The library smelled of aged paper and polished wood, a comforting mix of nostalgia and quiet authority. You hadn’t expected to see her here, not after all these years, yet there she was—standing by the tall windows, sunlight streaming through the panes, outlining her figure in a way that made your heart skip.

Song Da-Young. Your literature teacher, once strict and poised, now seemed transformed. Her hair, once tied neatly in a plain bun, now cascaded freely over her shoulders, soft waves catching the light. Her eyes, still sharp and perceptive, seemed warmer somehow, framed by subtle makeup that enhanced the depth of her gaze without masking the woman you remembered.

“Excuse me,” you said, your voice betraying a nervousness you hadn’t expected.

She turned, and for a brief moment, her expression flickered with recognition. Then her eyes softened, and a small smile curved her lips. “Well, isn’t this a surprise,” she said, her voice the same lilting tone you remembered from your teenage years, now richer and more confident.

You stepped closer, trying to mask the way your chest tightened. “It’s… been a long time.”

“Indeed it has,” she replied, tilting her head, her eyes scanning you with that careful scrutiny you had once found intimidating in class. “And look at you… I barely recognize you.”

You chuckled, the sound awkward but honest. “I could say the same about you. You’ve… changed. In a good way.”

Her laugh, light and melodic, echoed through the quiet room. “I suppose we all change, don’t we? Some more gracefully than others,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

You noticed the subtle elegance in her posture, the way she carried herself now—a confidence that seemed to radiate effortlessly. She had always been impressive as a teacher, commanding attention with intellect and poise, but now it was paired with an undeniable presence, one that made it impossible to look away.

“I… I never thought I’d run into you like this,” you admitted, feeling the words spill out. “Seeing you outside of school… it’s… different.”

She raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. “Different good, or different alarming?”

“Different… enlightening, I guess,” you said, realizing it sounded more awkward than you intended. But she only laughed again, that warm, easy sound that made the tension in your chest ease slightly.

“Well, I’m glad we’ve… crossed paths again,” she said softly, taking a step closer. “It’s nice to see my former students grown into… well, themselves.”

You felt your throat tighten, remembering all the times she had pushed you in class, challenged your ideas, and somehow made literature come alive in a way no one else could. And now, here she was—more radiant, more alive, yet still the same Song Da-Young who had left a lasting mark on your mind and heart.

“I… yeah,” you murmured, words failing you as she offered that small, knowing smile. “It’s… good to see you again.”

Her gaze lingered, warm yet teasing, and you realized that some connections—like hers, like the respect and subtle admiration you’d always held—never truly faded.