The week had vanished into the humid, mist-covered mornings of Suzhou. Seo-yoon woke to a soft beam of sunlight cutting across her wooden floor, a gentle reminder that her period of grace at her aunt's house was over. She dressed quickly and headed downstairs, where the air was thick with the comforting, spicy aroma of a full Korean breakfast.
Aunt Mi-sun had outdone herself: bowls of steaming Tteokguk (rice cake soup) sat alongside Japchae and small plates of seasoned bean sprouts. Uncle was already there, sipping tea and reading a local newspaper.
"Aunty," Seo-yoon began, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach. "Classes start tomorrow. I've found a small studio apartment in the Pingjiang Road District—it's only fifteen minutes from HUAD. I'm planning to move in today."
Aunt Mi-sun paused, her ladle mid-air. "So soon? You've barely settled in."
"Stay a little longer," Uncle added in his slow, struggling Korean, offering a kind but hesitant smile.
"I need to be closer to the campus," Seo-yoon insisted, her independence resurfacing. "I've also enrolled in evening Mandarin intensive classes after my university hours. I have to be able to speak the language if I'm going to write about this place."
Aunt Mi-sun sighed, seeing the familiar determination in her niece's eyes. "Fine. But remember, this is your home. Whenever you miss the smell of Busan or the taste of my cooking, you come back. Do you hear me?"
After breakfast, Seo-yoon retreated to her room. She packed her suitcases with mechanical efficiency, tucked her phone—still devoid of any messages from Seoul—into her pocket, and prepared to close this chapter. By late afternoon, a taxi arrived. Uncle helped heave the heavy suitcases into the trunk, and Aunt Mi-sun gave her one last, lingering hug.
"Pingjiang Road, Building 4, Lane 7," Seo-yoon told the driver, handing him the written address.
The studio was on the third floor of a traditional-style building that had been renovated inside. It was small, but the window offered a perfect view of a moss-covered stone bridge arching over the canal. To Seo-yoon, it was the perfect "frame" for her new life.
At the same time, across town, Li Yan-chen sat in a dimly lit, modern izakaya with his only close friend, Zhang Wei. Wei was the opposite of Yan-chen—loud, social, and perpetually curious.
"Congratulations again," Wei said, pouring a glass of beer for himself and topping off Yan-chen's. "Professor Zhang doesn't give out compliments easily. When do you start the final fabrication of the bridge model?"
Yan-chen took a slow sip, the cold liquid sharp against his throat. "Tomorrow."
"The new semester starts tomorrow too," Wei reminded him, leaning in. "Which means the Freshman Welcome Fest is in two days. I heard there's a massive influx of international students this year. Maybe you'll finally meet someone who isn't made of concrete and glass."
Yan-chen didn't respond, but his mind flashed back to the document he had seen on the administrator's desk—the Korean name, Han Seo-yoon. He thought of the silver bracelet sitting on the black ceramic plate in his lab.
"I have to go," Yan-chen said abruptly, setting his glass down. "I need to plan the laser-cutting sequence for the model."
Wei groaned. "Always work. You're going to turn into a blueprint one of these days, Yan-chen."
Back at the studio, Seo-yoon realized that while the apartment was furnished, the fridge was hauntingly empty. Not even a packet of ramen remained. Her stomach growled, a reminder that she hadn't eaten since breakfast.
She pulled on a peach-colored oversized hoodie, tugging the cap low over her forehead to shield herself from the evening chill. She grabbed her phone and headed out, navigating by the muscle memory she had developed over the last week. She knew there was a small noodle shop a few blocks away.
As she walked along the canal, her phone buzzed. It was her mother.
"Did you shift safely? Is the room warm enough?" her mother's voice crackled through the line.
"I'm fine, Mom. I'm just going out to grab some dinner," Seo-yoon replied, her voice soft as she looked at the reflection of the lanterns in the water.
At that exact moment, coming from the opposite direction, Yan-chen and Wei were walking toward the subway station. The path was narrow. Seo-yoon kept her head down, the shadow of her hoodie cap obscuring her face as she spoke into her phone.
She brushed past Yan-chen's shoulder—so close that the scent of his faint, clean cedarwood soap mingled with the salt-air memory of her own perfume.
Yan-chen didn't look at her. He was listening to Wei ramble about a new design software. But as soon as she was a few paces behind him, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He turned around, his eyes searching the crowded walkway. He saw a girl in a peach hoodie walking away, her silhouette framed by the glowing red lanterns. There was something about the way she moved—a certain rhythm, a familiar loneliness—that made his chest tighten.
"What is it?" Wei asked, looking back.
"Nothing," Yan-chen muttered, though his gaze lingered on the girl until she disappeared around a stone corner. "I just thought I saw someone I knew. But that's impossible."
He turned back toward the station, but for the first time in years, the math in his head was replaced by a question he couldn't solve.