The first time he saved me, I didn't even realize it.
I was seven, knees digging into the dirt behind the school, my fingers clutching the hem of my uniform skirt like it could somehow hold the words inside me. The laughter echoed—St-st-stutterbird!—until suddenly, it stopped.
A soccer ball rolled to my feet.
"Oops," said a voice, flat and careless.
I looked up just in time to see a boy walking away, his hands shoved in his pockets as he called over his shoulder, "Bet you can't kick this past the fence." The others followed, already forgetting me.
He never looked back. Never spoke to me directly.
But it kept happening—every time my throat closed up, every time the whispers started, he'd appear like a shadow. Dropping his pencil case with a clatter. Challenging the class to an impromptu race. Leaving a carton of strawberry milk on my desk every Friday without a note.
I never knew his name.
And then one winter morning, his seat was empty.
Gone to another country, the teacher said when I finally worked up the courage to ask. His family moved away.
Twenty years later, I walked into a glass-walled conference room, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The client sat with his back to the window, sunlight haloing his silhouette.
"Ms. Yoon," he said, standing to shake my hand.
His fingers were warm. His gaze lingered a second too long.
Something prickled at the back of my neck—a feeling like déjà vu, like a word stuck on the tip of my tongue. But I brushed it off. Clients always stared.
I launched into my presentation, steady and professional.
He didn't interrupt. Didn't take notes. Just watched me with an intensity that made my palms itch.
When I finished, he leaned forward slightly.
"You've gotten better at this," he said quietly.
I blinked. "At real estate?"
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "At talking."
And just like that, the past rushed in—not with a crash, but with the quiet certainty of a tide returning to shore.
Oh.
It's you.
You came back.