Chapter Text
The first snow of the season fell overnight, at the tail end of November.
It wasn’t anything more than a thin dusting that softened the edges of the world, but it was enough to hush the city. Even Seoul, with its endless hum and restless pulse, seemed to hold its breath under the soft morning light. The street outside was nearly empty, only the faint crunch of footsteps and the occasional whirr of passing tires breaking the stillness. But that’s to be expected at such an early hour, with the majority of the city still sleeping or just barely waking up.
Inside the café, it was warm.
Seonghwa stood behind the counter with both hands wrapped around a mug of overly-sugary coffee, lost in thought as he watched the snow drift lazily through the front windows. The sign above the door read Golden Hour Café; the name he’d carefully painted himself three years ago when the place had been little more than white canvas walls and half a dream shared between five college kids. Now, the dark hardwood floors gleamed, the lights glowed soft and golden, and the air smelled of espresso and vanilla. Each cushioned chair and wooden bench was exactly where it was supposed to be, ready for the day to begin.
He liked the quiet before opening. It was one of the only parts of the day that he felt belonged entirely to him. Not to say that he doesn’t enjoy the company of others, but he always cherished the quiet moments he got to share with himself.
The machines hummed like old friends as he checked the espresso grinder, tested the steam wand, and restocked the pastry case with everything from cinnamon rolls to hotteok. Mingi must’ve stayed late to bake again last night. Seonghwa smiled faintly, claiming a cinnamon roll for himself by pressing his thumb into a soft swirl of icing before licking it off absently, then setting it aside for later.
He moved through the motions with practiced ease. His café had its own rhythm—a steady pulse he could always fall back into. Each morning brought the same routine, as mindless and calming as breathing.
Today was the same as always.
The bell above the door chimed softly when he unlocked it, letting in a curl of cold air. The sky outside was the color of ice, pale blue and cold. He flipped the Closed sign to Open and exhaled, the sound almost lost beneath the low hum of the heater.
By the time the first regulars came in Seonghwa had already settled into his usual calm. He greeted each one by name, made small talk that gracefully avoided being anything but natural and friendly, and remembered their orders without asking. They smiled, sometimes surprised that he still remembered, but Seonghwa always did. He made a point of it.
There was Mr. Han from the flower shop just two shops down, who always walked in five minutes after opening and ordered a medium gamnip-cha to go. Next stumbled in a college student half-asleep with her laptop, desperate for a large americano and two cinnamon rolls. She always sat by the window, working on her dissertation for her PhD. Then there was the sweet elderly couple who always shared a chocolate croissant before taking a walk along the short block.
It wasn’t just good business. It was community.
He liked knowing who they were, what they needed. People came to Golden Hour to slow down, to rest. He liked being part of that expected consistency, a quiet comfort. He knew exactly where he was supposed to be and what was expected of him.
He was wiping the counter when Mingi arrived, stamping snow from his boots and shaking the cold from his shoulders.
“Morning, Hwa,” Mingi said, voice still rough with sleep. “It’s freezing. Why do we live here again?”
“Because you refused to move south when I suggested it,” Seonghwa replied, not looking up. “Something about it taking too much effort and it being unbearable in the summer.”
“That sounds about right,” Mingi said, hanging up his coat. “Don’t use my words against me before I’ve had caffeine.”
Seonghwa chuckled softly and passed him a cup. “Already made your usual.”
“You’re a saint,” Mingi murmured, inhaling the steam like it could save him. “Do we have enough scones for the morning rush?”
“Barely. I told you the lemon ones sell fastest.”
“And I told you I can’t make them faster than people inhale them.”
They fell into easy banter— the kind that only came from years of early mornings and late nights shared in the same space. Seonghwa didn’t say it aloud, but he was grateful for it. For Mingi’s groundedness, for his steady presence that filled the quiet without overwhelming it.
By eight-thirty, the sky had brightened, and the rest of the crew began to trickle in. San and Wooyoung, hand in hand, already teasing one another about slipping on the sidewalk. And Yeosang, never one for mornings, haphazardly tying his apron behind his back as he stumbles behind the counter.
The café filled with their voices, the smell of espresso, the warmth of routine. The world outside could be cold and unpredictable, but Golden Hour— his haven— remained steady.
Yet, there were harsh yet fleeting moments when Seonghwa caught himself wondering if that steadiness came at a cost.
He had built a life that was warm and full, but sometimes, on mornings like this, with the snow falling softly and laughter echoing through the air, he felt the quiet space inside his chest like a window left open.
Loneliness that creeped ever closer each time two people walked inside holding hands, or he watched as someone frantically typed on their phone with a smile on their face, leaving no doubt as to how much the person on the other side of the screen meant to them.
He pushed the feeling aside with a shake of his head and turned back to the counter with steady hands and a warm voice.
The day had only just begun.
By midmorning, the café had found its rhythm.
Steam curled up from mugs and drifted toward the lights, catching gold at the edges. The windows fogged slightly from the warmth, blurring the world outside until the snow looked more like glitter falling slow through a dream. Inside, sound filled every corner: the hum of the grinder, the rise and fall of conversation, the faint girl group playlist Seonghwa had chosen before opening flowing through the speakers.
“San-ah, that’s the wrong type of milk,” Wooyoung said, elbow-deep in espresso grounds. “You’re gonna ruin the foam again.”
“I’m not ruining it,” San said, defensive. “I’m innovating.”
“You’re inventing disappointment.”
Yeosang snorted from behind the pastry counter. “That’s what you said when you tried latte art last week.”
“I was experimenting. It was supposed to be a heart.”
“It looked like a chicken,” Mingi offered without looking up from his baking sheet.
“Art is subjective!” San shot back.
“Ugly’s not subjective,” Wooyoung muttered, and Yeosang nearly choked on his own laughter.
San threw a balled-up napkin at him, which Wooyoung dodged easily. “Yah! Don’t start something you can’t finish,” Wooyoung said, half-laughing, half-warning.
“I already finished it,” San said, grinning. “You’re just slow.”
“Slow? Baby, I—”
“Please,” Yeosang interrupted, “not in front of the customers.”
Seonghwa didn’t intervene. Their bickering filled the air like background music, the kind that became part of the space itself. Customers smiled as they waited, familiar with the pattern by now. A few even joined in sometimes.
“That heart looked like a chicken?” one regular— the elderly woman who came in every Wednesday for green tea and a scone— called over. “I thought it was a map of Incheon!”
“That was intentional, ajumoni!” San said, clutching his chest in mock offense, earning laughter from the entire café.
That was what Seonghwa loved about this place— how people came not just for the coffee, but for the atmosphere of it. The warmth that lingered no matter how cold the city got outside.
He handed off a latte to a man in a heavy coat, his fingers brushing the chill of the paper sleeve, and turned just in time to catch Wooyoung nearly knocking over a jar of sugar packets.
“Wooyoung.”
“I didn’t—okay, maybe I did.”
“Focus,” Seonghwa said, but his voice was soft. He didn’t mind the chaos, not really. It made the quiet afterward sweeter.
“Sorry, hyung.” Wooyoung laughed, brushing stray sugar off the counter. “My bad.”
“This happens every day,” Yeosang said flatly, passing behind him with a tray of pastries. “You’re a walking hazard.”
“And yet,” Wooyoung said, “customers love me.”
“That’s true,” San said, pretending to sigh. “We can’t fire him.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Wooyoung said, grinning at him. “I’m the fan favorite.”
San only smiled, softer this time. “You’re my favorite,” he said under his breath, quiet enough that Seonghwa almost missed it.
Wooyoung’s grin softened for half a second before widening again. “Yeah, yeah. You just like me for my latte art.”
“What latte art?” Yeosang said.
Their laughter carried easily, light and familiar– the kind of easy affection that came from years of knowing someone’s rhythm before they spoke.
Lunch hour came and went in a blur of orders and conversation. Someone played with an old Polaroid camera by the window, snapping a photo of their steaming cup and the street outside. Another regular left a paper crane on the counter with their tip– a habit that had started months ago for reasons no one could quite remember. The camera clicked again, followed by the sound of a child giggling as her mother took a picture of her holding a croissant twice the size of her hand.
“Can you take one of us too?” the mother asked, passing the camera to Seonghwa.
“Of course,” he said. He took it carefully, waited until the child smiled, and clicked. The photo slid out with a soft mechanical whirr. He handed it back, and the mother thanked him with a warm grin.
“See, this is why people like you, hyung,” Mingi called from the counter. “You’re polite.”
“I’m polite too!” Wooyoung protested.
“You called a customer ‘bro’ yesterday,” San said. “When she was sixty.”
“She laughed!”
“She looked horrified,” Yeosang corrected.
Mingi snorted. “You’re lucky Seonghwa-hyung didn’t hear you that time.”
“I did,” Seonghwa said mildly, refilling the pastry case. “I just didn’t want to deal with it.”
They all burst out laughing again, and Seonghwa couldn’t help joining this time, his shoulders shaking quietly as he wiped the counter.
The afternoon light turned lazy, spilling golden streaks across the hardwood and the soft beige walls. The air smelled faintly of citrus and sugar— Mingi’s lemon scones cooling somewhere in the back— and something softer beneath it. The faint floral of San’s cologne, the vanilla syrup Wooyoung spilled earlier, the earthy scent of coffee beans that never quite left the room.
“Okay, serious question,” Wooyoung said suddenly, leaning against the counter. “What are everyone’s plans for Christmas, since we’ll actually be closed for once?”
“Sleeping,” Yeosang said.
“Whatever you want,” San smiled.
“Whipped,” Yeosang murmured.
Mingi looked up from where he was boxing pastries. “I’ll still be baking, I think. Just in my actual kitchen.”
Seonghwa smiled. “You should make something for yourself for once, Mingi-ya.”
“I’ll make something for everyone,” Mingi replied.
Wooyoung nudged San with his elbow. “Do you think we have the space for a Christmas Eve party?”
“Probably,” San said, not looking at him but smiling all the same. “I know you’ve been talking about having one for a while now.”
Wooyoung leaned in, whispering, “Maybe Yeosang will find someone to bring along.”
“Don’t start with this again while I’m still here,” Yeosang groaned.
By early afternoon, the sun slipped low enough that the light through the front windows turned amber, staining the walls with color. Mingi came out from the kitchen, dusting flour off his apron, and sank into a chair.
“Tell me again why we thought opening our own café was a good idea?” he said.
“Because we like coffee,” San answered.
“And pain,” Wooyoung added.
Seonghwa smiled faintly. “Don’t start. We’re barely halfway through the day.”
Yeosang leaned his chin on his hand. “Feels longer.”
“That’s because you haven’t actually done anything,” Mingi muttered.
“I bring ambience,” Yeosang said, perfectly serious.
“You bring sarcasm,” San said.
“Sarcasm is ambience,” Yeosang replied.
Wooyoung cackled so hard he had to put his cup down.
A group of high schoolers at the window table looked over, amused. One of them asked, “Mingi-ssi, do you guys fight like this every day?”
“Only when we’re awake,” Mingi said dryly.
The teens laughed. One of them ordered another round of hot chocolate, and Seonghwa caught a quiet warmth in his chest again– the kind that only came when laughter reached every corner of the room.
The café felt alive in that small, unremarkable way Seonghwa had grown to love. The warmth of bodies in motion, voices overlapping, the scent of cinnamon and espresso settling over everything were all highlights of his day. An unremarkable scene that would vanish by nightfall, only to rebuild itself again the next morning exactly the same.
But as he watched his friends and customers move around him, something inside him tugged.
He couldn’t name it. It wasn’t sadness, exactly. More like a certain kind of longing that’s only felt when you’re so close to having everything you want, but can't help but feel as though something is missing.
He refilled the pastry case with the help of Yeosang, wiped the counter, and smiled when a regular thanked him. The laughter around him dimmed into background noise again.
Outside, snow had begun to fall heavier. The flakes clung to the glass like fingerprints before melting into nothing.
Inside, Seonghwa’s reflection almost looked content.
By five-thirty, the crowd began to thin. The chatter that had filled the café for most of the day quieted, tapering into soft murmurs and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. Outside, the snow had picked up again, drifting past the windows in slow spirals. Streetlights blinked on one by one, their reflections stretching long and golden across the glass.
Inside, Golden Hour lived up to its name. The last of the sunlight pooled in soft patches along the floorboards and across the tables, catching on the silver of cutlery and the rims of cups waiting to be washed. The café continued to glow like a star at home in the sky.
“Okay, I’m heading out before I get stuck here,” Yeosang said, looping his scarf loosely around his neck. His voice carried that tired edge of contentment that always came after a long day. “If the roads freeze, I’m blaming all of you.”
“Blame Sannie,” Wooyoung said, voice soft but teasing. He leaned lightly into San’s shoulder, casually seeking warmth. “He made you stay past your shift.”
“I did not,” San protested, his tone gentle even as he frowned faintly. “You could’ve left hours ago.”
“You did when you spilled that pitcher of cold brew and made him help clean it up,” Mingi called from the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on his apron, a dusting of flour still on his sleeves.
San groaned. “That was hours ago.”
“And yet the floor still smells like regret,” Yeosang said, the corner of his mouth tilting up before he waved goodbye.
The bell above the door jingled softly when he left, letting in a curl of cold air that made Wooyoung shiver and press closer to San. San automatically lifted a hand to adjust Wooyoung’s scarf, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw before falling away.
“Ah, it’s freezing,” Wooyoung muttered, rubbing his arms. “I can’t wait for spring.”
“You say that every year,” Seonghwa said from behind the counter, stacking empty mugs. “And every summer you complain that it’s too hot.”
Wooyoung hummed, the sound light and noncommittal. “Then I’m consistent.”
San smiled, small and soft. “You’re consistent in being dramatic, maybe.”
“Exactly.”
Their laughter folded easily into the rhythm of the evening.
Mingi emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, tying off a bag of spent coffee grounds. “I’m dropping this off for compost on my way home,” he said. “You good to close, Hwa?”
Seonghwa nodded. “Yeah. It’s only a few more hours.”
“You sure? We can stay,” San offered, already halfway into his jacket, his voice quieter now.
“It’s fine,” Seonghwa said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll just hover and talk anyway.”
San’s huff came out as a laugh. “Fair enough.”
They packed up together in that familiar rhythm that only came with years of repetition— washing cups, adjusting chairs, wiping the counters until they gleamed again. The playlist had drifted to something slower, a mellow guitar threaded through faint vocals that blended into the low hum of the heater.
By the time the last of them were gone, the café was still again. The bell chimed one final time as the door closed behind Wooyoung, and Seonghwa was alone.
There was something special in the stillness after the storm of laughter and orders. The air held a kind of tired peace, the smell of sugar and coffee lingering like a memory. The shift was long, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He moved through the empty space methodically: collecting mugs, refilling napkin holders, polishing the espresso machine until he could see his reflection faintly in the chrome. The snow outside pressed soft against the windows, muffling the city into quiet.
At some point, he turned off the main lights and left only the lamps glowing near the counter. Their light was warm and low, spilling across the floor in honeyed shapes. He leaned his elbows on the counter for a moment, watching the street outside.
A bus rumbled past. A couple hurried by, laughing, their breath visible in the cold. A stray cat darted across the road, vanishing behind a snow-dusted bin.
The city kept moving, even when it seemed to sleep.
Seonghwa let out a long breath, his shoulders heavy with that soft ache that came from work well done. He thought, fleetingly, that he should be content with this quiet, this life he had built from nothing.
And he was, mostly.
Still, as he stood there with only the hum of the refrigerator for company, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting just beyond the glass. Something that hadn’t yet arrived.
He straightened, wiped his hands on a towel, and turned back toward the espresso machine. The clock above the door told him it had just turned seven.
One more hour till close.
It was five minutes after seven when the bell rang again.
Seonghwa looked up automatically, half expecting one of the regulars who always forgot their gloves or came back for a late-night caffeine fix. Instead, Hongjoong stepped in, trailing a gust of snow behind him.
He wasn’t a stranger any more than any other regular— the only thing setting him apart was that he came in at a different time every day. Usually it was within two hours of close that he walked in, ordered the same large americano with an extra shot, and took a seat with his head in his hands. He perpetually appeared as though he hadn’t slept in a week. Seonghwa had started to recognize the slope of his shoulders before he even saw his face.
Tonight, those shoulders looked heavier than usual. His hair was damp, snowmelt collecting at the ends, and his scarf hung loose around his neck as if he’d given up trying to stay warm somewhere between here and wherever he’d been before.
“Evening,” Seonghwa said, voice low so it wouldn’t startle the quiet.
Hongjoong’s head lifted, his smile tired but familiar. “Hey. Still open?”
“For another hour,” Seonghwa replied. “You want your usual?”
“Yeah,” Hongjoong murmured, fishing through his coat pocket for his wallet. He hesitated, thumb brushing over the worn leather. “Actually—make it to stay this time, if that’s okay. I just need… a minute.”
“Always okay,” Seonghwa said. His tone softened, “rough night?”
Hongjoong gave a small, humorless laugh. “You could say that. Do I look that bad?”
“I’ve seen worse,” Seonghwa said lightly, reaching for a clean cup.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
That earned a real laugh– soft, genuine, gone too soon.
“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who runs such a peaceful place,” Hongjoong said, watching as Seonghwa moved behind the counter, each motion deliberate and sure.
“I prefer to think of it as honesty,” Seonghwa replied. “Coffee tastes better that way.”
“Is that your secret? Honesty and caffeine?”
“And sugar,” Seonghwa added, glancing up long enough for their eyes to meet. “A dangerous combination.”
Hongjoong huffed, the sound small but sincere. “I’ll take dangerous. My day’s been nothing but dull.”
“Then I’ll make it strong,” Seonghwa said, tamping the espresso with a practiced press. “What made today the unlucky one?”
Hongjoong hesitated. “Deadlines. Meetings. A song I couldn’t finish no matter how many times I tried. You ever feel like the world’s moving a few beats ahead of you?”
“All the time,” Seonghwa said, watching the coffee drip, slow and steady. “That’s why I make mine stop once in a while.”
That drew a faint smile from Hongjoong. “You think you can actually stop it?”
“Only inside these walls,” Seonghwa said, sliding the cup across the counter. “Drink before it cools. The world can wait a bit longer.”
Hongjoong accepted it with both hands, fingers brushing his for half a second. It was barely a touch, but enough to notice the cold in his skin. “Thanks. You always make it sound easy.”
“It isn’t,” Seonghwa said quietly, and Hongjoong’s answering look held quiet understanding.
He took his usual seat by the window, notebook open, pen poised like he meant to write but hadn’t found the words yet. It was always like this; the ritual of it had become almost comforting. Seonghwa made the drink, Hongjoong worked in silence, the world outside blurred by frost and streetlight. Sometimes Hongjoong hummed under his breath, lines of melody threading faintly through the quiet. Seonghwa never asked, but he always listened.
A few minutes later Seonghwa brought a small plate to the table. “On the house.”
Hongjoong looked up, surprised. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” Seonghwa said, smiling faintly. “You look like you forgot to eat dinner again. Besides, you usually order hotteok and we had one left.”
“Caught,” Hongjoong murmured, sheepish. “Thanks.”
For a few minutes, they talked quietly while Hongjoong sipped his drink. They stuck to small things, nothing pressing. Things like the weather, the teenage boy that sometimes played his guitar on the on the corner a few stores down, a book Seonghwa had half-finished. It wasn’t much, but it felt easy in the way certain conversations did when the rest of the world wasn’t listening.
“I think this place would make a good song,” Hongjoong said eventually, voice thoughtful as he looked around the café. “It feels… suspended. Like time doesn’t really touch it.”
Seonghwa tilted his head. “Would you actually write it?”
“Maybe.” Hongjoong smiled into his cup. “If I can figure out what it’s supposed to sound like.”
“Probably something warm,” Seonghwa said, his gaze softening. “like coming home at the end of the day.”
Hongjoong’s laugh came low and tired, but there was light in it. “You might be better at this than me.”
“I doubt that,” Seonghwa murmured.
They fell quiet after that, comfortable in the hush. The snow outside had thickened, blanketing the street in white.
At seven-fifty, Hongjoong’s phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen, and something flickered across his face— guilt, maybe, or the weary pull of being needed somewhere else. He stood abruptly, closing his notebook with one hand.
“Everything okay?” Seonghwa asked.
“Yeah, just—” Hongjoong fumbled for his scarf, already pulling on his gloves as he moved away from his table. “Forgot I was supposed to meet someone ten minutes ago.”
He set a few bills on the counter, more than usual, and offered Seonghwa a faint nod. “Sorry to run. I’ll—uh—I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe?”
Seonghwa hesitated, then said gently, “Try to stay warm, Hongjoong-ssi.”
Hongjoong paused at the door, turning back just long enough for the light to catch on the curve of his smile. “You too. And don’t stay too late, okay? The snow’s getting worse.”
“I won’t,” Seonghwa smiled.
“Good,” Hongjoong said, his tone a little too kind, as though he meant more than the words allowed. Then he was gone— disappearing into the snow like a song that ended too soon.
The bell chimed as the door shut, the gust of cold air trembling through the lights above the counter.
And just like that, the café was still again. Only the faint scent of coffee remained, and the echo of a half-finished conversation.
The silence that followed Hongjoong’s exit settled differently than before.
It wasn’t the peaceful quiet that came when a long day finally ended— it was deeper, a kind of hush that pressed in around the corners of the café like snow against glass.
For a long moment, Seonghwa didn’t move. He stood behind the counter, still half-turned toward the door, eyes fixed on the faint trail of footprints melting away outside. The city beyond was a blur of white and amber light. Even the streetlamp across the road looked softened, haloed by snowfall.
He exhaled, long and even, and the faint fog of his breath curled in the air before vanishing.
The espresso machine clicked softly as it powered down. Somewhere near the back, the heater gave a low, steady hum. It was the hour when everything seemed to exhale along with him.
He turned back to the counter, slipping easily into the rhythm of closing. Dishes first. Wipe the tables. Return all of the chairs to their original tables.
The work was muscle memory by now, his movements smooth and unhurried. Each sound- cloth against wood, porcelain clinking, the hiss of the sink faucet- felt louder against the quiet.
He hummed along to the song playing through the speakers without realizing it, a simple kind of tune that didn’t demand anything complex, just filled the silence enough to keep it from feeling too heavy.
The air smelled of sugar and roasted beans, sweet and faintly bitter. The lights were dim now, only the ones above the counter still glowing warm. The snow outside had thickened to the kind that swallowed sound, and for a moment, Seonghwa could almost imagine he was the last person left in the city.
He liked nights like this. The solitude didn’t ache the way it used to, it just felt full. Contained. The café was still alive, but softly now, like it was breathing in its sleep.
He gathered the mugs from Hongjoong’s table last. The cup was empty except for a faint ring of coffee at the bottom, and beside it, a small plate with the soft hotteok left untouched, no longer warm.
Seonghwa smiled faintly. “So much for dinner,” he murmured to himself.
He carried them back to the counter, rinsed them, and left them in the drying rack. The clock above the door ticked quietly, hands inching toward eight-thirty. Almost done.
He ran a cloth over the counter one last time, then moved to the tables by the window, where the streetlight outside cast a soft, golden rectangle over the wood. Snowflakes clung to the glass like tiny stars.
As he bent to collect the sugar jar, something caught his eye—an object half-hidden beneath the chair where Hongjoong had been sitting.
A notebook.
It was plain black, corners slightly worn, a few drops of melted snow darkening the cover.
Seonghwa straightened, frowning softly as he reached down to pick it up. The edges were smudged with fingerprints and faint ink stains. When he tilted it toward the light, he saw faint indentations from writing pressed into the first few pages.
He turned it over, checking for a contact or address, but the cover was bare.
“Hongjoong-ssi…” he murmured, his voice barely a breath.
There was no question whose it was.
He set the cloth aside and opened the notebook carefully, just enough to see if there was something inside that could tell him where to return it. The pages were filled with neat, slanted handwriting— small lines that sometimes curved off into messy tangles where the pen had moved too quickly.
He glanced once more around the café, as if expecting Hongjoong to reappear, breathless, realizing what he’d left. But the door stayed closed. The only sound was the whisper of wind outside and the faint buzz of the refrigerator.
For a moment, Seonghwa debated calling after him. But he didn’t have his number, and the storm outside had only gotten worse. By now, Hongjoong was probably halfway across town— or still walking, shoulders hunched against the snow.
Seonghwa sighed softly, the sound small in the stillness.
He tucked the notebook carefully behind the counter, telling himself it would only be for a few minutes— just until he finished closing.
The rest of the tasks slipped into motion almost without thought. He swept the floor in slow, even strokes, watching the thin crescent of dust curl away from the broom. The heater hummed low, the kind of steady sound that made the walls seem to breathe. In the corner, one string of fairy lights blinked irregularly, Mingi’s doing probably, but Seonghwa didn’t mind. It gave the place a heartbeat.
By the time he reached for the light switch, the snow outside had grown thicker. The windows had fogged over completely, catching reflections of the amber bulbs that still glowed above the counter. The café looked smaller now, softer, like a memory of itself.
He stood still, coat draped over his arm, and settled into the emptiness that came only once the last door had been locked. It was comforting, usually. Tonight it felt harsher. An abrupt ending to a perfectly fine day.
His gaze drifted back to the counter. The corner of the notebook peeked out from beneath the register, black cover dull in the half-light.
He should leave it there. Hongjoong would come by tomorrow; he always did. It wasn’t Seonghwa’s business to look inside someone else’s words. He wasn’t that kind of person.
And yet—
He thought of Hongjoong’s face earlier, the faint slump of his shoulders, the way he’d rubbed at his eyes before taking the first sip of coffee. Exhausted, but not just physically. He seemed to be someone who’d been carrying a weight too long to notice anymore.
The image stayed with him longer than it should have. Seonghwa sighed quietly, ran a thumb along the edge of the counter, and reasoned with himself the way he always did when his heart spoke louder than it should.
Just to make sure it’s safe, he thought. Just to find a name.
He slipped the notebook into his bag, gentle as if it might bruise.
When he finally turned the key in the door, the bell above it gave a soft, final chime. The café was dark behind him, and the sign glowed faintly through the frost, its letters hazy and gold like the last trace of warmth in a dream.
Outside, the snow was still falling. The air bit at his cheeks, sharp and clean, and his boots sank with a muffled crunch into the thickening drifts. He glanced back once, at the little pool of light spilling from the windows, and smiled faintly. The place looked like a lantern in the storm.
He adjusted his scarf, pulled his collar higher, and started home.
The street was nearly empty.
Only a delivery truck rumbled distantly somewhere beyond the main road, its lights hazy through the snowfall. The world felt muffled, as if wrapped in cotton. Every sound existed twice; once as it happened, and again as an echo pressed back down by snow.
Seonghwa walked slowly, the way he always did on nights like this. The air was cold enough to sting but not enough to bite, strong enough to wake you up without making you hurry.
His breath came in steady puffs, ghosting in the glow of each streetlamp he passed. The café’s warmth still clung to him faintly, caught in the wool of his sweater and the smell of roasted beans that lived in his coat. When he reached the corner, he looked back again, just once. Golden Hour’s sign was barely visible now, but its light lingered against the dark like a held note.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and kept walking.
The city was soft at this hour. Windows glowed with lamplight, curtains drawn halfway, silhouettes moving inside— small, domestic things: someone folding laundry, someone carrying a bowl of soup to the table. The kind of quiet lives Seonghwa always found himself drawn to. There was something safe about other people’s routines, the certainty of them.
He turned down the narrow street that led toward his apartment. The snow here hadn’t been cleared, blanketing the pavement in a pale, untouched sheet. His boots left a neat trail of prints behind him. He’d once read somewhere that humans followed their own paths home not out of habit, but out of superstition— an unconscious belief that if they kept tracing the same route, the world wouldn’t change too much in their absence.
He wasn’t sure if he believed it, but he understood it.
The thought made him smile faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He passed the little park near the end of the block, the one with the iron benches and the broken streetlamp that had never been fixed. In summer, the neighborhood children played there until sunset. Now it was just snow and silence and the faint creak of branches under their own weight. He used to stop there sometimes, but lately even that small act of lingering felt strange. Too visible.
He wasn’t sure when solitude had started to feel like both a comfort and a cage.
There had been a time when he’d craved this kind of quiet. The soft end of the day, the world narrowing to the sound of his own steps. No one expecting anything, no one close enough to disappoint. It was supposed to be freedom, wasn’t it? To keep his world small enough that nothing could go wrong in it.
But sometimes, walking home like this, he caught himself imagining footsteps beside his own. Not a conversation, not even touch, just the sound of someone else existing close enough to make the air less thin. Then he’d shake the thought off, like brushing snow from his shoulders. Wanting things, he’d learned, only made the absence louder.
A gust of wind pushed against him, carrying the clean scent of snow and the faint hum of traffic from somewhere far off. Seonghwa tightened his scarf and pressed a gloved hand against his bag, where the notebook rested. He could feel its shape through the fabric, solid and steady. The weight of someone else’s thoughts.
It was strange how something so small could anchor you like that.
He tried not to think too hard about Hongjoong— about the way his hands trembled slightly when he wrote, or how he always sat at the same table, as if ritual could keep something from slipping away. But the image kept replaying, quiet and insistent.
Maybe that was what Seonghwa feared most: that sameness was just another kind of decay. That routine didn’t keep things safe; it only disguised the slow fade of them.
He slowed as he neared the corner where the road curved toward the river. The snow deepened there, soft and powdery, and his boots sank almost to the ankle. Across the water, the city glimmered faintly through the storm: distant towers, blinking lights, the ghost of another life. He used to imagine himself living over there, when he first moved to this side of town. Somewhere busier, louder. He used to think it would make him feel less alone. But the older he got, the more the thought of it made him tired.
Change always looked better from a distance.
The wind rose again, and he pulled his coat tighter. The sky was low enough to feel heavy, full of slow, tumbling snowflakes that landed softly against his lashes. The streets around him blurred to watercolor, full of light and shadow, gray and gold.
He wondered what Hongjoong would write about on a night like this. If he’d notice the way the light bent through the snow, or if he’d find something heavier in it, something Seonghwa was always too careful to name.
Maybe that was what drew him to the man in the first place. That kind of tiredness didn’t come from long days alone. It came from trying too hard to fill them.
The apartment building rose up ahead, narrow and gray, half-buried in snowdrifts that had already covered the front steps. Seonghwa climbed them carefully, boots squeaking faintly, and fished his keys from his pocket. The lock stuck, as it always did. He turned it gently, coaxing it loose, then stepped inside.
The hallway smelled faintly of rain and detergent, the way it always did in winter. Someone on the third floor was cooking something rich, spicy, and familiar. Seonghwa breathed it in as he climbed the narrow stairs, hand gliding over the worn rail. The light above the landing flickered once, humming faintly, then steadied.
His apartment was at the very end of the hall. The door stuck for a moment before it gave way, and the small space greeted him with the soft hush of warmth trapped all day behind closed windows.
He toed off his boots by the door, shaking loose a few clumps of snow, then hung his coat on the hook beside the light switch. The sound of the heater kicking on filled the quiet with its low, steady purr.
The space wasn’t large— just a kitchen tucked into one corner, a couch facing a small bookshelf, and a bedroom behind a sliding door— but it was enough. It was enough because it felt earned, built piece by piece from secondhand finds and careful choices. The kettle on the stove gleamed faintly under the overhead light. A small plant drooped on the windowsill, valiantly alive despite neglect.
The apartment smelled faintly of coffee grounds and vanilla detergent, the quiet scent of a place kept tidy by habit. A woven rug spread across the floor, frayed slightly at the edges, its muted pattern of blues and creams worn soft by years of use. Above the couch hung a few framed photos, nothing posed, just snippets of light and color: a blurred sunrise at the pier, the edge of a crowded market, the inside of the café before opening.
Books were stacked sideways on the shelf, spines mismatched, their corners softened from rereading. A candle sat beside them, half-burned and leaning slightly, its wax pooled in uneven circles. He’d lit it most nights through autumn, when the dark began to come earlier and the world outside felt too wide.
He moved through the motions of habit: kettle filled, tea bag waiting in his favorite chipped mug, scarf draped neatly over the chair. He switched on the lamp beside the couch, casting the room in amber light. Shadows gathered in the corners but stayed soft, blurred at the edges.
The kettle began its slow, rising hum. Seonghwa opened the small window above the sink for a moment to let the chill in, only enough to make the warmth feel more satisfying. Snowflakes clung briefly to the glass before melting into thin streaks.
The weight of the day began to settle in his limbs— not exhaustion, exactly, but a quiet kind of ache that came from being steady for too long. He poured the water into his mug and watched the steam curl upward, blurring the line between light and shadow.
He carried the tea to the couch, set it carefully on the table, and sank down into the cushions. The fabric was worn soft, faintly smelling of cinnamon and clean linen. He stretched his legs out and rested his head against the backrest, eyes falling half-shut.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. The apartment hummed around him, gentle and small. The heater rattled once before finding its rhythm again. Somewhere outside, wind whispered against the glass.
He enjoyed the first quiet after returning home, when the world outside still existed but no longer demanded anything from him. The tea steamed steadily beside him. The lamp’s light caught the dust motes in the air, making them shimmer like snow.
If the café was his rhythm, this was his pause.
Then his eyes drifted toward his bag, slouched against the coffee table.
The notebook’s corner peeked out from the top, black against the soft gray of his scarf.
He stared at it for a moment, jaw tightening faintly. He shouldn’t. He’d already told himself he’d wait until morning, return it at the café with a polite apology and nothing more. That was the right thing to do— the respectful thing.
But curiosity had its own kind of gravity, quiet and insistent.
He reached for it slowly, as if giving himself time to stop. He didn’t.
The cover was cool beneath his fingers, smooth except for the faint texture of paper pressed thin with use. He ran his thumb along the edge, tracing where the corners had softened, where someone’s grip had worn the surface down to faint shine.
He hesitated only once before opening it.
The first few pages were filled with lyrics— snatches of lines, crossings-out, arrows leading nowhere. Words that looked like they’d been wrestled with more than written. He skimmed without meaning to, his eyes catching on fragments that seemed to hum under his skin.
At the end of this road
If we must become something in this form
I hope to be myself
I hope you feel the same way
Is anyone listening?
This song to be engraved in my heart
It's okay to be here, just as we are
Just like now tonight
He froze on that last one, and something in his chest tightened, slow and inevitable.
He didn’t recognize the song but he could feel it, the way one feels the shape of grief before understanding it. These weren’t just lyrics. They were confessions disguised as rhythm.
He flipped forward. Some pages were dense, full of music notations and scribbled timings; others were bare except for a single word repeated again and again. Stay. Wait. Almost.
Seonghwa exhaled shakily, pressing the edge of his thumb to the paper like he could absorb its meaning through touch.
He’d always admired the way people like Hongjoong seemed to build worlds out of noise and feeling. Seonghwa worked in small textures— foam art, clean counters, the quiet choreography of care— but music was something else entirely. It demanded honesty. It left no room to hide.
He wondered what kind of exhaustion it took to write like this. To leave pieces of yourself in ink and call it art.
The kettle whistled softly from the kitchen, startling him back into motion. He closed the notebook quickly, almost guiltily, as if caught in something intimate. The sound of the clasp snapping shut was sharper than it should’ve been.
He poured the tea, letting the steam rise against his face until the edges of his thoughts softened again. The scent of chamomile filled the room with something floral and faintly sweet. He set the mug on the coffee table beside the notebook and leaned back, eyes half-closed.
Tomorrow, he told himself. I’ll give it back tomorrow.
He could already imagine how it would go: Hongjoong would come in, shoulders still tense under his coat, order the same coffee he always did. Seonghwa would hand him the notebook with a smile "you left this behind last night" and that would be it. A simple, human kindness exchanged, nothing more.
But the truth lingered under the surface of that thought, quieter but no less insistent: he wanted to know what kind of man wrote those lines.
He finished his tea in slow sips, letting the warmth pool in his chest. The window beside the couch had fogged over completely; beyond it, the world was just shadow and light, snow falling in endless, soundless patterns.
He gathered his things for bed methodically: mug rinsed, light dimmed, blinds drawn. The notebook he placed on the nightstand instead of back in his bag, telling himself it was only so he wouldn’t forget it in the morning.
The apartment was dark except for the small glow of the heater and the halo of the streetlight outside. He changed into a worn T-shirt and sweatpants, folded his clothes neatly, and slipped beneath the blankets.
For a while, he lay awake, listening to the wind rattle faintly against the window. His gaze drifted toward the notebook again.
Something about it, the words, the weight, the quiet heartbreak threaded through the ink, had settled in him like snow. Not heavy, exactly. Just inescapable.
He reached out once, fingertips brushing the cover, then drew his hand back.
Tomorrow, he thought again. Tomorrow, he’d give it back.
He closed his eyes, but his mind didn’t still. The words lingered, threading themselves through the quiet, soft as breath.
It’s okay to be here, just as we are.
It sounded simple, but simplicity could be the hardest thing to believe in.
For as long as he could remember, Seonghwa had lived by the art of containment. He’d learned how to keep things tidy with cups lined on shelves, emotions folded neatly between one polite smile and the next. Even loneliness had its place, tucked safely where it couldn’t spill into anyone else’s hands.
But those words… they unsettled that balance. They sounded like someone trying to remind themselves of something they no longer quite believed.
He wondered if Hongjoong wrote them for himself, or for someone else. If he even knew the difference anymore.
The wind outside picked up, whistling faintly through the gaps in the window frame. The sound made the apartment feel smaller, but not unkindly so— just enough to remind him that the world was still out there, moving. That somewhere beyond this thin wall of warmth and lamplight, someone else might be awake, staring at their own ceiling, thinking their own quiet thoughts.
He turned onto his side, watching the faint amber glow of the streetlight break into stripes across the floorboards. The notebook’s silhouette rested against that light, soft-edged, steady.
It had been a long time since something had made him feel this way, maybe not curiosity or longing, but a pull toward understanding. The kind that whispered, look closer.
And maybe, for once, he wanted to.
He thought of Hongjoong again, how he always sat alone even when the café was full. How he never checked his phone, how he sometimes mouthed words under his breath like he was still chasing them onto the page. Seonghwa had seen exhaustion before— he served the cure in cups every day— but Hongjoong’s was different. It wasn’t the kind that sleep could fix. It was the kind that came from wanting something so deeply it hollowed you out.
Seonghwa wondered if Hongjoong ever wrote about the café. About the people who filled it, about the way the lights looked through snow. Maybe he’d written about Seonghwa himself, though that thought made his heart thud once, startled, before he could laugh it off.
He wasn’t anyone’s muse. He was just the man behind the counter, the one who remembered everyone’s order and pretended not to notice when their hands shook handing over the change.
But tonight, something about that role felt heavier than usual. Like maybe it wasn’t enough just to witness people anymore.
He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, sighing through his nose. The room smelled faintly of chamomile and snow-damp wool. The heater clicked softly, steady as a heartbeat.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, his thoughts began to blur, the way they did only when he was on the cusp of sleep— realities folding into half-formed dreams. He imagined music, the kind that hummed just beneath the surface of silence. He imagined snow falling outside the café windows, slow and endless, until even the city’s noise gave way to something like peace.
When sleep finally took him, it came like the closing of a curtain. The last thing he saw before his eyes slipped fully shut was the faint glint of the notebook’s cover in the streetlight, still and waiting.
And maybe— just maybe— something in him was waiting, too.