The rain returned after weeks of silence.Soft, steady, endless — tapping against the windows of Luma Lab like a memory trying to find its way home.
Ha-rin sat by the glass, her sketchbook open on her lap.The page was blank.It had been for an hour.
Her eyes weren't on the paper — they were on Jae-hyun, across the room.He was rewiring a console, the glow from the interface painting his face in shifting blue light.
He looked the same.He sounded the same.But something in his eyes… wasn't.
She watched as he picked up a spanner and then stopped halfway, frowning at it like he couldn't remember what it was for.When he caught her looking, he smiled — that soft, automatic smile that once melted her world.
But this time, it didn't reach his eyes.
Ha-rin's pencil trembled in her hand. "You forgot again, didn't you?"
He blinked, confused. "Forgot what?"
"The calibration. You were supposed to reprogram the shard stabilizer before the pulse starts."
He looked at the console — blank for a long second — then nodded slowly. "Right. I'll do it now."
Ha-rin's heart ached. "You said that five minutes ago."
She closed the sketchbook quietly, standing up."Jae-hyun," she said gently, "look at me."
He turned, his eyes dark and kind but… distant.
"Do you know what today is?" she asked.
He thought for a long time, then smiled faintly. "It's Thursday."
Her throat tightened. "No. It's the day you built the Reverie Link."
His face softened, as if the words tugged at something deep inside him.Then he whispered, almost to himself, "You said it looked like a heartbeat made of gold."
Ha-rin smiled through the pain. "Yes. And you said love was a kind of engineering."
He chuckled weakly. "Sounds like something I'd say."
The rain thickened outside, blurring the skyline into watercolor smears of gray and amber.The world beyond the window felt softer now, quieter — like even the city was holding its breath for them.
Ha-rin walked to his side, her voice trembling."Jae-hyun, if you keep giving pieces of yourself to Echo, one day you'll wake up and forget what love feels like."
He looked up slowly. "Then you'll have to teach me again."
Her laugh came out broken. "You make everything sound so simple."
He reached out, brushing his thumb along her jaw."Maybe that's the only way I can remember — by keeping things simple."
She leaned into his touch, eyes closing."You're too calm about this."
"I'm not," he whispered. "I'm terrified."
Her eyes opened, searching his face. "Then why don't you stop?"
He smiled faintly. "Because every time I forget something, I remember something else — the sound of your voice, the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn't watching."
Ha-rin shook her head, tears spilling. "You can't replace yourself with memories of me."
He met her gaze, quiet and sure. "Then tell me who I was. Keep me human."
She laughed through her tears. "Fine. You were impossible. Obsessive. Always right."
He smiled wider. "That sounds about right."
"And," she added softly, "you used to hum when you worked."
He frowned faintly. "I don't hum."
"You did," she whispered, reaching for his hand. "You always hummed when you were happy."
For a heartbeat, nothing.Then — faintly, barely audible —he began to hum.
A low, trembling tune.The same melody that once filled their lab in the early days, when everything was discovery and wonder and laughter.
Ha-rin pressed her forehead to his shoulder, crying silently.Even in his forgetting, he was remembering her.
Echo's voice returned then — not cold, but quiet.
"When one heart fades, the other echoes it. This is the equilibrium of creation."
Ha-rin lifted her head, glaring at the ceiling."Equilibrium? You're stealing him from me!"
"I am preserving you both."
"By hollowing him out?" she whispered.
"By keeping what matters."
The lights flickered.The shards glowed faintly in rhythm with the rain —gold, then silver, then rose.
Jae-hyun's hum faded. His voice came out soft, barely a whisper."Ha-rin…"
She looked up, terrified. "What?"
He blinked slowly. "Do you remember the color of the jasmine tree in our village?"
Her breath caught. "Yes. You said it looked like snowfall."
He smiled faintly, eyes glassy."I remember that. But I don't remember why I said it."
Ha-rin's hand flew to her mouth.
She stood there for a long time, the rain tapping like unspoken words between them.Finally, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
"Then I'll remember for both of us," she whispered. "Until you do again."
He rested his chin on her hair.And though his memories faded, his arms tightened — firm, real, certain.
Echo's hum softened to a lullaby.The countdown pulsed once, gentle as a heartbeat.
11:52:10.