The next morning came too quickly.
Seoul was wide awake by 6:30 a.m., its streets already humming with delivery bikes and subway vibrations beneath the pavement. But in Haeun's apartment, time moved more slowly.
She stood barefoot in the kitchen, watching the coffee drip into her cup like it might give her answers if she stared long enough.
The photo Ian had given her sat on the dining table under a warm splash of sunlight. It had survived the night, but she hadn't. Her sleep had been broken, fragmented by images she couldn't fully piece together—temples burning, a voice chanting in a language she didn't know, and always… always the feeling of being watched.
She sipped the coffee, then grabbed the photo.
Something about the red crane clip in her childhood hair wouldn't let go of her thoughts.
Why do I remember the feeling of losing it?
She grabbed her coat, slid the photo into her bag, and left.
---
Daehan Tower, 42nd Floor – Private Archive Room
Haeun wasn't supposed to be here.
Only top-level executives were allowed into Daehan Tower's private archives—floor 42, past the frosted doors behind the security scanners. But her keycard still had developer clearance, and no one had updated the system yet.
The room was colder than she expected. Dusty, but not abandoned. Thick glass cases lined the walls, each labeled in gold-stamped Korean. Company records, blueprints, genealogies… and at the far back, a locked cabinet labeled "Founder's Artifacts."
She stared at the lock. Then pulled a bobby pin from her hair.
She didn't know why she knew how to do this. It felt absurd—like a scene from a thriller drama—but her fingers moved with confident memory. Three clicks. The case opened.
Inside, she found a few old items: a rusted bronze pendant shaped like a flame, a tattered scroll, and a silk pouch with a faded symbol stitched in red thread.
A crane.
The exact same one from her hairclip.
She opened the pouch carefully. Inside was a worn, folded piece of paper. It had writing on it—ancient Korean script mixed with something older, something that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
The words weren't legible, but her heart reacted before her brain could catch up.
It felt like touching the memory of a prayer.
Suddenly, the air shifted.
She wasn't alone.
Haeun turned sharply—and locked eyes with Jinhwan.
---
"I should've known you'd come here," he said quietly.
"I needed answers."
"And you thought you'd find them in a locked cabinet?"
She swallowed. "You told me the curse started with a ritual. I figured someone had to leave traces."
He didn't move closer. He didn't raise his voice. But the weight in his gaze made her feel like she'd just broken something sacred.
"Do you know what that is?" he asked, pointing to the crane-stitched pouch.
"No," she admitted. "But I remember it."
"Of course you do," he said bitterly. "It belonged to you. The first you. The one who made the vow."
"What vow?"
Jinhwan looked like he wanted to walk away. Or scream. But instead, he sat on the edge of the nearest table and rubbed his face with his hands.
"In our first life," he began, "you were the daughter of a shrine keeper. I was a noble's son, engaged to someone else for political alliance. And Ian—he was a wandering monk."
She blinked.
"You think I'm joking, don't you?" he said with a sad smile.
"No. I think I'm overwhelmed."
He nodded. "Fair."
She sat too, the pouch still in her hands.
"You came to my father's shrine during the famine," Jinhwan continued. "Brought rice when no one else would. You stayed while everyone else ran."
"And the ritual?" she asked.
"You initiated it. You asked the gods to let us stay together across time. You said one life wouldn't be enough."
Haeun's throat tightened. "That sounds… beautiful."
"It was," he whispered. "But then the fire happened. And the gods answered in their own way."
---
Elsewhere – Ian's Apartment
Ian sat cross-legged on the floor, incense burning beside him.
On the table before him lay three objects: a small wooden box with red lacquer, a book filled with old ink drawings, and a torn red string.
He placed the string across the drawing of a woman kneeling in front of an altar.
"It's begun again," he said aloud, to no one.
A breeze passed through the room, though the windows were shut.
---
Back at Daehan Tower – Archive Room
"What else do you remember?" Haeun asked, the pouch still clutched in her lap.
Jinhwan looked at her, as if debating how much to say.
"You died first," he finally said. "In every life. Sometimes by fire, sometimes by water. Once… once it was me."
She looked away, heart pounding. "Did you kill me?"
"No," he said immediately. "But I didn't stop it."
The honesty of it shattered her a little. Not because he was cruel—but because he wasn't pretending.
"I don't know what to do with this," she whispered.
"You don't have to decide right now," he said, softer now. "But if we don't face it together, we'll lose again."
"And Ian?"
Jinhwan's jaw clenched. "He thinks he can fix it by undoing the original vow. But if he does that…"
He didn't finish.
"What happens?" she pressed.
"We might forget each other forever."
---
That night – Haeun's Apartment
The crane pouch lay on her nightstand, beside her lamp.
Haeun couldn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw temples, fire, and two boys—one in noble robes, one in monk's cloth—both reaching for her, both breaking apart.
In one dream, she stood between them with blood on her hands.
When she woke up, the photo had fallen to the floor again.
This time, though, something new had appeared on the back of it.
A single line, in her own handwriting:
"Do not let them choose for you again."