Haneul laughed—bitter and soft. “Great. So I was an idiot in a past life too.”
“Maybe.” She bumped his shoulder gently. “But maybe you were something else. A storm. A soldier. A spark. Something that never should’ve been extinguished.”
He went still.
Then: “Can a soul remember another soul?”
Hyacinth didn’t answer right away.
But eventually, she looked at him—really looked—and said:
“Only if the other soul remembers how to wait.”
And he whispered, almost to himself:
“I think I collided with someone.
Before I ever touched them.”
Hyacinth said nothing.
The sun caught the sequins at their feet again, sending a flicker of light across the shadows.
Somewhere far away, a low beat echoed in the dark—a rhythm not from speakers, but from memory.
??????
Late afternoon. Olympic Park district.
The air smelled like the end of summer. Seoul breathed faintly beneath a veil of amber smog.
Seungho didn't plan the visit. He didn’t tell Jaewan or the driver. He just gave the address and got out three blocks early.
The air was sharp with the scent of cut grass and exhaust. Seoul in late September—where the heat still clung to sun-warmed pavement, but the wind had turned. It smelled of something ending.
The Olympic Park rink loomed ahead—concrete, aging, ringed by rust-stained signs and dull vending machines. Children’s laughter echoed from inside. A mother pushed a stroller. An elderly couple sipped vending-machine coffee.
It was so... mundane.
The kind of place he’d never set foot in unless dragged.
And yet, here he was. Dressed in wool and silence. Hands in pockets. Jaw clenched like he was walking into war.
He paid the entrance fee in cash. Walked past the rental booths, the snack bar, the dull-eyed couples and sweaty teens. The interior was colder than he expected—frosty air clung to his coat and pressed against his throat like a memory.
Then he saw the ice.
Wide. Glossy. Flooded with white light. A few scattered skaters looped lazily in twos and threes. Chatter bounced from the rafters.
And slicing through the center of the rink, alone and too fast to be part of any class—
Haneul.
He didn’t notice Seungho.
Didn’t slow down.
His braid whipped like a tail behind him. Collar flared. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Cheeks flushed. Legs carving knife-trails in the ice—wild, precise, barely contained. He didn’t glide. He attacked the rink like it owed him something.. Every movement wild, precise, and barely contained. He twisted into a jump—landed uneven, let out a growl, kicked off again.
