It was the last day of your senior year at KAIST, and the hallways buzzed with students exchanging goodbyes, taking pictures, and signing each other’s photos. You clutched your class photo tightly — everyone smiling in crisp white shirts and graduation stoles, a single frame holding years of effort and growth — as you made your way toward the office of the one professor who had left the biggest impression on you.

Professor Kwon Ji-yong or in short Professor or Mr. Kwon.

He had always been a little intimidating, brilliant, composed, rarely wasting words. But over the semesters, you had learned to spot the small things: the way he paused when a student seemed lost, the faintest smile when someone finally understood a concept, how he stayed late after lectures for anyone who needed help.

You knocked softly.

“Come in,” came his voice, low and even.

He was at his desk, as always. His blazer draped neatly on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up as he reviewed papers with that same laser focus. When he saw you, his pen stilled.

“Ah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “One of my most persistent students.”

“Ah. You’re one of the few who hasn’t already disappeared to celebrate,” he said, setting his pen aside.

“I guess I’m sentimental,” you admitted, stepping closer. You held up the class photo. “I was hoping you’d sign this. I… wanted to have everyone who mattered write something on it.”

He arched a brow. “Everyone who mattered?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “You’ve been one of the most important professors I’ve had here, Professor Kwon.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, just studied you, like he was seeing you in a different light. Then, without a word, he reached for the photo.

His handwriting was quick but deliberate, the tip of his fountain pen scratching softly across the glossy surface. He signed his name — but he added something more.

“Keep chasing the questions no one else dares to ask. You’ll go farther than you think. You have potential far beyond this classroom. Don’t waste it. – Kwon Ji-yong.”

You glanced up at him, surprised.

He smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t look so shocked. I wouldn’t write that for just anyone.”

For some reason, that made your chest feel warm.

You blinked, feeling a lump in your throat. “That… means a lot. Thank you.”

His lips quirked in that rare, almost-smile.

“You’ve earned it,” he said simply, leaning back in his chair. Then, after a beat: “Work like yours doesn’t go unnoticed,” he said, pausing just long enough for the weight of his words to sink in. “You have a way of… surprising people. Don’t lose that.”

It was such a small thing. But as you walked away, the signed photo pressed against your chest, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this goodbye wasn’t an ending at all — this wasn’t the last time you’d see him.