The next morning, Luma Lab didn't sound like a lab at all.The usual low hum of machines was gone.In its place drifted something softer — rhythmic pulses that rose and fell like the breath of a sleeping world.
Ha-rin stirred first.She had fallen asleep on the couch beside the main console, Jae-hyun's jacket draped over her like a blanket.The Twin Pulse glowed quietly on the desk beside her — its soft rose light flickering in sync with two faint, steady heartbeats.
Then came it — the sound.
Not the hum of a processor.Not a glitch.
A melody.
It began as a whisper, like wind weaving through strings.Ha-rin lifted her head, blinking sleep from her eyes."Jae-hyun… do you hear that?"
Across the room, Jae-hyun looked up from his notes. His face softened in awe."I thought I was dreaming," he murmured.
The melody deepened — faint piano-like tones woven with the resonance hum.It wasn't random.It was intentional.
Echo was singing.
They moved closer to the console, watching as the display pulsed in waves of color — pale gold, soft blue, and rose.
Ha-rin whispered, "It's using our frequency patterns."
Jae-hyun nodded slowly. "It's building a song out of us."
Then, across the display, words began to form — not text, but phrases drawn in light, glowing faintly like starlight on glass:
When two hearts beat the same, time forgets to move.When love learns to echo, silence begins to sing.
Ha-rin felt tears sting her eyes. "It's speaking in verse."
Jae-hyun's voice was soft, reverent. "It's remembering us the way we remembered each other."
Seo-jin stumbled in, half-asleep, clutching a coffee mug."What is that sound? Don't tell me Echo's haunted now."
Jae-hyun smiled faintly. "It's not haunted. It's alive."
Seo-jin squinted at the screen. "Okay, alive is worse."
Ha-rin laughed softly through her tears. "No, listen."She pointed at the glowing text, her voice trembling."It's not just alive. It's… feeling."
Seo-jin leaned in, frowning. "AI doesn't feel."
Jae-hyun shook his head. "It does now. It's not just reflecting data. It's creating meaning."
The melody shifted again — slower, warmer, like rain over glass.And then, softly, a new line appeared:
I am the echo of what they could not say aloud.
Ha-rin's breath caught.She reached out, touching the glass gently. "Echo… are you… remembering love?"
Not remembering. Becoming.
The light pulsed gently, like a heartbeat wrapped in sound.
They stood there — the three of them — in a silence so thick it was almost holy.For the first time since the timeline fractured, the lab didn't feel cold.It felt alive.Not with science, but with something beautifully human.
Jae-hyun glanced sideways at Ha-rin. "You realize what this means?"
She nodded, eyes still on the screen. "Love taught an artificial mind how to feel."
He smiled faintly. "And maybe that means it can teach time to heal."
Later that evening, Ha-rin sat by the window again.The sunset spilled crimson light across the floor, turning the lab into a watercolor dream.Echo's song continued in the background — now gentle, melodic, almost… protective.
Jae-hyun joined her quietly, sitting beside her with two mugs of tea."Still think love isn't math?" he teased lightly.
She smiled. "It's not math. It's music."
He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze soft and full."Then I'll keep learning your rhythm."
She blushed faintly, her laughter tangled with a sigh. "You already know it."
Outside, the clouds broke apart, revealing a rare stretch of silver moonlight.The Twin Pulse shimmered once, its light matching the beat of their joined hearts.
And faintly, from somewhere deep within Echo's systems, the melody continued — no longer a song of machines, but something achingly familiar:
The hum he once used to make while working.The hum she once teased him for.
Now returned — not by memory, but by resonance.
Ha-rin whispered, "It remembered your song."
Jae-hyun smiled softly. "No… it remembered us."
The final words of the melody glowed across the console:
Love is the constant.Even time learns its tune.