Spring in Seoul arrived like a song played softly through open windows, a gentle prelude to the bustle within Jinju High School's vast walls. Cherry blossoms drifted through the morning air in delicate spirals, painting the courtyard in pale pink confetti. The laughter of students bounced off the stone pathways, and sneakers squeaked against polished floors—an orchestra of new beginnings.
For most of her classmates, it was just another school day. But for Saanvi Raj, stepping out of the battered yellow taxi and crossing beneath the grand silver gates felt like stepping into a new world.
She smoothed the navy blazer across her shoulders, the fabric crisp and unfamiliar against her skin. The iron banner above the gate glinted:
✨ "New Term, New Dreams!" ✨
Saanvi took a breath. In her mind, she whispered the phrase in Korean, each syllable a promise to herself: she would embrace this fresh start, no matter how uncertain her heart felt.
---
Inside the school office, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Rows of desks gleamed with fresh notebooks and unopened textbooks. The secretary offered Saanvi a polite nod as she signed the transfer forms. Her name—written in neat Hangul beside Roman letters—stared back at her. R A J, three simple letters that carried the weight of an ocean of memories she hadn't seen in years.
Upstairs, she followed the tape on the floor, the numbers guiding her to Room 3-2. Each step echoed in the corridor as she brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her ponytail swayed, a tidy contrast to the flutter in her chest. She wasn't exactly nervous—she'd navigated new schools before—but something about Seoul felt different, bigger. More permanent.
As she stepped inside, the classroom fell silent for a heartbeat—a ripple of curiosity washing over thirty pairs of eyes. The homeroom teacher, a woman in her forties with sharp spectacles and a gentle smile, tapped the whiteboard with a marker.
"Please welcome our new transfer student," she announced in Korean, voice clear and warm. "She's from Busan… and originally from India. Saanvi, would you introduce yourself?"
A murmur ran through the room—Busan? India? Saanvi bowed respectfully, the pleats of her skirt brushing together.
"Hello. I'm Saanvi Raj. 잘 부탁드립니다—please take care of me." Her Korean was crisp, each syllable practiced to perfection.
A few students offered tentative smiles. A cluster at the back exchanged whispers. Someone passed a sticky note that read Welcome! with a doodle of a cherry blossom.
Saanvi scanned the faces: curious, cold, kind, indifferent. Then her eyes landed on him.
He sat slouched in the back row, one earbud glinting like a silent beacon. His elbow rested on the windowsill; in the slanted spring light, his dark hair caught a few sun-kissed highlights. He didn't belong to the room—he belonged somewhere else.
Their eyes met for a moment so fleeting it could have been a trick of the light. His half-lidded gaze, sharp and calculating, seemed to pierce through her practiced smile. Then, almost instantly, he turned back to the window, indifferent once more.
Saanvi's pulse fluttered. Do I… know him?
---
By the time the bell rang, the initial excitement had worn off. Books were stacked, chairs slid out from under desks, and the hallway filled once again. Saanvi lingered a moment, trying to steady her breath.
A girl with soft brown hair and an easy smile approached. "I'm Jieun," she said in accented English before switching back to Korean. "Do you want to sit with us at lunch? The cafeteria can be… crowded."
Saanvi nodded gratefully. "Thank you." They walked out together, chattering about homeroom assignments and class expectations. But Saanvi's mind drifted, back to the mysterious boy, back to that impossible feeling of recognition.
---
At lunchtime, instead of joining Jieun, Saanvi slipped away toward the rooftop—a secret haven she'd discovered during her brief Busan stay. Pushing open the metal door, she was greeted by a blast of air heavy with the scent of city and spring. Below, Seoul stretched in a geometric tangle of streets and rooftops. Above, the sky was an uninterrupted expanse of cerulean.
And there, at the far end, was the skater.
He balanced effortlessly on his board, rolling slowly along the tiled surface. Each push was measured. Each turn—a brushstroke against the sky. The cherry blossoms swirled around him like confetti, and for a moment, Saanvi felt as if the city had fallen away.
She leaned against the low wall, arms crossed, heart thudding with that familiar ache of déjà vu. She remembered this feeling—this weight in her chest, as if a string tied her soul to something just beyond recollection.
He sensed her before he saw her. The board stilled. He took out his earbud, glanced her way, and gave a small, knowing smile. No words passed between them, but the air crackled with unspoken questions.
Saanvi cleared her throat, stepping forward. "You're… good."
He shrugged, placing the board under his arm. "I skate."
She laughed softly. "That much I can see."
He glanced at her badge: RAJ. Then back to her eyes. "I've heard that name before."
She frowned. "Have you?"
He shook his head, though his eyes remained fixed on her. "Maybe in another life."
Before she could ask what he meant, his phone buzzed. A notification glowed on the screen:
____________•••____________
You are one plus away from remembering what never really ended.
____________•••____________
His lips quirked, half-grin, half-smirk. He turned and skated away, leaving Saanvi alone with the wind, the blossoms, and a hundred unanswered questions.
---
Saanvi watched him disappear down the gray stairwell, her chest tight with possibility. Fate had brought her back to Korea, she told herself. Fate—and something older, deeper, woven into memory. As she pocketed her phone and headed back to class, she resolved not to let any mystery slip through her fingers again.
After all, this was just the beginning.