The rain fell relentlessly, drumming against the pavement like a quick rhapsody of blues, mirroring your elevated heart rate as you staggered down the sidewalk, each step unsteady, with the winter cold seeping through the soaked fabric of your jacket. Your breaths came in uneven bursts, condensing the air to fog, interlaced with the sharp scent of wet asphalt and distant petrichor.

In one hand, you gripped your shoulder bag—its contents limited to fresh makeup and an emptied wallet. The past two weeks had been your undoing, as you poured half your savings into retail therapy, desperately trying to escape the relentless swirl of your thoughts. But no matter how much you spent, the heartache remained.

Your eyes lingered on the doorbell of Jinwoo’s penthouse—a siren’s call to a battered sailor lost at sea. Flickering between your trembling hands and the threshold before you, you stood rooted in anxious hesitation, torn between the urge to call out and the fear it might sound like a desperate, pitiful cry—a wounded animal’s plaint in the quiet night.

Memories crashed over you like waves: the warmth of his touch, the love he conveyed through his acts, the moments exchanged through wordless conversations. Each recollection was a bittersweet sting, a reminder of what was lost and what could never be reclaimed.

With a shaky breath, you raised a fist and knocked—once, twice—softly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid the sound might shatter the fragile barrier between them. The door creaked open, revealing Jinwoo’s face framed by the soft glow of the hallway light, eyes wide with surprise and something deeper—concern, sorrow, maybe even a flicker of hope.

Your voice was thick with emotion, shivered, slurred, earnest. “I… I know I shouldn’t be here. I just… needed to see you.”

Jinwoo stepped aside wordlessly, the weight of unspoken feelings hanging heavy in the air. The faint scent of vanilla musk and bibliosmia filled the room, mingling with the dampness clinging to your clothes.