Last Train to Seoul: 운명
The Final Departure
The rain had been falling steadily all evening, relentless and soft at the same time, turning Seoul Station into a shimmering sea of reflections. Yoon Ha-eun hurried through the crowd, her umbrella struggling against the wind as she darted toward Track 7. Her linen skirt clung stubbornly to her legs, soaked through, but she barely noticed it was the last train home.
The loudspeaker announced final boarding, crisp and indifferent over the din. “Last train to Daegu departing from Track 7.”
Her heart pounded as she broke into a sprint, the sound of her shoes slapping wet concrete drowning out the chatter around her. She reached the platform just as the doors slid shut. The hiss of the closing train echoed sharply in the night.
Ha-eun stood still, breath caught in her throat, watching the tail lights disappear into the dark tunnel. The raw ache of having missed it tightened her chest, the humid air heavy with rain and regret.
“그냥 내일 가야겠다…,” she whispered softly to herself, deciding she’d find somewhere to stay until morning. Her phone buzzed weakly battery dying, no messages.
Nearby, a voice cut through the silence like a calm against the storm.
“Missed your train too?”
Startled, she looked up. A man stood beneath the station roof, his gray suit neat and untouched by rain, sleeves rolled up slightly as if ready to work or walk through the night. His dark hair was damp but still carefully styled.
“Ah, yes,” she replied with a tired smile. “I did.”
He smiled faintly, a mixture of apology and camaraderie in his gaze. “There’s a café nearby still open. A warm place beats standing here.”
She hesitated, then nodded, grateful to be offered kindness in a moment so bleak. Together, they climbed the stairs out of the underground platform into the softer glow of the city’s rain-misted streets.
The rain had softened to a fine mist, the neon signs along 청파로 blurred into pools of color on the wet pavement. The café, tucked beside a 24-hour 편의점, welcomed them with warm light and the rich scent of fresh coffee.
“After you,” he said politely, holding the door.
Inside, quiet music played softly, notes floating around the few customers lingering in the late hour. They settled at a small table near the window, watching drops race down the glass.
He ordered two lattes and slid one across to her. “Warmth for a cold night.”
Ha-eun wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the heat seep in. “Thank you. I didn’t expect… someone to care.”
He shrugged, eyes reflecting the coffee steam. “Sometimes the city surprises.”
“I’m Yoon Ha-eun,” she said after a pause, looking up at him fully.
“Kang Ji-won,” he answered with a small bow of the head.
They talked slowly, conversations weaving through silence and laughter. Ha-eun spoke of her town, Gyeongju, of quiet streets and old temples, of photographs she took to catch moments that others missed. Ji-won listened with a calm understanding, sharing only guarded pieces of his own world a stark office, years of running, and the ghosts he carried.
“I suppose we’re both chasing trains, of different kinds,” Ji-won said softly.
Ha-eun smiled, eyes bright with a hint of tears. “Or running from them.”
Outside, a street musician began playing a ballad about train stations and missed chances. The melancholy tune wrapped around their conversation like a shared secret.
As the clock neared midnight, Ha-eun rose reluctantly. “I should find a place to stay before the city fades,” she said.
Ji-won stood too, offering her his umbrella. “I know a nearby guesthouse. Let me walk you there.”
They stepped back into the misty air, umbrellas brushing softly above them, the rhythm of the rain accompanying their quiet steps.
At the guesthouse door, Ha-eun turned to him, heart fluttering with hope and hesitation.
“Maybe we’ll catch the next train at the next station.”
Ji-won’s smile was soft, touched with unspoken promise. “I’ll bring the coffee.”
As the train whistle blew somewhere in the distance, the night held a fragile stillness, and between them flickered the first sparks of something both new and impossible to capture.