The notebook pulsed in Yoorin's hands as she stepped out of the glass room.
Not a heartbeat—but something older, deeper. A rhythm like pages fluttering in the wind or waves brushing against a forgotten shore.
She flipped it open.
The pages were no longer blank.
You have crossed the threshold. Now write the world back into place.
The words appeared on their own, in her handwriting—but she hadn't written them.
Behind her, the hallway had vanished.
Only mist.
Only stars.
Only the notebook.
Yoorin sat on the floor. The weight of the broken watch now tied around her own wrist. It ticked faintly, as if waking.
She didn't know what she was supposed to write. There was no map. No outline. Only fragments:
– Seon's eyes as he watched her vanish.– Her name etched into the underside of the garden bench.– The sound of her mother humming an old lullaby in another life.
She picked up the pen.
It wrote before she thought.
The girl with a heart split across timelines began to write—not to escape, but to return.
Her fingers trembled.
The more she wrote, the more vivid the world around her became.
A breeze.
A faint scent of ink and rain.
And then—
A hand on her shoulder.
She turned.
It was Seon.
But different.
He looked older.
Tired.
As if he had been waiting a long, long time.