The city hadn't changed much.
That was the cruelest part.
The school gate still stood where it always had, iron bars worn smooth by decades of hands pushing through. The paint had been touched up, the security booth modernized, but the air, heavy with late afternoon dust and distant traffic, felt eerily familiar.
Ha-yoon stopped across the street.
She hadn't planned to come here.
She rarely planned these things. Her feet just… remembered.
Students streamed out of the gate in careless clusters, laughing too loudly, arguing about homework, complaining about teachers. Their voices rose and fell like waves.
Once, she had been one of them.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and watched.
No one noticed her standing there.
Of course they didn't.
She crossed when the light changed, each step slower than the last, as if she were afraid the ground might reject her for returning too late.
The stairwell door was locked now.
A keypad installed. A warning sign posted.
NO STUDENT ACCESS.
She stood there longer than necessary, palm hovering inches from the cold metal.
Once, this door had screamed when it opened.
Once, it had welcomed them.
Hae-min lying on the concrete, complaining.
Seon-woo sketching the sky.
The three of them eating convenience-store snacks and promising things they were too young to understand.
Ha-yoon exhaled.
"I came back," she whispered to no one.
"You didn't."
She turned away before the memory could settle too deeply.
The shop with the old awning was gone.
In its place stood a sleek café, all glass and steel, warm light spilling onto the pavement. Couples sat inside, fingers entwined around mugs, laughter muted by thick windows.
It was raining again.
Soft. Steady.
Ha-yoon stood under the edge of the new building, water collecting at her feet.
Once, Hae-min had jumped into a puddle here.
Once, Seon-woo had shielded his sketchbook like it was his heart.
She stepped forward deliberately, letting the rain soak through her coat.
No laughter followed.
No one grabbed her arm and pulled her back under cover.
Just the rain.
She stayed until her hair clung to her face and her sleeves grew heavy, then walked on.
As for the convenience store
The plastic stools were gone.
Replaced with high counters and digital menus.
She bought a cup of instant ramen anyway, sitting alone near the window. The taste was the same. Too salty. Too cheap.
She remembered Hae-min stealing bites from both their bowls.
Seon-woo falling asleep mid-sentence, head tipping forward.
Now, the seat across from her remained empty.
She didn't rush to finish.
Some absences deserved time.
And as for the hill behind the school
The path was steeper than she remembered.
Or maybe she was just more tired.
The city spread out below, lights flickering on one by one as evening settled in. Fireworks exploded somewhere far away, celebratory, distant.
She sat where they once had.
The wind carried no laughter now. Just the low hum of traffic.
"If we could stay like this," she murmured, echoing Hae-min's old words.
Silence answered.
She hugged her coat tighter, realizing something she hadn't allowed herself to admit before,
Places don't change.
People do.
And sometimes, they leave parts of themselves behind.
__________________
Seon-woo stood in the courtyard of the detention center, hands in his pockets, staring at a square of sky fenced in by wire.
He didn't know why he thought of the rooftop then.
Hae-min sat alone in his apartment, scrolling past old photos he pretended didn't hurt.
Three people.
Three lives.
Still breathing.
Yet somehow…
no longer standing in the same time.
____________________
Ha-yoon sat on the hill.
Behind her, the city kept moving.
Ahead of her, the night waited.
And in the spaces where laughter once lived, only memory remained, quiet, persistent, unwilling to fade.
Some places remember us
even when we are no longer the same people
who once belonged there.
Hae-min found out by accident.
A name missing from the list.
He had been standing outside the administrative office, sweaty from practice, water bottle dangling loosely from his hand, when he heard two staff members talking in low voices.
"Im Ha-yoon?"
"She withdrew ."
"Ah… financial reasons, I heard. Family situation."
The words didn't land all at once.
Withdrew.
Few days ago.
Financial reasons.
For a moment, the hallway felt too narrow, the ceiling too low. Hae-min laughed under his breath, short, disbelieving, because it didn't make sense. Ha-yoon didn't quit. She endured. She carried things quietly until they nearly broke her, but she didn't leave.
He turned sharply, nearly colliding with a student rushing past, and ran.
The old house on Yeonhwa Street looked smaller than he remembered.
Or maybe emptier.
The gate was locked. The plants by the entrance, once carefully trimmed, had grown wild, leaves curling inward like they'd been forgotten. A paper notice flapped loosely on the wall, half torn, the ink faded by sun and rain.
He knocked anyway.
Once.
Twice.
Harder.
A woman from the neighboring house stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Are you looking for the Im family?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes," he said quickly. "Ha-yoon. Is she—"
"They left," the woman said gently. "Months ago. After her father got sick. They couldn't afford the rent anymore."
His chest tightened.
"Do you know where they went?"
She shook her head. "No forwarding address. Just… gone."
Gone.
The word followed him as he backed away from the gate, phone already in his hand.
He called her.
Once.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Switched off.
Again and again until his fingers ached and his throat burned from breathing too hard.
"Pick up," he whispered. "Please… Ha-yoon, pick up."
Nothing.
The city moved around him, cars passing, people talking, life continuing, but it felt like he'd been dropped into a soundless space where everything important had vanished.
Then it hit him.
The hill.
He hadn't been there in years.
The path behind the school was overgrown now, weeds pushing through cracks in the concrete. The climb felt longer, steeper, his lungs burning as if they were punishing him for arriving late.
Memories chased him upward.
Her laughter.
Seon-woo sitting quietly, sketchbook in hand.
The three of them lying on the grass, staring at a sky that felt endless back then.
"Please," he breathed, feet slipping on loose gravel. "Please be there."
And then—
He saw her.
She was sitting near the edge, knees drawn to her chest, coat too thin for the cold. Her hair was shorter, uneven, as if it had been cut without care. A plastic bag sat beside her, holding who-knew-what, her whole life reduced to something disposable.
She looked smaller.
Not physically, but like someone who had learned how to disappear.
Hae-min stopped a few steps away.
His heart slammed painfully against his ribs.
"Ha-yoon."
She didn't turn at first.
Then she stiffened.
Slowly, she looked over her shoulder.
Their eyes met.
The moment shattered them both.
"Hae-min…?" Her voice cracked, barely audible. "What are you doing here?"
He crossed the distance between them in three unsteady steps.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, but his voice broke halfway through. "Why did I have to hear it from strangers?"
She looked away.
"I didn't want to bother you."
That hurt more than anything else.
"Bother me?" he laughed weakly. "You think you could ever be a bother to me?"
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
"You dropped out," he said softly now. "You just… disappeared."
Her shoulders trembled.
"I tried," she whispered. "I really did. I worked three jobs. Took care of my brother. My father couldn't walk anymore, my mother stopped sleeping, and every time I opened a book, all I could think was, what if I fail anyway?"
She hugged herself tighter.
"I didn't have the luxury to dream anymore."
Hae-min knelt in front of her without thinking, the cold seeping through his knees.
"You should have told me," he said. "I could've helped."
She shook her head violently. "No. You already carry so much. Your family. Your career. Your expectations. I couldn't add myself to that list."
Tears slid down her cheeks, unchecked.
"I was tired of being the person everyone had to save."
He swallowed hard.
"You weren't a burden," he said. "You were—"
He stopped, breath hitching.
"You were the reason I kept going some days."
She looked at him then, really looked at him, eyes glossy and red.
"Don't say things like that," she whispered. "It makes leaving harder."
"Leaving?" His voice rose. "You think I'm just going to let you walk away again?"
She laughed softly, bitter. "You don't understand. This isn't something I can fix with effort or hope. I chose survival."
He reached out, hesitating before placing his jacket around her shoulders.
"You chose to disappear," he corrected gently. "And I chose to come looking for you."
Her lips trembled.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The city lights flickered on below them, the sky deepening into twilight.
"I failed," she said quietly.
"No," he replied immediately. "You endured."
She pressed her forehead into her knees, sobbing now, silent, shaking cries that tore straight through him.
Hae-min pulled her into his arms.
She didn't resist.
She clung to him like she'd been holding herself together for too long and finally let go.
"I didn't want you to see me like this," she murmured against his chest. "Not unfinished. Not broken."
He closed his eyes.
"You're not broken," he said. "You're human."
They stayed like that as the wind swept over the hill, cold and relentless.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes were swollen, exhausted.
"I don't know where I'm going next," she admitted.
He nodded once, decisively.
"Then don't go alone."
She looked at him, startled.
"I'm not asking you to depend on me," he continued softly. "Just… let me walk beside you. Like before."
Her breath caught.
"…You'd do that?"
He smiled sad, unwavering.
"I never stopped."
The hill stood quietly behind them, holding their past, their pain, their fragile present.
And for the first time in a long while, Ha-yoon wasn't alone.