When the Han River Sleeps
The Turning Tide
The cold wind swept through the streets of Seoul as winter began to wane, carrying with it the sharp scent of melting snow and budding hope. Yuna’s footsteps echoed softly on the pavement as she made her way to the small music studio where Jihoon spent most of his restless nights, chasing melodies that refused to be tamed.
Inside, soft lights glimmered over scattered sheet music and a lone microphone. Jihoon tuned his guitar, eyes distant but focused, the weight of months pressing upon him like the chill outside.
When Yuna slipped inside silently, his gaze lifted, a flicker of surprise melting quickly into warmth. “You came,” he said, voice rough but grateful.
She nodded, heart pounding—a silent promise hanging between them. “I wanted to hear the song you said you were ready to finish.”
For a long moment, Jihoon hesitated, fingers tracing the guitar’s worn wood. Then, slowly, he began to play—a melody raw and aching, interwoven with hope and heartbreak, each note a confession.
Yuna closed her eyes, letting the music paint scenes of broken bridges and mended hearts. Underneath, she felt the pulse of their journey—the shared moments along 한강, the lantern-light whispers, and quiet promises.
When the last chord faded, Jihoon’s voice broke the silence. “This song isn’t just mine anymore. It’s ours.”
Tears pricked Yuna’s eyes. “Thank you—for letting me be part of it.”
They sat together amid the lingering echoes, knowing that the turning tide had arrived—carrying them not just toward each other, but toward a future worth fighting for.