The city moved as usual—buzzing, relentless—but Haeun walked like a ghost drifting through the noise. Her earbuds were in, but no music played. She just needed something to keep people from talking to her.
The words from the back of the photo still echoed in her head:
Do not let them choose for you again.
She didn't remember writing it. Not now. Not in this life. But it was her handwriting. Same slanted "t" strokes. Same slightly exaggerated dot on the "i." Something deep in her bones trembled with recognition.
Haeun wasn't the kind of person to believe in reincarnation or fate. Not before Jinhwan's eyes had trembled with guilt and memory. Not before she touched the pouch and felt her own breath stop in her throat.
Now… she wasn't sure of anything.
She'd spent the night lying awake, then researching—scrolling through digital archives, forums, even old Reddit threads filled with rumors and half-lost myths. One temple came up more than once. Located outside Seoul, nearly hidden in the mountains. Abandoned, yet still visited by those "haunted by unfinished past lives."
It sounded ridiculous.
And exactly like the kind of ridiculous she needed.
---
Gyeonggi Province – Mt. Mireuk Trailhead
It took two trains, one shared taxi, and a long hike into misty forest to reach the trail.
Her boots crunched along the damp gravel. The air was sharp with pine and old rain. Far from the city now, the only sounds were her breath, the wind, and the soft creak of forest life moving around her.
She felt like someone else here. Like maybe she could remember without trying.
After an hour of climbing, she saw it.
The temple was older than old. Moss crawled over its cracked stone steps. Ivy draped across faded wooden beams. The roof sagged, but hadn't collapsed. Time had touched the place, but not erased it.
It didn't feel dead.
It felt… waiting.
---
Inside the Temple
A broken lantern hung from the entrance.
She hesitated at the threshold, then stepped in.
The air shifted instantly—thicker, like walking underwater. Dust floated in the filtered light. The scent of incense, long extinguished, still lingered in the beams.
In the center of the room stood an altar. Simple. Wooden. Scorched on one side.
On it sat a statue.
Not a god she recognized. The figure was feminine, with a partially hidden face, and a flame carved into her open palm.
The same flame symbol as the pendant she'd seen in the archive.
Haeun approached slowly, heart racing. Her fingers tingled as she reached out—not to touch, just to be closer. To see.
The moment her hand hovered near the flame, something shifted behind her.
A quiet voice said, "You're not the first to return."
Haeun spun.
A woman stood in the shadows by the door. Her hair was streaked gray but thick, braided over one shoulder. She wore a faded monk's robe, cinched with a simple cord.
"I thought this place was abandoned," Haeun said cautiously.
"Only to those who stop listening."
"…Are you the caretaker?"
The woman didn't answer. She walked forward, barefoot, and sat beside the altar like it was her home.
"You've dreamed of fire, haven't you?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And of a boy with grief in his bones."
"…Yes."
The woman smiled softly. "Your past is louder than most. It bleeds into the skin of this world."
Haeun felt the hair on her arms rise. "Who are you?"
The woman looked at her, and her gaze was unsettling—not frightening, just too knowing.
"I'm what's left of memory. And I keep the threads that fray between lives."
Haeun blinked. "You knew me… before?"
"I've known many versions of you. In some lives, you came too late. In others, too early. This time… you may have arrived just in time."
"For what?"
"To stop what always begins."
The woman reached into her robe and pulled out a small book—hand-bound, the pages rough like bark.
She placed it gently in Haeun's hands.
"This belonged to your first self. Her name was Seo Haeun too. You've kept it, life after life."
Haeun opened the first page. The writing was hers. Not just her name—her thoughts. Her voice. Childlike and hesitant.
"I prayed that he would remember me. Even if the world didn't."
Tears sprang to her eyes without warning. Not from sadness. From recognition.
This was her.
"I don't know what to do," she whispered.
"Then begin by listening to what you've already said."
---
Back in Seoul – Daehan Tower, 64th Floor
Jinhwan stared at the CCTV feed from the archive floor. He had a laptop open, a cup of untouched coffee beside him.
He hadn't seen Haeun all day.
He'd checked her office. Called her. Nothing.
"Ian," he muttered, opening a secure line. "We need to talk."
---
Elsewhere – Ian's Apartment
Ian stared at the call but didn't answer.
He was drawing a complex symbol across a white canvas—a seal, one from centuries ago. The red string from before now curled across the shape like it was alive.
"She's going to remember everything soon," he said aloud.
He didn't sound happy.
He sounded afraid.
---
Back at the Temple – Sunset
Haeun sat at the altar, flipping through the old journal.
The monk woman lit a stick of incense. The scent was strange but comforting. Like citrus and ash.
"Do you want to know how to break the curse?" the woman asked.
Haeun looked up.
"Yes."
"Then you'll need to remember the moment it was born. And this time, when the choice is placed before you…"
"…I don't let anyone else make it for me," Haeun finished, her voice steadier now.
The woman smiled.
The flame statue in front of them flickered softly—even though there was no wind.