The classroom felt colder that day.
Even with the heater humming softly in the corner, there was a weight in the air — like something invisible had settled over the desks and refused to leave.
Ji-Woo sat in his usual seat, near the window, head resting on one hand.
Outside, snowflakes floated lazily past the glass.
Min-Ho sat two rows behind, pretending to focus on his notes.
But his eyes kept drifting forward.
Every time Ji-Woo shifted in his seat, every time he brushed his fingers through his hair, every time his gaze wandered through the snow… Min-Ho watched.
And remembered.
---
It had happened in this very room.
A year ago. Before everything burned.
The project. The late afternoons. The way Ji-Woo would fall asleep, chin tucked into his arms, lips slightly parted.
Min-Ho would stay long after the bell, pretending to pack slowly just to watch him sleep a little longer.
Back then, Ji-Woo had smiled more.
He laughed with his whole face.
Now, he barely spoke.
---
During the lunch break, the room emptied.
Min-Ho lingered by the window. Ji-Woo didn't move.
There was a tension that hung in the air like steam.
Not heavy enough to suffocate. But enough to notice.
"You used to hum when you studied," Min-Ho said suddenly, his voice soft.
Ji-Woo looked up slowly. "I did?"
Min-Ho nodded. "You'd tap your pencil to the beat. It drove me crazy."
A silence passed.
"…I don't remember that," Ji-Woo said.
Min-Ho smiled faintly. "I do."
Another silence.
Then Ji-Woo whispered:
"This room has ghosts."
Min-Ho didn't flinch.
He just said: "Yeah. And they're all ours."
Their eyes met.
Something unspoken passed between them — again. Always.
It wasn't a confession.
Not quite a forgiveness.
But something close.
Snow kept falling outside.
Inside, the room remained full of echoes only they could hear.