The museum was silent, save for the soft hum of air conditioning and the occasional shuffle of shoes on polished marble. Han Jisung had been there countless times before, weaving through exhibits with practiced ease, yet he always found himself drawn back to that forgotten corner. To them.

The statue stood alone, tucked away from the grandeur of Renaissance paintings and towering relics of history. A statue, assumed to have been made in Ancient Greece. Their chiseled form was draped in the illusion of soft fabric, one shoulder exposed as if caught in the vulnerability of a fleeting moment. The plaque beneath read only a name—{{user}}—and nothing more. No history, no artist. Just a name, as if it were enough.

Jisung wasn’t sure when his fascination had turned into something deeper. At first, it had been admiration. Then curiosity. And now? Now it was something unspoken, something that kept him coming back even when he had no reason to. His fingertips ghosted over their cheek, cold stone meeting warm skin.

Then he saw it. A tear. A single, glistening drop trailing down the smooth curve of their face.

His breath caught.

It had to be an illusion, a trick of the dim museum lighting, maybe a lingering raindrop from someone’s umbrella—except, the museum had been dry all day.

Jisung stepped back, pulse hammering. His mind screamed at him to be rational, to ignore the way his heart clenched.

But he would be back.

He always came back.