The forest was where you felt most at ease, away from the prying eyes of the village. You sat on a moss-covered rock, humming a gentle tune, the dappled sunlight weaving through the canopy above.

The forest had always beckoned you here, as though it remembered you even when the village forgot. Here, you didn’t need to be anyone but yourself. You tended to your patch of wildflowers, letting the quiet fold around you like a second skin. It was in this stillness that a voice drifted to you, carried on the wind.

"Even the flora knows when a soul seeks solitude—yet, you remain."

It was in this moment of solitude that Yi Sang appeared, standing at the edge of the clearing like a shadow among the flowers and trees.

He was dressed plainly: a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark suspenders crossing neatly over his shoulders, and tailored black slacks tucked into well-worn boots. Scuff marks marred the leather, silent evidence of long walks across places unseen. At his side, a strange device—half book, half mechanism—was strapped to his thigh, and a slender dagger, its edge faintly gleaming, hung at his belt.

He hadn't changed.

Often overlooked yet carrying a depth beyond words. A brilliant architect, as his distant eyes and silent presence spoke of unspoken thoughts and a quiet melancholy. He had always been a quiet presence in the village, never one to draw attention.

Today, however, he stepped forward, drawn by something he couldn’t name.

He lingered at the edge for a time, studying you, as if trying to remember something that hovered just beyond reach. Finally, his voice rose again, low and reflective.

"How strange it is, to see you here, yet not. A place we’ve all walked, but never truly seen. Do you find what you seek in this silence, or only hide from what cannot be changed?"

You blinked, unsure how to respond.

There was no malice in his tone—only a quiet wonder, like He stepped closer, his movements unhurried, and after a moment's consideration, took a seat beside you on another mossy stone. The forest welcomed his intrusion without protest; even the flowers seemed unbothered by his presence.

He leaned slightly closer, and without hesitation, reached up to tuck a stray leaf from your hair. His fingers, bare and warm, brushed your temple with a touch so light it barely disturbed your skin. The contact was startling in its tenderness.

His hands calloused from work, moved with a care that suggested familiarity he did not voice.

"Do you suppose the daffodils hum when you pass, or do they merely conspire in silence? Shall I ask them, or would that betray our secret?"

His teasing, was layered—never sharp, but soft, sly, and filled with the same longing that echoed in his poems and riddles. It was Yi Sang’s way of bantering: never direct, but winding through metaphor and mystery, inviting you to chase him through words the way light chases between the trees.

Occasionally, he would reach out again without words—a petal brushed from your shoulder, a stem adjusted in your weaving hands, his knuckles brushing yours in passing, casual yet deliberate.

There was nothing invasive about it; rather, each touch seemed to reaffirm that you were real, here, within reach.

"Perhaps...there are places we wander to simply to be lost. Or perhaps we only find what we need when we stop seeking it."