not like this. You were—" He paused, searching for the word. "—wearing a crown."
Something cold stirred inside her. "That's impossible."
"Maybe. But it felt like remembering, not dreaming."
---
⚜️
Eunha excused herself to the back room, her mind spinning.
If Jiheon's memories were resurfacing, it meant the Axis wasn't dormant — it was bleeding through.
She lifted her sleeve. The mark was brighter now, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
It wasn't just memory. It was awakening.
She closed her eyes.
What did we do wrong?
A whisper — faint, almost kind — answered in her mind.
> You severed the cycle, but left the echo.
Her eyes flew open.
The voice was feminine, melodic, and painfully familiar.
> You can't erase what was written in soul.
She stumbled back, knocking over a stack of books. The old shopkeeper appeared instantly, alarmed.
"Are you all right?"
"I—yes. Just tired."
He frowned. "Maybe take a day off. The rain's not going anywhere."
---
⚜️
That evening, Jiheon returned again — this time without a pretext.
He found her by the fireplace, reading.
"I remembered something else," he said quietly.
She looked up, cautious. "Tell me."
He knelt beside her chair, eyes unfocused. "You were crying. I was bleeding. There was fire everywhere. You said—"
He swallowed. "—'If the world forgets us, promise me you won't.'"
Eunha's heart stopped.
That was the last thing she'd said before pressing the disruptor into the Axis.
Her voice trembled. "And what did you answer?"
"I said, 'Then I'll fall in love with you again.'"
The silence that followed was unbearable. The air seemed to hold its breath.
Eunha's eyes filled with tears. "You did."
He frowned. "What?"
"You already did."
---
⚜️
The rain outside turned violent, hammering the windows. The air inside the shop pulsed — faint, rhythmic, almost alive.
The mark on her wrist burned.
Through the storm, a faint light flickered above the horizon — not lightning, but a distant silver glow.
Jiheon followed her gaze. "What is that?"
"The Axis," she whispered. "It's waking."
"Then what happens now?"
She stood slowly, her resolve returning, the quiet weight of destiny settling on her shoulders again.
"Now," she said, "we remember everything."