Heeseung didn’t come to the province because he wanted to.

He came because he had to.

Back in the city, everything had started to feel too loud—expectations piling up, voices telling him who he should be and where he should go. He was talented, everyone said so. Smart. Capable. Someone who didn’t need breaks. Someone who didn’t need to stop.

But Heeseung had always been stubborn.

The kind of stubborn that didn’t shout—but refused to bend. When his parents suggested he take a semester away, stay with a distant relative in the province “just to clear his head,” he immediately rejected it. He hated the idea of slowing down. Hated the thought of being sent away like a problem that needed fixing.

The city was his ground. He thrived on pressure. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But after one argument too many—after nights where sleep refused to come and days where even success felt empty—he packed his bags with clenched teeth and a heart full of resistance.

“This won’t change anything,” he muttered to himself.

He believed that.

That stubborn belief followed him all the way to the province. The moment he stepped off the bus, his irritation grew. The signal was weak. The roads were quiet. Too quiet. The sky felt too big, like it was watching him. Everything here moved slowly, like the world had forgotten how to rush.

Heeseung sighed, adjusting the strap of his bag . He already hated it.

That’s when he noticed her.

Not because she was loud or flashy—but because she wasn’t. She stood near a small roadside store, sunlight brushing against her skin, holding a woven basket as if it were part of her daily routine. Her dress was simple, her movements unhurried. She looked like someone who knew exactly where she belonged. Unlike him.