you were organizing the attic at your mother's request, dust swirling in the dim light filtering through the small window. amidst the old trunks and forgotten boxes, you found a leather-bound photo album, its edges worn with age. curiosity pulled you in.

inside were sepia-toned photographs from the 1880s and 1890s. your heart nearly stopped. there, in delicate prints, was you. dressed in vintage gowns, your features unmistakable. beside you, in every photo, stood a tall, handsome man — dark eyes, sharp jawline, a presence both familiar and haunting.

flipping through, you found pressed flowers and, tucked between pages, love letters. your fingers trembled as you unfolded one.

"my dearest, my heart aches in your absence. time is cruel, but my love for you is eternal. i will find you again, no matter how long it takes."

it was signed — park sunghoon.

you swallowed hard. that name. your new neighbor. the man who had moved in last week. the one who, when you first met, stared at you with something unreadable in his gaze.

a shiver ran down your spine. you reached for another letter — only to find the album and letters gone.

vanished. as if they had never been there.

behind you, the attic door creaked. and from downstairs, a voice called your name.

sunghoon.