Chapter Text
“I walked through the door with you, the air was cold
But something about it felt like home somehow…”
The first real chill of autumn had arrived overnight.
The wind had a bite to it. Not cruel, not yet. But sharp enough to sneak down the collar of Gihun’s coat, reminding him that summer was long gone. Gihun felt it the moment he stepped out of the subway. He loved this kind of weather- crisp, restless, like the world was waking up after a long, heavy summer.
Autumn in Seoul was always like this—beautiful and brutal, like memory itself. The sky was the color of fading photographs, and everything smelled like smoke, fallen leaves, pumpkin spice, and beginnings that already felt like endings.
Gihun pulled his coat tighter around himself as a sudden breeze danced down the narrow alleyway of Samcheong-dong. His maroon wool scarf, loosely tied and perfectly warm for the season, fluttered in the wind like it had a mind of its own.
The bookstore was an impulse.
He hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere; he just happened to glance up, spot the warm glow of the windows, and found himself pushing the door open without a second thought.
The bookstore was tucked away like a secret- wooden framed windows fogged at the corners, tiny golden lights glowing behind the glass. The kind of place where time didn’t pass the same way. He stepped through the door and felt it instantly: the hush, the warmth, the welcome. The bell above him gave a gentle chime, as if acknowledging him by name.
He let out a slow breath. The cold clung to him like regret. He was here for no reason and for every reason. Maybe a poem. Maybe a moment of quiet. Maybe to feel less like he was falling apart at the seams.
Inside, the world felt smaller, softer. The smell of old pages and something faintly spicy, cinnamon, maybe, wrapped around him like a second scarf. A few scattered customers browsed quietly, their movements slow and deliberate, as if the cold had taught everyone to be more careful today.
Gihun exhaled, feeling the tension slip from his shoulders.
He wandered toward the poetry section without really thinking, trailing his fingers along the spines of worn paperbacks, breathing in the calm. He needed a collection for a piece he was writing—a small essay about heartbreak in literature—but if he was honest, he just missed the way poetry could gut you in a few lines.
It wasn’t until he reached for the English translated volume of “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair” by Pablo Neruda he noticed someone standing just a few feet away.
A man.
Mid-forties, maybe, dressed sharply but not pretentiously: a dark brown wool coat, leather gloves tucked under one arm, a black scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, like it belonged there. His posture was precise, his face unreadable as he thumbed through a small stack of books. There was a certain stillness about him, a kind of self-containment that made Gihun pause.
And then the man looked up.
Their eyes met.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no cinematic flash, no slow-motion heartbeat skipping a beat.
It was quieter than that.
A moment stretched between them, thin as thread, delicate as the last leaves clinging to the trees outside. Like something important had passed between them—unspoken, undefined, undeniable.
The man’s gaze was sharp, assessing, almost clinical, but not unkind. He seemed the type who measured everything in his life, who weighed every word before speaking it.
And yet.
There was something else, too.
A flicker of curiosity. A sliver of loneliness so well hidden that Gihun might have missed it if he hadn’t spent the last few years learning how to spot the cracks in people.
Gihun, being who he was, couldn’t stop himself. He smiled, wide and warm and impulsive.
“Looking for something tragic too?” he quipped, gesturing to the rows of worn poetry books.
For a heartbeat, the man didn’t react. Then the man’s mouth twitched, barely, but it was there. The smallest ghost of a smirk.
“Not today,” the man replied, voice low and even. “Buying a gift.”
Gihun nodded, feeling strangely warmed by the tiny interaction. “Ah. Braver than me. I’m here for heartbreak and regret.”
The man didn’t laugh, but something in his eyes flickered, something almost like amusement.
There was a pause that Gihun could have filled, he wanted to, badly, but something about the man’s stillness kept him anchored.
He felt the moment balancing between them, delicate and uncertain.
And then Gihun’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He glanced at it, grimaced.
A reminder about a meeting he had half-forgotten.
With a sigh, “Duty calls,” he said lightly, tucking the poetry book back on the shelf. “Good luck with the gift.”
The man simply inclined his head, polite but distant again.
Gihun smiled at him one more time, he couldn’t help it, then headed toward the door, the bell above chiming softly as he slipped back into the chilly afternoon.
Outside, the wind bit harder.
Gihun shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and quickened his pace, weaving through the thinning crowds.
He was halfway down the block before he noticed.
His neck felt bare.
Too bare.
He stopped, heart sinking. His scarf is gone.
He patted down his jacket, his pockets, even looked over his shoulder as if it might have somehow followed him.
But no.
It must have slipped off inside the bookstore when he was distracted.
He cursed under his breath. It wasn’t just a scarf—it was worn soft from years of love and use, a birthday gift handwoven by his mother. Now that she was gone, it was one of the few pieces of her he had left.
He had no choice but to turn back. That’s when he heard a voice behind him.
“You forgot this.”
Gihun turned, heart catching, and there he was.
The man from the bookstore.
Still buttoned neatly into his coat, one hand casually holding out the scarf.
His expression was almost indifferent, but there was something about the way he held the scarf carefully in his hands as if it mattered.
As if Gihun mattered, somehow.
For a second, Gihun could only stare.
The wind tugged at the ends of the scarf, setting it fluttering between them like a bridge.
He stepped forward and took it, their fingers brushing.
Even through the wool, the touch sent a shock of awareness jolting up Gihun’s arm.
“Thanks,” he managed, his voice a little rough. He looped the scarf back around his neck clumsily, fingers clumsy with cold or maybe with something else.
The man simply nodded.
A small, efficient movement.
As if he wasn’t used to these moments either.
Neither of them moved.
The city swirled around them—bright, noisy, impatient, but for a breath, it all blurred away.
There was only the sharp smell of autumn, the weight of a shared silence, the faintest edge of something wanting in the space between them.
“You should be more careful,” the man said at last.
Dry.
Measured.
But there was a warmth buried in it that Gihun caught anyway.
“I’ll try,” Gihun said, smiling despite the ache blooming behind his ribs.
The man hesitated, like he might say more.
But then he turned, his coat snapping sharply in the wind, and walked away without another word.
Gihun stood there, watching him go, the scarf snug against his throat and his heart pounding far too fast for a stranger he hadn’t even gotten a name from.
Still, he knew somehow.
This wasn’t over.
Not yet.
It wasn’t just the scarf he would remember.
It was him.
The look.
The cold.
The almost-smile.
All of it.
All too well .