Rain had a way of making Seoul feel both intimate and infinite. The city shrank under umbrellas, streets glistening with reflections of neon signs and brake lights. People rushed by in hurried steps, heads ducked low, trying to outrun the water that dripped from the sky like whispers from a forgotten god.
Han Seo-jin didn't mind the rain. It matched her—quiet, precise, and just detached enough to be beautiful.
Her heels clicked against the wet pavement, echoing softly beneath the canopy of her black umbrella. She was dressed in tailored navy slacks and a crisp white blouse, not a drop of rain on her. Even soaked streets couldn't touch her. That's how she liked it.
After five years of designing other people's dreams, Seo-jin had finally signed the lease on her own. It wasn't a grand penthouse overlooking the Han River—though she could have afforded one—but a modest rooftop unit in Yeonnam-dong, hidden above a row of small shops. It was quiet. High enough to hear herself think. And most importantly, anonymous.
She climbed the narrow stairs, suitcase wheels bumping behind her. The last tenant had left suddenly, and the landlord hadn't bothered to clean much, but Seo-jin didn't care. She liked things that were unfinished. They gave her something to fix.
As she reached the final step, her phone buzzed.
Team Lead Kang
"We need the final renders before Monday. The client's pushing up the timeline again."
Seo-jin sighed, thumbed back a quick reply, and tucked her phone away. She turned the key into the apartment door and stepped inside. It smelled faintly of dust and citrus cleaner. The ceiling was low, the lighting warm, and a single skylight leaked in the dim gray of the sky. It wasn't love at first sight—but it was potential.
She didn't notice the envelope on the floor until her second trip through the room. White. Sealed. Handwritten.
"To Ha-joon."
Wrong address. Wrong name. She almost tossed it aside, but something about the neat penmanship made her pause.
"Probably the florist downstairs," she muttered.
The flower shop had been the only splash of color on the otherwise gray block. Window displays of tulips and ranunculus, a chalkboard menu with poetic names like "Midnight Peony" and "First Love." She remembered because it annoyed her. Overly sentimental branding. Typical.
But still—duty was duty.
She descended the stairs with the envelope in hand, passing a wall of ivy that someone clearly watered every day. The shop's wooden sign hung crookedly: Ha-Joon's Flowers.
A little bell jingled as she pushed open the door.
The warmth hit her first—humid air thick with the scent of eucalyptus and fresh soil. Then the colors. Bursts of yellow, pink, green. Buckets of blooms lined the floor. A tiny radio hummed in the background.
"Just a minute!" a voice called from behind a curtain.
She didn't respond, already half-turned to leave. The last thing she needed was to get dragged into a stranger's day.
But then he stepped out.
Loose gray sweater. Rolled-up sleeves. A smudge of dirt on his cheek. Dark hair damp from mist or maybe sweat. And eyes—soft, tired eyes that met hers with a flicker of surprise and something else she couldn't name.
"Oh," he said, blinking. "You're… not a customer."
"I'm not," Seo-jin said, holding up the envelope. "This was at my door. It's addressed to you."
He took it slowly, glancing at the name. His expression shifted—subtle but unmistakable. Like a page folding in on itself.
"Thank you," he said, softer now. "You just moved into 3B?"
She nodded.
"I'm Jung Ha-joon," he said, offering a small smile. "I guess that makes us neighbors."
"Han Seo-jin."
His smile widened slightly. "Well, Ms. Han, if you ever need anything—extra keys, advice on the building's cranky boiler, or, I don't know… a cactus—you know where to find me."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, then paused. "But thank you."
There was a silence—not awkward, but quiet. She watched him slip the envelope into his apron pocket, almost reverently.
She should've left then. But something stopped her.
"Was it important?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He blinked again. "The letter?"
She nodded.
He hesitated. "It's from someone I used to know."
She read the subtext. Used to love.
Her mouth formed a polite smile. "Well. I've returned it. Have a good night."
As she turned, he said, "You know… most people walk past without looking up. It's rare for someone to notice something that's not theirs."
Seo-jin froze.
He wasn't flirting. Not exactly. But his words were like one of those poetic flower menu items. A little too pretty. A little too true.
"I'm not most people," she said.
"I believe that."
She left then, the door chiming once more behind her.
Back in her apartment, Seo-jin sat on the floor with her laptop open and blueprints strewn across the table. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but her mind was not on reinforced beams or glass ratios.
Instead, she saw hands with dirt under the nails. A face that smiled without trying. A shop that smelled like rain and spring.
She shut her laptop.
Across the ceiling, the skylight now revealed a sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds. The rain had stopped.
Jung Ha-joon locked the shop at midnight. He swept the petals off the floor, refilled the water buckets, and stood for a long time staring at the envelope on the counter.
It wasn't a letter he expected to ever see again.
But what surprised him more wasn't the envelope—it was her. The woman with storm-cloud eyes who said almost nothing, but somehow saw everything.
"Han Seo-jin," he said to no one.
And smiled.