Han Seo-jin woke early, not because of habit, but because something unsettled her sleep.
It was the quiet.
She wasn't used to it yet—the stillness of Yeonnam-dong in the morning, the absence of honking taxis, of espresso machines hissing from the café below her old Gangnam apartment. Here, the only sounds were birdsong, a distant bicycle bell, and the soft creaking of an old building waking with her.
She padded across the hardwood floor barefoot, still in her silk pajama pants, and opened the window. The city stretched quietly before her, half-asleep, half-dreaming. Somewhere down below, a delivery truck idled. And just beneath her, the faint rustle of leaves.
The flower shop.
She leaned forward slightly, catching a glimpse of the rooftop greenhouse just above the shop's backroom. Lush, overgrown, as if the vines refused to be tamed.
A flash of movement caught her eye.
Ha-joon.
He was on a stepladder, trimming the taller stalks of a wisteria vine that draped along the rooftop trellis. He wore the same loose sweater from yesterday, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a pair of gardening shears in hand. The light caught the curve of his smile as he hummed to himself.
Seo-jin pulled back from the window before he could notice her.
Ridiculous.
She didn't need this distraction. Today was for work. Today was the day she'd finally begin sketching the concept for the Mirae Tower competition—a career-making opportunity. Clean lines. Vertical symmetry. Cold logic.
She opened her laptop, launched the drafting software, and stared at the blank digital canvas.
Ten minutes passed. Then thirty.
Her fingers refused to move.
Downstairs, Ha-joon didn't notice the watching window or the still silhouette behind it.
He was too focused on the delivery of lavender that had arrived late. And the fact that he'd only slept four hours. And that the letter—her letter—still sat unopened on the counter.
He didn't dare read it. Not yet.
Not when his thoughts kept drifting to the woman from last night. Han Seo-jin. A name that sounded like frost and steel.
She had the kind of face you didn't forget. Not because she was beautiful—though she was—but because she looked like she had built herself from pieces no one else saw.
He wondered what kind of life required that kind of armor.
By noon, Seo-jin was restless.
She had redrawn the same line seventeen times. Her pencil had worn down to a stub. Finally, she stood, grabbed her phone and coat, and headed down the stairs—ostensibly for coffee. Anything to reset her brain.
But somehow, her steps took her past the café and straight to the flower shop.
She told herself it was nothing. Coincidence. Curiosity. Or maybe guilt over her own boredom.
The door chimed as she entered.
Ha-joon looked up from behind a bouquet of white lisianthus. "Back so soon?"
"I never said I'd be back," she replied, stepping in.
"But you did come." He smiled. "Is that for the flowers, or the tea?"
"Tea?"
He gestured toward a small table near the back, where a steaming glass pot sat surrounded by mismatched teacups. "I make some every afternoon. Herbal, mostly. Good for thinking."
She hesitated.
He tilted his head. "You look like you're thinking too much."
"I'm an architect," she said. "That's my job."
"Then you definitely need tea."
She exhaled a soft, reluctant laugh and sat.
The tea was golden in color, delicate and citrusy, with a hint of mint. It warmed her from the inside out.
They sat in silence for a moment.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asked suddenly.
He blinked. "Regret what?"
"Choosing something like this." She gestured vaguely at the flowers, the tiny shop, the cramped room full of color. "Instead of something… bigger."
Ha-joon considered her words. "I used to work in finance," he said. "Suit. Ties. Endless meetings. My father was proud."
"What happened?"
"My fiancée died." His voice didn't waver. "After that, I couldn't see numbers the same way."
Seo-jin looked down at her cup. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not." He smiled gently. "Her favorite
flowers were peonies. I started learning about them for her. One thing led to another. Now here I am."
Seo-jin wanted to ask more. But she didn't. She sipped her tea and felt the silence stretch between them—comfortable now, not empty.
"You asked if I regret it," Ha-joon said. "But what about you? Do you regret becoming an architect?"
She shook her head. "No. I just… sometimes I wonder if I built my life so efficiently that I forgot to live it."
He looked at her then—really looked. Not just at her sharp jawline or her measured words, but the flicker behind her eyes. The part that was still unfinished.
"You know," he said, "some buildings are beautiful because of the light they let in. Not just the lines."
Seo-jin said nothing. But she didn't disagree.
Later, as she walked back upstairs with the taste of mint still lingering on her tongue, she paused at the landing and looked down again at the shop.
The flowers glowed under the soft lamps. Ha-joon was still inside, talking to a little girl who had burst in with a crumpled 1,000-won note, pointing at a single daisy.
He knelt, handed her the flower, and waved away her coins.
Seo-jin turned away, climbed the final stairs, and stood alone in her apartment, staring at her blank blueprint.
Then she picked up a pencil.
She didn't draw a tower.
She drew a rooftop. A garden. A light-filled greenhouse.
And for the first time in months, she smiled.