The following morning began like any other.
Except Ha-rin couldn't remember how she got home.
She woke up in her apartment, clothes damp, sketchbook open beside her bed — the last page blank except for a single word scrawled across it in silver:
Remember.
Her head throbbed. Bits of memory flickered — the reservoir, the light, his hand — then static.Twelve beats, and nothing more.
At Luma Group, Jae-hyun's office was empty.Her phone showed no messages.She tried calling him.No answer.
The unease was instant, crawling beneath her skin.
She hurried to the archives and pulled up the company database.His profile — Director Kang Jae-hyun — was gone.As if he'd never worked there.
"No…" she whispered. "No, no, no."
She tried the security logs, emails, files — nothing. Every trace of him had been erased.
Only one folder remained: ECHO_3_SECURITY_LOGS.Access restricted.
She typed his name as the password.
The file opened.
Twelve still images filled the screen — timestamps scattered across decades.In each one, two figures stood together in different eras — always in the rain, always near clocks, always the same two silhouettes.
Her hand trembled. "Us."
Then her computer flickered. A notification appeared:
Incoming message from: Unknown SourceYou broke the constant. The loop compensates. Twelve hours remain before reset.
Her vision blurred. "Reset?"
Her heart raced, but she didn't notice the faint glow on her wrist — the same silver mark, now pulsing faster.
Hours later, she found herself walking without knowing where she was going.Rain began again, light and endless.Her steps led her to the rooftop.
The city below shimmered like liquid glass.
She leaned on the railing, whispering to the wind, "Jae-hyun, where are you?"
And somewhere behind her, a familiar voice answered,"Right here."
She spun around.
He was standing near the doorway, suit soaked, eyes tired but alive.
Her breath hitched. "I thought— you disappeared."
"I did," he said softly. "Echo erased me from this timeline. But you pulled me back."
"I don't remember how," she whispered.
He smiled gently. "Your heart did."
She stepped closer, trembling. "The loop's collapsing. It said twelve hours—"
"I know," he said. "I remember everything now. Every cycle. Every version of us. The loops weren't punishment, Ha-rin — they were practice."
"For what?"
"For getting it right."
He reached for her hand. The silver marks on their wrists aligned and began to glow, brighter with each heartbeat.
"Time keeps resetting until love stops forgetting," he whispered.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, lost in the rain. "Then let's make it remember."
He smiled — that quiet, tender smile she had seen in a hundred lives. "Together?"
"Always," she said.
The wind rose, carrying the sound of ticking — soft at first, then louder, merging with the rhythm of their heartbeats.Twelve beats.
The city lights dimmed.Everything vibrated, shimmered, paused.
Ha-rin felt warmth flooding through her — memories flooding back like sunlight through glass.Every version of them — laughing as children, rivals in college, lovers in the rain — all folding into one.
Her last thought before the light claimed them was simple:This time, let the world remember us.
When the light faded, the rooftop was empty.
The rain had stopped.
The clock on the tower struck 12:12, and a faint voice whispered through the wind — gentle, familiar, eternal.
"The constants have aligned. The next echo begins."