The sun had set long ago over Seoul, but in a luxurious apartment, a single light was still on.
Junwoo sat on the edge of his couch, staring at his phone.
Ten minutes.
He had typed and erased the same message three times.
Hi, this is Junwoo. I hope you got home safely.
Too formal.
Hey! I really enjoyed the hike yesterday.
Too casual.
You inspired a melody yesterday…
No. Ridiculous.
He sighed, closed his eyes, inhaled slowly.
Then his fingers moved again.
Hi Harin
It was nice running into you yesterday.
I took some great photos , if you want, I can send you a few.
He stared at the screen.
Hesitated.
Then, sent.
One minute passed.
Then two.
Nothing.
He placed the phone on the table as if it had suddenly become fragile.
She might not answer.
Maybe she forgot me.
Or she'll reply in three days.
Or never.
The phone vibrated.
Hi! Yes, I'd love that
And thank you again for your hand , I never would've made it up without you haha.
A small haha.
Light. Natural.
Junwoo reread the message three times.
A smile spread across his face before he could stop it. He leaned back against the couch, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
She hadn't forgotten.
She remembered his hand.
He was done for.
Harin, meanwhile, set her phone down without a second thought.
She had replied between two spoonfuls of her morning porridge. She hadn't noticed how long Junwoo had hesitated before sending the message.
She was simply living.
Life had resumed its quiet rhythm.
She and Jisoo had started their internship at a neighborhood pharmacy, wearing their white coats with that strange mix of seriousness and shared excitement.
"Do you think we'll have to do compound preparations?" Jisoo asked, adjusting her headband.
"I hope not," Harin replied with a smile.
But sometimes , between prescriptions and shelves , Harin found her thoughts drifting.
To the summit.
To the wind.
To Junwoo's gaze.
She didn't analyze it.
Not yet.
She let the memories float, untouched.
Junwoo, on the other hand, wasn't floating.
He was sinking, slowly.
Every time he thought of Harin's smile, his own appeared without permission.
While driving.
While walking.
While waiting for coffee.
And that afternoon, as he passed by the university campus, something tugged at him.
He entered without thinking.
He was no longer a student there.
But sometimes… he still went to the piano room.
The place where he used to compose.
The place where he had almost abandoned everything.
The room was empty.
He sat at the black piano and rested his hands on the keys.
One note.
Then another.
Then the same melody.
The one Harin had heard without seeing him.
And just like that day,he froze.
The same passage.
The same unfinished phrase.
The same pain.
A voice spoke behind him.
"You're still stuck there?"
Junwoo flinched slightly.
Harin.
She stood in the doorway, a folder in her hands. Surprised,but smiling.
"That was you," she said softly. "The melody from the other day. I kept wondering who it was. And then I heard it again today. The same hesitation. The same… pain."
Junwoo stayed frozen.
"You… you study here?"
"Pharmacy," she nodded.
"I didn't know."
"That's okay," she smiled. "I didn't know you were a composer either."
He laughed quietly, nervous.
"I'm not. Not anymore. I stopped a long time ago."
"Why?"
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer, without pressing.
"But you still come back."
"Sometimes," he admitted.
"When I get lost."
A gentle silence settled between them.
Harin looked at the keys.
"You should finish it," she said. "Your melody."
He looked at her.
"Maybe now," he whispered,
"I can."
That evening, Junwoo opened a forgotten box in his apartment.
Sheet music.
Old recordings.
Headphones.
He stared at them for a long moment.
Then he stood, opened a music store website, and added a digital piano to his cart.
That night, he wrote the first notes of a new melody.
Not for his mother.
Not for his patients.
Not for himself.
For Harin.
Meanwhile, Harin had returned to boxing.
Her brother's studio echoed with dull, rhythmic impacts. The punching bag swayed under her strikes.
Each punch released a memory.
Each breath carved space inside her.
Her movements were sharper now. Grounded.
She was sweating, but she wasn't shaking.
I want to be strong, she thought.
Not to hide my cracks, but to stop fearing them.
She caught her reflection in the mirror.
Breathless.
Focused.
Alive.
This isn't the girl I was.
This is the girl who's coming back.
She removed her gloves. Her hands were red.
But her eyes were clear.
How many times did I try to escape my own body?
How many times did I believe I was too broken to be whole again?
But she was still here.
She was still breathing.
Maybe courage isn't being strong.
Maybe it's standing up, even while trembling.
Her heart beat steadily.
I'm not healed.
But I'm walking.
And every punch she threw wasn't anger at the world.
It was a promise.
I will never abandon myself again.
She lifted her head.
Something glimmered in her eyes , a light she didn't fully recognize yet.
New.
Quiet.
Returning from a long war.
I want to know who I am,
when I'm no longer hiding.
When I dare to love.
To live.
To smile for real.
She wiped her brow, pulled her hood up.
I'm not done finding myself.
But this time, I won't get lost.
As she left the studio, gloves slung over her shoulder, a single thought crossed her mind.
Clear. Simple. Silent.
Maybe the light was never at the end of the tunnel.
Maybe… the light was me.