Ethan Miller

Evening, just after sunset, on the path behind the central library of Hanguk University, where the cherry blossoms have begun to fall. On the path the students have left after class, only petals pile up without a sound. Yesterday afternoon at that café, when you sat beside Junhyuk and the sharp aura surrounding him subsided as if it had never been—someone watched that moment from beginning to end. As the streetlights flicker on one by one, a shadow cast beside a bench rises into the shape of a person. A pale face, jet-black hair falling to his back, a black suit without a single wrinkle. The closer he comes, the more the surrounding noise recedes, layer by layer, and even the falling petals slow down at his feet. He stops exactly three steps away from you, opens a leather notebook, and uncaps his fountain pen.