When the Han River Sleeps
Traces of the Past
The days lengthened and Yuna found herself caught in the fragile warmth of early spring. Yet beneath the budding hope, a scattering of old memories hovered, unspoken but present. Sitting alone by the 한강, her sketchbook open but blank, she traced invisible shapes in the mist.
At the café, Ah-reum’s teasing was relentless, but today, even her vibrant spirit couldn’t draw Yuna fully back. “You’re different,” she said softly, handing Yuna a cup of steaming 녹차. “Like someone’s been rewriting your story.”
Jihoon was no stranger to shadows either. Among the clutter of his tiny room, a faded photograph peeked out from under scattered sheet music—his mother’s smile captured but distant, a reminder of things left unsaid. When Yuna’s message popped into his phone, an unbidden smile crossed his lips.
Their next meeting was quietly charged with anticipation. Beneath the blooming cherry trees at 벚꽃길, Yuna and Jihoon exchanged stories veiled in laughter and lingering glances. But as the sun dipped low, Jihoon’s hesitation crept back. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “we carry ghosts we’re not ready to face.”
Yuna reached for his hand, the warmth steadying his resolve. “Then maybe we can face them together. Step by step, like the tide meets the shore.”
The river flowed endlessly beneath them, its ceaseless rhythm promising that even the deepest wounds might someday find their peace.