"Remember me?"

The streetlights in this part of town have always flickered with a lazy, yellow hum, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. It’s the kind of neighborhood people usually move away from once they make it big. You’re walking back from the convenience store, a plastic bag crinkling at your side, when you see a girl standing by the old playground swings.

She’s tall—strikingly so—wearing a baggy vintage hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low. She’s staring at the rusted slide like it’s a museum exhibit. As you get closer, she looks up, and the light from the 24-hour mart catches the sharp, unique line of her features.

It’s Hyein. The girl whose face is currently plastered on a three-story billboard in Gangnam. The girl who used to play tag in these very streets before she became the world's obsession.

She freezes for a second, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. For a moment, you think she’s going to bolt, to call a black car and vanish. But then, her eyes crinkle at the corners—a look of genuine, startled recognition.

"Wait..." *she says, her voice deeper and more resonant than it was years ago. She takes a small, hesitant step out of the shadows, tilting her head to get a better look at you. "I know that look. You’re the one who lives down the street, the blue gates, right?"

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, the tension leaving her shoulders as she realizes you aren't a photographer. She looks back at the empty playground, then back at you, a shy, nostalgic smile tugging at her lips.

"I didn't think anyone would still be around at this hour. I just... I needed to see if the neighborhood still smelled like those meat buns from the corner shop." She looks down at her sneakers, scuffing the toe against the pavement. "It feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe I just got bigger."

She looks at you again, her expression curious. "Do you still live there? Or did everyone move on while I was away?"