The key was warm.
Not like metal should be, but like it had a pulse. A quiet thrum in Yoorin's hand, like a heart tethered to the other side of the door.
Seon didn't say anything.
He just watched as she stepped toward the end of the hallway—toward the door she had seen in dreams before she even knew this house existed.
Each step forward was heavier than the last.
Memories pressed down on her chest like mist made solid. She remembered laughing under a cherry blossom tree with Seon. Running through an alley filled with colored smoke. Writing poems to a boy who never answered—until he did.
And in each memory, he looked the same.
But she didn't.
Sometimes her eyes were violet. Sometimes brown. Sometimes her voice trembled. Sometimes it roared.
It didn't matter. She was always searching.
She placed the key into the lock.
It fit too easily.
As the door creaked open, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Inside was a room made of glass. Walls of mirrors, ceiling like an open sky, and a single chair in the middle—occupied.
Yoorin stepped in slowly.
The girl in the chair raised her head.
It was her.
But not quite.
This version had tears on her cheeks, ink-stained fingers, and a broken watch wrapped around her wrist.
"I've been waiting," the other Yoorin said softly.