part 6_ The Trace

Ten days passed.

Ten long days — the kind where every hour stretches endlessly and all that's left at the end is loneliness, hopelessness, and the endless replay of mistakes.

Mornings, I woke with heavy eyelids; nights, with a heavy heart.

No sign of him. No message. No trace.

It was as if everything had been just a short dream.

But today, as I stepped off the bus with the same dull weariness as always, a soft, kind voice from behind pulled me out of my dark thoughts:

— "Son, could you help me? I'm past my years of strength."

I turned.

An elderly woman stood there — her back slightly bent, her face marked with deep lines of time, yet her eyes warm and sincere. It was as if the weight of years had settled on her features, but there was a special light in her gaze… like those who have touched wisdom with their very skin and bones.

With a tired but genuine smile, I replied:

— "Of course. Let me help you."

I took her grocery bags and walked beside her. With each step, I could hear her calm breaths.

In the quiet, her voice began to tell a story — about her life, about her husband who had passed away last year.

A kind, strong man she had first met in the elevator of a shopping center… and who, two years later, appeared again, unexpectedly, in the university library. From that day on, they were never apart.

With a tender smile, she said:

— "Son, believe me… what is meant for you, no matter how far it goes, will eventually find its way back."

When we reached her home, I set the groceries down in a corner. I accepted her invitation for coffee with a smile.

The hot cup felt like a balm on my frozen heart. I wrapped my hands around it, letting its warmth soften me just a little.

My eyes wandered to the window — it opened to a quiet street. The golden afternoon sunlight passed through the glass, painting everything with poetry.

Suddenly… my hand trembled.

The cup slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor with a dry shatter.

My heart stopped for a beat. My breath caught in my chest.

The old woman stepped forward, concerned:

— "Son, what happened?"

But I couldn't hear her voice.

My eyes were fixed on the window.

Across the street… he was there.

Lee Min-ho.

He stepped out of a car, calm and self-assured, and walked into a café.

My mouth fell open without my permission. My eyes lit up.

I turned to the woman and said, almost breathless:

— "I found him… I found him!"

I dashed outside. Crossing the street with hurried, excited steps, I was still a few paces from the café door when I saw… he came back out.

In his hands were two cups of iced Americano. He headed for the car. He opened the passenger door and sat beside a young, stylish woman behind the wheel.

My breath stopped.

For a moment, doubt stabbed at me — as if I was losing him again.

But no. Not this time.

I quickly hailed a taxi.

— "Please, follow that car… don't lose it."

Their car stopped in front of a school.

He got out, a calm smile on his lips, walking with that same unique style and quiet confidence, disappearing into a crowd of students and parents.

I… stayed there.

For hours. Hungry, thirsty, but filled with a new feeling.

Not just longing… but determination.

I no longer wanted to chase him only in my imagination.

I wanted to truly find him. To have him — with everything in me.

I stayed until evening. And strangely… throughout the wait, I felt a calm I didn't think I was capable of.

Because I had finally found him.

The sun was slipping behind the buildings when he finally came out of the school.

I stepped forward, but just then, that same car pulled up in front of him. The same woman.

Before he got in, his gaze suddenly locked.

Directly… into mine.

My breath froze.

Paralyzed, I didn't know what to do. I just looked back.

And he… without a word, got into the car and left.

Again, I jumped into a taxi.

— "Follow them!"

The car stopped in front of a brightly lit building.

The big sign read: "Joon Art Academy."

He went inside.

I waited a little, then entered. I asked around and found out they had visual arts classes. And for the first time… I learned his name.

Lee Min-ho.

It suited him perfectly. It was as if that name had been made for him.

He was in the painting department — the very art I had always loved, yet never pursued.

From the glass, I watched him.

He was seated, leaning over his canvas, lost in a world no one could enter.

I waited for his class to end. Bought myself a drink and lingered nearby.

When he came out, he got into that same car again.

I quickly took another taxi and followed.

Their car entered a quiet, upscale street, stopping in front of a two-story modern house.

He stepped out. My hand trembled lightly against the taxi's window.

I got out and looked at the house.

A smile curved my lips.

— "I've found your home too… Lee Min-ho."

At that moment, the curtain of an upstairs window slid aside.

And his eyes met mine — directly.