That night, Seoul hummed beneath a quiet drizzle.
It wasn't the kind of rain that rushed to flood the gutters or danced wild against rooftops.
It whispered instead—soft and slow—like a lullaby meant only for the lonely.
A rain that didn't beg for umbrellas, just asked for stillness.
Streetlamps blinked through the mist like half-remembered memories.
Tail lights painted long red streaks on the glossy pavement, turning each car into a comet that never truly left.
From high above, apartment windows flickered and fluttered like sleepy stars—some open, some closed, all breathing in the hush of midnight.
Inside one of those windows, behind pale green curtains barely swaying from the breeze of a cracked pane, was a room.
Small. Warm. Familiar.
Saanvi sat on the wooden floor, wrapped in a blanket like she was trying to hold herself together. Her knees were pulled close to her chest. Her chin rested atop them. The gentle glow of her desk lamp spilled across her lap, casting long shadows onto the wall behind her.
Beside her, a mug of half-drunk tea had gone cold.
Unnoticed.
In front of her lay a book—no, not just a book.
A scrapbook.
Frayed at the edges. Bent corners. Stickers half-peeled and faded.
It looked like it had been loved once, forgotten for a while, and now cautiously remembered again.
It wasn't her usual one.
Not the one filled with class photos and debate trophies and notes passed during boring lectures.
Not the one where Seoul was pressed into pages—skylines, cafés, metro tickets.
No.
This one was from before.
Before the city.
Before the new school.
Before everything changed.
The Busan scrapbook.
She hadn't opened it in years.
Not since the move.
Not since she stopped drawing clouds in the margins of her notebooks.
Not since Jisoo.
She stared at it for a moment longer.
Then gently—almost reverently—reached out and brushed her fingers across the cover.
It felt like touching the edge of a half-forgotten dream.
And then—
She opened it.
---
The scent hit her first.
Paper. Glue. Dust.
Time.
The pages were thick and slightly yellowed.
Each one whispered stories.
There were candy wrappers taped into corners, their colors still strangely vibrant.
Doodles of animals with oversized eyes and squiggly limbs danced between bus tickets and receipts.
A sticky note from her mother, still cheerfully pink, curled up at the corners, read:
"You forgot your umbrella again, silly girl!"
Another:
"You begged to climb that lion statue… then cried at the top."
Saanvi smiled, eyes flickering like the lamp above her.
She turned the page.
And then another.
With every flip, a feeling unlocked.
A room she hadn't visited in years quietly opened its door.
There were faded photos, some half-cut by awkward scissors.
There was a pressed petal from the cherry blossoms behind her old school.
A note from her childhood friend Minji, written entirely in glitter pen.
And still—
It felt like something was missing.
Then—
Something slid out.
It fluttered softly onto her lap.
She blinked.
Not thick like a photo.
Not glossy.
Just a thin, folded piece of paper.
She picked it up slowly.
Her heart thudded once—twice.
And then she unfolded it.
---
A sketch.
Pencil on plain paper.
Lines smudged, soft with age, but still alive.
The kind of sketch that wasn't perfect—but was honest.
Her.
Younger. Maybe nine, maybe ten.
Sitting cross-legged under a blooming cherry blossom tree.
A bandage on her knee.
One hand curled into the hem of a jacket too big for her.
A half-smile on her lips—somewhere between defiance and affection.
At the bottom corner, in small, neat block letters:
April 13th – Busan
And suddenly—
Memory crashed in like thunder after a long silence.
---
She had fallen off the skateboard.
Trying to prove she could race the boys across the courtyard, she had turned too fast, hit the crack in the pavement—and landed hard.
Her knee had scraped badly. Blood. Embarrassment. Her pride more hurt than anything else.
She had tried not to cry.
Failed.
And then—
Jisoo.
Quiet. Always with that too-big hoodie and paint stains on his fingers.
He had appeared beside her without a word.
No questions.
No jokes.
Just took off his jacket, shoved it at her with a face so red it nearly matched her knee, and then—sat down beside her.
Then he'd whispered:
"I draw when I don't know what to say."
From his pocket, he pulled a tiny notebook.
The one he always carried.
The one she used to tease him about.
She remembered laughing.
Sniffing through the tears and calling his clouds "steamed buns."
She might've joked that they looked like dumplings falling from heaven.
And he—smiled.
Maybe for the first time that week.
He drew her.
Right there.
Bloodied knee, stupid grin, messy ponytail.
And apparently…
Somehow slipped the drawing into her scrapbook when she wasn't looking.
He remembered her through art.
She had forgotten him through time.
---
Her throat tightened.
She pressed the sketch against her chest, breathing in its quiet weight.
Outside, the rain had softened further, now barely more than mist.
Then—
Her phone buzzed.
She blinked, dazed.
The notification lit up the screen:
One Plus
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from returning what was never yours to keep… but always yours to understand.
____________•••____________
The words struck her oddly.
Not about returning a thing.
But returning a thought.
An understanding.
Of him.
Of that moment.
Of what she meant to someone—without realizing it.
---
She opened her messages.
Scrolled past the group chats.
Past classmates.
Past unread club announcements.
Stopped at his name.
Jisoo.
She hadn't texted him in a year.
Maybe more.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
Then—
Typed.
Saanvi: Did you ever learn how to shade trees properly?
She didn't expect a reply.
He never replied quickly.
He was slow like that. Like film in an old camera. You had to wait, but it was always worth it.
Minutes passed.
She listened to the soft ticking of her desk clock.
The drip of water outside.
The silence.
Then—
Buzz.
Jisoo: No. But I remember you laughing at how bad my clouds were.
Her heart jumped.
Saanvi: They looked like steamed buns.
Pause.
Then:
Jisoo: Exactly. I drew clouds for you. You gave them names.
She laughed.
Out loud.
Alone in her room.
It felt so strange—and so good.
She had given them names.
"Dumpling Drift."
"Bunzilla."
"Steam Puff #7."
She could still hear her younger self saying those words between giggles.
And him scribbling faster, eyes wide, as if he was drawing not clouds—but the sound of her laugh.
Buzz.
A photo.
She opened it.
Another sketch.
Her again.
But now.
Present day.
Hair longer.
Tied up loosely.
Eyes softer, more focused.
She was sitting cross-legged again—but on a rooftop.
Phone in her lap.
Sky above her.
Wind playing with her sleeves.
Expression calm.
Underneath the sketch, he had written:
You haven't changed. You just got quieter.
Her eyes welled—not from sadness.
But from something gentler.
Something she didn't have words for.
---
She didn't reply.
She didn't need to.
She leaned back, resting her head against the wall.
The blanket still wrapped around her.
The old sketch in one hand.
The new one glowing softly on her screen.
Two moments.
Years apart.
Yet somehow… whispering to each other.
From Busan to Seoul.
From scraped knees to rooftop silence.
From one sketch in a scrapbook…
To one message that felt like coming home.
---
Outside, the rain slowed.
Almost stopped.
But inside her chest, something had just begun.
A feeling she couldn't name.
Soft.
Unfolding.
Real.
Not loud.
Not rushed.
But utterly—
Something worth remembering.