The storm broke at dawn.By the time the light touched Aureum-ri, the sky had stopped crying, but the world hadn't.
Ha-rin sat on the stone steps outside the clock tower, soaked through, her fingers tracing the red thread wound around her wrist.It pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat. Almost like him.
The tower behind her had gone silent—no hum, no ticking, just a hollow ache where sound used to live.
Seo-jin stood a few paces away, drenched but quiet, his lantern long since gone dark.He looked at her, wanting to speak but not daring to.
The boy sat beside her, hugging his knees, staring at the ground."Mom," he said softly. "He's not gone. He's just sleeping inside the hours."
Her throat tightened. "How do you know?"
He tapped his chest gently. "Because time still beats."
Ha-rin closed her eyes, rainwater sliding down her face and mixing with tears she couldn't stop.
When the wind picked up again, it carried whispers.Faint, rhythmic. Familiar.A voice wrapped inside the pulse of the air:
Ha-rin… breathe… don't let the clocks stop.
Her eyes snapped open. "Did you hear that?"
Seo-jin frowned. "Hear what?"
She stood abruptly, scanning the tower walls.The sound came again—soft but sure, the kind of voice you hear not with ears but with the bones of your heart.
I promised… remember?
Her hand flew to the red thread."Jae-hyun," she whispered.
She pushed open the tower door, ignoring Seo-jin's protests.Inside, the chamber was dim, water still rippling faintly in the pool.The mirrors had gone dark, but something shimmered across their surfaces—an image trying to form.
She stepped closer.Each reflection showed the same scene: her, kneeling here, just as she was now—but in each one, her expression was different.In one, she was smiling.In another, she was crying.In another still, she was gone.
"Why are you showing me this?" she whispered.
The water rippled once.From somewhere deep beneath it, a single tick echoed—slow, deliberate.Then another.And then a whisper:
You said to come back.
Her breath caught. "Jae-hyun?"
The water pulsed with faint light.A shape began to form beneath the surface—a silhouette, hand outstretched, as if reaching for her through glass.
She knelt beside the pool, tears blurring her sight."I'm here," she said. "I never left."
Then follow the sound, the voice whispered. Every clock that still dreams will lead you back.
Seo-jin appeared at the doorway, panting. "Ha-rin! The village—it's changing again!"
She turned sharply. "Changing?"
He nodded, eyes wide. "People are freezing mid-step. The sky—there's two suns rising."
She looked back at the water. "He said to follow the sound."
Seo-jin blinked. "The sound of what?"
"Time," she said simply, standing. "We're not done."
Outside, the air was thick with light.The villagers—Echo's fragments—stood motionless, faces turned skyward as the two suns cast twin shadows across the ground.The clock tower's shadow stretched longer than it should have, curling like a hand reaching across the earth.
The boy clutched her hand. "Mom, the clocks are scared."
She knelt, brushing a damp strand of hair from his face. "Then we make them brave."
He blinked at her. "How?"
She smiled faintly, voice breaking but steady. "By remembering."
Seo-jin jogged up beside them, still breathing hard. "We need a plan before reality melts."
She looked toward the village square, where an old grandfather clock stood in front of the hall.Its pendulum swung weakly, slow and uncertain, like it couldn't decide if it wanted to keep going.
Ha-rin started walking toward it. "There's your plan."
Seo-jin blinked. "You're going to talk to a clock?"
She smiled faintly. "Not talk. Listen."
The square was empty except for the sound of wind and the faint tick-tick-tick from the clock.Ha-rin placed her palm against the glass, eyes closed.Beneath the ticking, she heard something else—a faint echo of laughter, warm and deep.
Jae-hyun's laugh.
She whispered, "You said every clock that still dreams will lead me back. So wake up, you stubborn man."
The clock's pendulum stopped.Then, slowly, the hands began to move—backward.
Seo-jin stumbled backward. "That's not supposed to happen!"
Ha-rin smiled through her tears. "Neither are we."
The boy gasped, pointing.All around the square, the villagers began to move again—but this time, they were all facing her.
Their mouths opened in perfect unison, voices overlapping in a whisper that rippled through the rain:
Follow the tick. Follow the heart.
Ha-rin's pulse quickened. "He's calling me."
Seo-jin groaned. "Can't he send a normal text like everyone else?"
But she was already walking away, following the sound that wasn't quite a heartbeat, wasn't quite a clock—something in between.
The boy hurried beside her, clutching her hand."Mom, if you go where he is, will you come back?"
She squeezed his fingers gently. "Only if I bring him with me."
He nodded solemnly, eyes bright with a wisdom too old for his small face. "Then I'll wait right here."
She smiled, brushing his hair back. "You've always been waiting, haven't you?"
He tilted his head. "Always."
The sound led her beyond the square, past the frozen fields, toward the forest edge where mist clung low to the ground.Each step she took made the world shimmer, like walking through a memory trying to remember itself.
And then she saw it—an ancient pocket watch half-buried in the soil, ticking faintly under the rain.
She knelt, hands trembling as she picked it up.It was his. The same one from the beginning, its silver casing etched with faint initials: KJ + YH.
It ticked twice.Then stopped.
She whispered, "Jae-hyun?"
The wind answered with a single, steady heartbeat.