The Han River shimmered beneath a thousand lights.
Lanterns floated like tiny constellations, their reflections rippling across the dark water. Paper dragons, cranes, and hearts drifted gently downstream while laughter and music filled the night air.
Dr. Akhiera Smith stood at the river's edge, hands tucked in her coat pockets, eyes wide as a child's. The Seoul Lantern Festival — she'd heard about it every year but never had time to come. Tonight, she finally did.
She glanced at the crowd, searching. Then she saw him — Dr. Hyunwoo Kang, waving from near the bridge, a lantern already in hand.
"You actually came early," she said as she reached him.
He grinned. "Miracles happen."
"Did you make this?" she asked, eyeing the small paper lantern. It was shaped like a lotus, painted with faint blue strokes.
"Minji helped," he admitted. "She said my artistic skills were a public hazard."
Akhiera laughed, the sound soft against the hum of the crowd. "It's cute. I didn't know you were sentimental."
"I'm evolving," he said, offering her a brush. "Here. You're supposed to write a wish before we let it go."
She hesitated. "I've never done that before."
"There's a first time for everything."
They knelt by the edge of the river, knees brushing lightly as he steadied the lantern for her. The paper glowed from the candle inside, warm and golden between them.
"Write something honest," he said quietly.
She looked at the blank petal, pen trembling slightly in her hand. After a moment, she wrote:
To finally belong.
When she glanced up, Hyunwoo was watching her, his expression unreadable.
"Your turn," she said, passing the brush.
He hesitated only briefly before writing:
For courage to hold on to what matters.
Their eyes met across the flickering light. The moment hung suspended, delicate as flame.
When they set the lantern on the water, it drifted slowly away — carrying their wishes side by side.
Akhiera watched it until it was just a speck of gold among hundreds. "Do you think it'll reach anywhere?"
"Maybe not," he said. "But maybe it doesn't have to. Sometimes it's enough that we sent it."
She smiled faintly. "You always sound like that — like you belong in a book."
He laughed softly. "And you always look like you stepped out of one."
Her cheeks warmed. "You're just saying that because it's festival night."
"Maybe," he said, his voice low. "Or maybe I mean it."
The words lingered in the cool air, neither of them daring to break the silence that followed.
They wandered through the festival streets afterward — through rows of food stalls and hanging lanterns shaped like stars and hearts. The scent of grilled skewers and sugar pastries filled the air. Somewhere, a street band played a slow acoustic song, the melody drifting gently over the river breeze.
Akhiera paused at a stall selling paper charms, each printed with small handwritten wishes. She picked one up. "They're beautiful."
"Choose one," Hyunwoo said. "I'll buy it for you."
"I don't need—"
"Consider it compensation for dragging you here."
She laughed. "I wasn't dragged."
"Then it's a thank-you gift."
She finally chose a charm shaped like a tiny home. 평온 — peace — was written on it in gold ink.
He smiled as she tied it carefully to her bracelet. "Perfect choice."
"Peace?"
"Home," he said softly. "It suits you."
She looked at him — at the way the lantern light reflected in his eyes, warm and steady — and something inside her shifted, quietly but unmistakably.
As the evening deepened, the crowd began to thin. Lanterns continued to float down the river, a sea of light slowly fading into distance.
"Cold?" Hyunwoo asked, noticing her hands tucked tighter in her coat.
"A little."
He hesitated, then offered his hand. "Here."
She blinked, surprised.
"Just until we find coffee," he said, his voice careful, casual.
Her heart stuttered, but she smiled — small, genuine — and slipped her hand into his.
It was warm. Familiar. And it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
They walked in silence, hands hidden between their coats, fingers brushing now and then. Neither spoke about it, but both understood what had changed.
They found a small riverside café lit by soft lanterns strung across its windows. Inside, they sat by the glass, watching the last of the lights drift along the water.
"This feels unreal," Akhiera said, wrapping her hands around her cup. "Like we stepped into someone else's story."
"Maybe it's ours," Hyunwoo said simply.
She met his gaze. "You think so?"
He shrugged, smiling. "It started with rain and an umbrella. I'd say we've earned a chapter like this."
She laughed softly. "You remember everything."
"I try to."
The rain had stopped now, replaced by the slow swirl of river mist. The city glowed around them — bridges shining gold, the Han whispering below.
For a long while, neither spoke. The silence was too full, too warm to break.
Then Akhiera said quietly, "I think I'll wish for the same thing next year."
He smiled. "To belong?"
She shook her head gently. "For the courage to hold on to what matters."
He exhaled, the faintest laugh escaping him. "Then maybe I'll wish for the same."
When they left the café, the festival was ending. Vendors were closing stalls, children were catching the last floating lanterns, and the river carried hundreds of small, glowing dreams toward the sea.
They walked back to the station side by side, shoulders brushing in rhythm. The wind tugged at her hair; his hand hovered close but didn't reach — not yet.
As they crossed the bridge, she stopped and looked back at the water. "Do you think we'll remember this night?"
Hyunwoo turned toward her, the glow of the city behind him. "I already do."
And for a moment, neither of them moved — the lights flickering on their faces, the sound of the river below, their wishes drifting somewhere unseen.
When Akhiera returned home that night, she hung the paper charm by her window. The golden word — 평온 — swayed gently in the breeze.
She smiled, whispering into the quiet: "Peace."
But what she really meant was his name.