Ji-ho wakes before his alarm. Not because he's rested, but because something drags him out of sleep. A sound, maybe. Or a feeling. He lies still, listening. The room is silent. His heartbeat is not.

The pressure in his chest is almost rhythmic now. Like a metronome counting down to something he can't name. It's been like this for days—waking with a breath caught in his throat, that uneasy sense that something happened while he was asleep. That he missed something important.

This morning, there's a ringing in his ears. Not a high pitch. It's... a melody.

Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.

He flinches. Sits up fast, breath shallow. It stops. The sound disappears, leaving only the echo of his pulse pounding in his ears. He drags a hand through his hair and forces himself upright. Maybe it was part of a dream. Probably was.

But then again, it never feels like a dream.

He moves slowly through his apartment, like someone navigating someone else's home. The mirrors catch his reflection as he passes, and more than once, he pauses to stare.

Is that really what he looks like?

He makes coffee. Doesn't drink it. Turns on the TV. Doesn't listen. Every noise feels too loud, too close. His own skin feels foreign. He scratches at his arms, trying to ground himself.

The city doesn't help.

On his walk to work, everything feels... one step off. The man selling newspapers on the corner isn't there. The woman with the golden retriever crosses the street before he can see her face. A baby cries from somewhere he can't see. It all folds in on itself. He swears the streets are getting smaller.

At the bookstore, he finds Hyun-seok again.

It's become a routine neither of them acknowledges. The older man shows up a few times a week, always browsing the same shelves. He asks Ji-ho things—about books, about old authors, about the city. At first, Ji-ho thought he was just lonely. But lately, something about him feels... familiar.

Not in a good way. Just strange.

Sometimes Ji-ho talks to him longer than he means to. Sometimes, he feels comforted by the man's presence. It doesn't make sense. Ji-ho hates strangers. He hates interruptions. But with this man, there's something different. Like the recognition of a scent you can't place.

Today, Hyun-seok smiles when he walks in. Ji-ho nods, instinctive.

"Rough morning?" Hyun-seok asks casually.

Ji-ho shrugs. "Didn't sleep."

"Dreams again?"

Ji-ho freezes. It's said so easily, so confidently.

He forces a chuckle. "Yeah. Something like that."

Hyun-seok doesn't press. He never does.

They talk for a bit—about nothing. About a poetry collection Hyun-seok pretends to be looking for. Ji-ho listens, responds, even laughs at one point.

And then the moment ends. The man thanks him and drifts off into the aisles.

Ji-ho watches him go, feeling something tug sharply in his chest. Not pain. Not longing.

Something like grief.

He shakes it off.

Lunch comes. He doesn't eat. The song returns. It slips through the cracks of his awareness, soft and taunting.

Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.

He hears it in the rustle of pages. In the whisper of his coworker's voice. In the scraping of a chair. It's everywhere.

And then he dreams again.

He's standing in a long corridor. The floors are polished wood. The light is yellowed, diffused through high windows. Children's voices echo. Somewhere, someone is singing.

He walks toward it. Each step slower than the last. The air is heavy. The doors lining the corridor are all closed, but he knows what's behind them.

Nothing.

He opens one. Inside is a room full of children. Blank faces. Soft humming.

A girl turns to him. Her face is kind. Familiar.

"Come on, Soo-min," she says. "We're going to be late."

He opens his mouth to answer—but wakes up instead.

His breath is ragged. His hands shaking.

He doesn't remember falling asleep.

Back in the store, everything is normal. Too normal.

He finds himself shelving books backwards. Forgetting titles he's known for years. A customer says his name and he pauses, like it's new.

Yoon Ji-ho.

That's his name.

Right?

He steps into the restroom, splashes water on his face. Looks up.

The mirror shows him the truth.

But for a second, he doesn't believe it.

Who is that?

He hears footsteps in the hallway outside. Whispers. Humming.

He presses his palms against the sink and breathes.

It's just stress. Just lack of sleep. Just—

Soo-min.

His head snaps up. It's not real. It's not his name.

But he heard it. Inside his own mind. As if remembering something carved into his bones.

He punches the wall. Not hard. Just enough to feel.

He goes home early.

The walk is endless. Every shadow too long. Every sound just slightly wrong. He avoids his reflection in the windows he passes. He tries to listen to music but every song warps into the same melody before the chorus.

Kkogkkog sumeora.

Meolikarag boila.

He stops by the bookstore window just before reaching home. For a moment, he stares at the reflection—himself, layered over shelves of books.

The reflection doesn't move.

Not immediately.

He stumbles back.

Inside his apartment, the lights are too bright. His breathing is too loud. He shuts the curtains and sits on the edge of his bed, trying to remember who he is.

He texts a coworker: "Do I seem different to you lately?"

No response.

He puts the phone down. Stares at the ceiling.

Dreams again.

This time, he sees the girl more clearly. She's younger than him. Holding his hand. Running. They're laughing. Hiding. The humming in the distance draws closer.

A woman appears in the dream. Smiling. Gentle. She reaches for them. Says, "Time to come home."

He doesn't want to go.

He wakes with the weight of her voice in his ears.

Time to come home.

He doesn't sleep the rest of the night.

When morning comes, Ji-ho stands in front of the mirror for nearly twenty minutes.

The face looking back is his. He says his name aloud.

"Yoon Ji-ho."

Then again.

"Yoon Ji-ho."

And finally—

"Soo-min."

It hurts to say it. Not like pain. Like loss.

He presses a palm to the mirror.

Something inside him cracks.

The song plays again.

Always.

Even when he holds his breath.

Even when he pretends he didn't hear it.

The city watches.

The faces of strangers follow him a little longer now.

The signs seem less readable.

Hyun-seok doesn't visit the store today.

Ji-ho feels his absence like a missing word in a sentence.

He thinks about the way the man looks at him. Familiar. Gentle. Like someone who remembers him.

And he thinks:

Maybe I've known him before.

Maybe I've lost him before.

Maybe I'm losing myself again.

He wants to scream. But he doesn't.

He smiles. Hands a customer their change. Says, "Have a nice day."

He breathes. Blinks.

And somewhere in the quiet between those things, he disappears a little more.

The song never leaves.

Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.

It never did.