The pocket watch stopped.
Not gradually.
Not as though its spring had finally worn itself out after years of faithful service.
It simply…
stopped.
The room became impossibly still.
Seo Min-Jae sat motionless before the small wooden table, his hand hovering above the folded letter.
Outside, the evening breeze stirred the persimmon leaves against the paper windows. Somewhere beyond the house, a dog barked once before silence swallowed the sound again.
"So-Eun…"
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
No answer came.
He smiled faintly to himself.
She was probably in the kitchen.
Or perhaps she had gone back to the boutique after remembering another unfinished order. She had always been that way. If a single stitch remained imperfect, she could never leave it alone.
He reached for the letter.
His fingers trembled slightly.
The paper felt familiar beneath his touch.
It smelled faintly of lavender.
Her scent.
The scent that had clung to every scarf she folded, every jacket she stitched, every sleeve she brushed with careful fingers.
His thumb slipped beneath the fold.
The letter opened.
Inside…
nothing.
Blank.
He frowned.
Slowly he turned it over.
Both sides were empty.
"No…"
His heartbeat quickened.
"No…"
He unfolded it completely.
There had to be another page.
There wasn't.
His breathing became uneven.
"I saw you writing this."
He looked toward the bedroom.
"So-Eun?"
Silence.
"You were writing…"
He stood so suddenly that the chair scraped harshly against the wooden floor.
"So-Eun!"
His voice echoed through the empty house.
No answer.
He hurried toward their bedroom.
The bedding remained neatly folded.
Untouched.
He checked the kitchen.
The bowls still rested on the table.
One pair of chopsticks.
Only one.
He stopped.
Only…
one?
His eyes searched the room.
Confusion slowly settled across his face.
There should have been another bowl.
Another cup.
Another pair of chopsticks.
Shouldn't there?
He rubbed his temples.
No.
There had always been two.
Hadn't there?
He opened the cupboard.
One cup.
One bowl.
One plate.
He stared.
His breathing grew shallow.
"No…"
He walked quickly to the wardrobe.
When he slid the door open…
only his clothes hung inside.
Her dresses…
gone.
The small floral shawl she loved wearing during spring…
gone.
Even the tiny wooden box where she kept her sewing needles…
gone.
He stumbled backward.
"This…"
His voice cracked.
"This isn't funny."
The room seemed strangely unfamiliar now.
Had the wardrobe always been this small?
Had the walls always been this faded?
He looked toward the dressing table.
There was only one hairbrush.
His.
The mirror reflected only him.
Nothing else.
He shook his head.
"No."
He hurried outside.
"So-Eun!"
The yard answered only with wind.
The persimmon tree swayed gently.
He remembered her sitting beneath it only yesterday.
Crocheting.
Laughing because he kept knotting the yarn incorrectly.
He could still hear her teasing voice.
"You would never survive as a tailor."
He smiled through the memory.
Then his smile slowly disappeared.
There was no chair beneath the tree.
No basket.
No crochet hooks.
Nothing.
Only grass.
He ran toward the boutique.
The evening streets seemed quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
His footsteps echoed against stone.
The brass bell above the boutique door chimed softly as he pushed inside.
The familiar scent of fabric greeted him.
Rows of cloth lined the shelves.
Half-finished garments rested upon wooden mannequins.
Everything looked exactly as it always had.
Yet…
something felt terribly wrong.
He walked toward the cutting table.
His hand brushed across the polished wood.
A memory surfaced.
So-Eun standing here.
Measuring tape around her neck.
Scolding him gently for distracting her while she worked.
He smiled.
Then frowned.
Where was the measuring tape?
He searched the drawers.
Needles.
Scissors.
Buttons.
Thread.
No measuring tape.
He opened another drawer.
Receipts.
Patterns.
Invoices.
Nothing.
His eyes landed on a framed certificate hanging upon the wall.
He had passed it hundreds of times.
Never truly looked at it.
Tonight…
he did.
The boutique owner's name.
Kim So-Eun.
He exhaled in relief.
"There."
He stepped closer.
The letters blurred before his eyes.
He blinked.
When his vision cleared…
the name had changed.
Kim…
No.
That couldn't be right.
He rubbed his eyes again.
The frame now carried another family name entirely.
A tailor he had never heard of.
His breath caught.
"No."
He stepped backward.
The room swayed.
The bell above the door rang again.
A young apprentice entered carrying folded fabric.
The boy bowed politely.
"Good evening."
Min-Jae hurried toward him.
"You work here?"
"Yes."
"Where is Miss Kim?"
The apprentice frowned.
"Miss Kim?"
"The owner."
"There has never been a Miss Kim here."
Min-Jae laughed.
A desperate sound.
"No…"
"You're mistaken."
"My wife."
"She owns this boutique."
The apprentice's expression shifted from confusion to concern.
"Sir…"
"I think you've entered the wrong shop."
Wrong shop?
No.
Impossible.
This was her boutique.
He had stood here.
Watched her sew.
Watched her smile.
Watched her…
His thoughts faltered.
He couldn't remember the color of the walls.
Had they always been cream?
Or dark wood?
Where had the window been?
His head began to ache.
A sharp pain.
Like something forcing itself through years of tightly closed doors.
He stumbled outside.
The street no longer looked familiar.
Buildings seemed older.
Different.
New signs hung where old ones should have been.
A tram rolled past.
He stared at it blankly.
Had the city always sounded like this?
His breathing became ragged.
He turned instinctively toward the church.
If anyone knew…
Father Matthew would know.
The chapel stood exactly where it always had.
The stone walls had weathered with age.
The wooden cross leaned slightly now.
Vines climbed one side of the bell tower.
He climbed the worn steps slowly.
Each footstep felt heavier than the last.
Inside, candles burned quietly before the altar.
The familiar scent of incense lingered in the air.
An elderly priest knelt near the front pew.
His hair had become almost completely white.
His shoulders stooped with age.
Yet…
something about him felt achingly familiar.
The priest looked up.
For a long moment…
he simply stared.
His eyes widened.
The color drained from his face.
His lips parted slightly.
Almost soundlessly, he whispered,
"…Min-Jae?"
Min-Jae froze.
"You…"
The old priest rose slowly.
His hands trembled.
"I never believed…"
he murmured.
"…that I would see you again."
Again?
Min-Jae frowned.
"We met yesterday."
The priest's expression broke.
"No."
His voice was scarcely audible.
"My son…"
"We last met…"
He swallowed hard.
"…ten years ago."
The words settled inside the chapel like stones sinking into still water.
Min-Jae stared at him.
Unable to understand.
Unable to breathe.
"Ten…"
His voice failed.
The old priest stepped forward carefully, as though approaching someone standing on the edge of a cliff.
"Come."
He said gently.
"Sit with me."
But Min-Jae did not move.
Because somewhere deep inside him…
beneath the confusion…
beneath the fear…
beneath every memory he desperately clung to…
a terrible truth had already begun knocking against the door of his heart.
And for the first time…
he was afraid to open it.