Another pause.
Then Haneul blinked rapidly and lowered the page. He pulled out his phone, scrolled, found the contact—“Skyscraper.”
He hit call, tapped speaker.
Ring. Ring. Click.
“Hey,” Seungho’s voice came through,hushed but clear, a little breathless.
He was walking somewhere—sharp-soled shoes on polished floors.
“I’m on my way in. Can’t talk long. But—”
“Just listen,” Haneul said.
He lifted the page again. His voice was unsteady, but it didn’t waver.
“Every year I read this poem and think... maybe I was the river. Maybe I was the one waiting. Always.”
He exhaled—slow. The mic picked it up. So did Seungho.
“And this year I thought—if you never came home again…”
The crowd stilled.
“…I’d still leave the door unlocked.”
Seungho was silent.
Somewhere on the call, his heart was falling through his ribcage.
In the club, someone murmured, “Why before the snow? The snow never forgets…”
“Yeah,” someone else said. “Isn’t it water that remembers everything?”
Haneul lifted his glass. His smile trembled now—bright and cracked.
“Then—until the snow forgets.”
He closed his eyes and breathed. “That’s how long I want to be with you, Skyscraper.”
A hush so thick it might have collapsed.
Then Seungho’s voice, hoarse and low, like something had snapped loose:
“…I love you.”
He hadn’t meant to say it. Not yet. Not over the phone. Not before the villa. Not like that.
But it was out now.
And Haneul froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. The crowd turned to static. The wings fluttered behind him.
“You what?” he choked.
“I said I love you,” Seungho repeated. “I should’ve said it a long time ago.”
Silence. Then—
