The sunlight spilled like honey over the slopes of Seoraksan. The air smelled faintly of pine and tangerine peel, and laughter echoed across the trail as the school trip finally reached its highlight — the mountain path that wound toward the heart-shaped clearing.
Ji-Ho tugged his cap lower. "I swear, if one more person says this trail is 'easy,' I'm transferring schools."
"Aw, come on!" Min-Ji said, skipping past him with her phone raised. "You can't transfer before I get a picture of you suffering. Smile!"
"I'm smiling internally," Ji-Ho muttered, wiping sweat from his neck.
Behind him, Thanu giggled softly, clutching her bottle of water. "You always complain, but you never stop climbing."
He glanced back — and the world seemed to slow. The sunlight caught her hair, brushing it gold. Petals from nearby azalea bushes drifted on the wind, scattering across the path. She blinked at him, surprised.
Ji-Ho's heart skipped.
The sound of his friends teasing in the distance blurred for a moment. He forced a grin to hide the flutter. "You're imagining things. I'm just… preserving energy."
"Sure," Thanu said, smirking. "You're 'preserving energy' by breathing like a 90-year-old."
Seok-Cheol adjusted his glasses, catching up. "Technically, that's accurate. His aerobic threshold—"
"Stop analyzing my lungs!" Ji-Ho barked.
Their laughter rippled through the group like falling pebbles in a stream. For a moment, everything felt light — stupidly, beautifully normal.
They reached a small bridge overlooking a sparkling stream. Ji-Ho paused, leaning on the railing, watching the water rush by. "You ever feel like places remember us?"
Thanu tilted her head. "You mean déjà vu?"
"Yeah. Like you've been somewhere before, but…" He frowned. "Different."
She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the railing. "Maybe the place remembers you."
That small exchange lingered — something about her tone, soft but knowing.
They kept walking until the trees thinned, revealing the fabled heart-shaped clearing. A soft breeze swept through the meadow, stirring petals into slow motion, like a scene rehearsed by the heavens.
The clearing was almost unreal — a wide patch of soft grass bordered by flowering cherry trees. The air shimmered faintly in the sunlight, as if holding its breath.
"Whoa…" Min-Ji gasped. "It's like a fairy-tale ending."
Ji-Ho dropped his backpack, stretching. "Finally! The mythical heart meadow. Now we can rest before I die of hiking."
Tae-Sik smirked. "You're too dramatic."
"Dramatic?" Ji-Ho said, throwing a handful of grass at him. "I call it emotional honesty!"
Everyone burst into laughter — except Thanu. She was standing still, gazing at the heart-shaped outline of flowers in the grass, her fingers brushing the petals gently.
Something about it felt familiar.
A flash — a child running with a half-melted dalgona, laughter echoing, a dog barking.
She blinked. The memory vanished like mist.
Ji-Ho noticed her expression. "Hey… you okay?"
She turned to him, smiling too quickly. "Yeah. Just… déjà vu, maybe."
He hesitated, then joined her at the center of the clearing. The others unpacked snacks and joked near the shade, but Ji-Ho barely heard them. The light around them seemed to turn gold — the kind of gold that only existed right before sunset, when everything felt suspended in a dream.
"You know," Ji-Ho said softly, "you haven't changed much since back then."
Thanu frowned. "Back then?"
"Yeah. That festival. The one where a kid stole my dalgona and—" He stopped as her eyes widened.
"You remember that?" she whispered.
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Of course I do. You just appeared out of nowhere, stole my candy, and ran. I thought you were the worst human alive."
"And now?" she asked.
Ji-Ho looked at her. "Now I think you're…" He swallowed. His voice trembled slightly. "Pretty unforgettable."
The wind stirred between them, carrying flower petals that swirled around their faces like falling stars. Thanu looked away, cheeks pink. "You say that to all the girls?"
"Only the ones who steal from me," he joked.
But his smile faded a little — replaced by something fragile, almost frightened.
"Thanu," he began, his tone shifting. "I don't know what it is, but… ever since you came back, everything feels—different. Like something's waiting to happen."
She turned toward him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
He took a deep breath. The sunlight hit his face, his expression caught between courage and fear.
"I mean… maybe it's stupid, but when I see you, I feel like—"
BOOM.
A thunderclap. Out of nowhere. The sky darkened as a low rumble echoed through the mountains.
"What the—?" Min-Ji looked up. "It's sunny! Where did that—"
The ground trembled. Birds scattered from the trees.
Ji-Ho reached for Thanu instinctively. "We should go. It's not safe here."
But before they could move, a deafening crack split the silence — the mountain's edge above them crumbled. Rocks tumbled down, trees splintered, and dust exploded through the clearing.
Thanu's eyes widened. Ji-Ho lunged forward.
"THANU!"
He shoved her aside just as a massive branch crashed down where she'd been standing.
For a heartbeat, everything slowed. The dust swirled in golden light. Her eyes met his — terrified, pleading — as his hand reached for hers.
"I lo—"
The word never finished.
The ground beneath them collapsed.
They fell together, the sound of splintering wood and screaming wind fading into silence.
Then — darkness.
And then… a sound.
Wind, but not mountain wind. A colder, sharper breeze that carried incense and distant chanting.
When Ji-Ho opened his eyes, the sky was no longer blue — it was painted with ink clouds, the faint outline of palace roofs gleaming beyond the mist.
His head spun. He pushed himself up, noticing the robes on his body. Silk. Embroidered with gold thread.
A mirror of polished bronze reflected his face — and behind him, the flutter of crimson banners with a royal crest.
"What… what is this place?" he whispered.
The door slid open.
A young court attendant bowed deeply. "Your Highness, the scholar has arrived."
Ji-Ho froze. "What did you just—"
But then he saw her.
Thanu.
Wearing hanbok, her hair tied with a scholar's ribbon, scrolls clutched to her chest. Her eyes — the same eyes — widened as she looked at him.
But there was no recognition in them.
No memory.
Just polite confusion.
Ji-Ho's heart thudded painfully.
"Do I… know you?" she asked softly.
He wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream that they'd fallen together, that she'd died in his arms just moments ago. But his lips refused to move.
Instead, the words that came out were royal and rehearsed — a tone that wasn't his own:
"Welcome to the palace, Scholar Thanu."
Outside, a bell tolled in the distance.
And the petals — those same azalea petals — drifted once again through the air.