Seungho stared at it.
He wasn’t breathing.
“This from your class?”
Haneul looked up. Paused his humming. One headphone still cockeyed.
“No.”
“Then from where?”
He shrugged. Didn't meet his eyes.
“Just came to me. I don’t know. I see it sometimes. When I skate. Or when I close my eyes too long. Or in dreams.”
A breath.
“Like a memory. But not mine.”
Seungho sat down beside him on the bed. The rain tapped again, faint percussion to a silence too full.
He looked at the drawing.
Then at Haneul.
Then down again.
“I’ve seen this too,” he murmured. “Not on paper. But… in flashes. In déjà vu.”
Haneul blinked slowly.
Lifted his gaze.
And for a moment—a single long moment where neither spoke, neither moved—
Something passed between them.
Not proof. Not logic.
Just knowing.
Like a heartbeat echoing in a cave of centuries.
Like a name carved under ten coats of paint.
They knew.
Even if they couldn’t explain it.
Even if they had forgotten the language of before.
They had met.
They had bled.
They had loved.
And this—this impossible, chaotic, burning now—was a second chance the universe had no right to give.
