Min-jun had always believed love was a fleeting thing, a spark that burned bright but faded quickly. That was until he met Hana. She was the kind of person who carried the sun in her smile and the stars in her laughter. They met on a rainy afternoon in a small Seoul bookstore, both reaching for the same worn copy of The Great Gatsby. Their hands brushed, and Min-jun swore he felt the world pause for a moment.
Their love was the kind poets wrote about—deep, unwavering, and all-consuming. They spent years building a life together, filled with quiet mornings, shared dreams, and whispered promises. Hana was his anchor, his muse, his everything. Min-jun often joked that she had stolen his heart so completely, he’d never need it back.
But life, as it often does, had other plans.
One winter evening, as they walked hand in hand along their favorite path by the Han River, Hana collapsed. The doctors called it a rare, undetected condition—something no one could have foreseen. Min-jun held her hand as she took her last breath, her eyes locking with his, filled with love and sorrow. “Promise me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “you’ll keep living.”
He promised. But what she didn’t know was that Min-jun’s idea of living had changed forever.
After Hana’s passing, Min-jun became a ghost of his former self. He withdrew from the world, carrying her memory like a sacred flame. He swore he would never love again, for how could anyone compare to her? Instead, he dedicated his life to honoring her. He planted a garden of her favorite flowers—peonies and cherry blossoms—wrote letters to her every night, and visited the places they had dreamed of exploring together. He even published a book of poems, each one a love letter to her, a testament to the life they had shared.
Years turned into decades, and Min-jun grew old, his hair silver and his hands weathered. But his love for Hana never faded. On the anniversary of her passing, he would sit beneath the stars, the same stars they had once wished upon, and whisper to her. “I kept my promise,” he would say. “I lived. But my heart has always been yours.”
When Min-jun passed away, they found him in his garden, a faint smile on his lips. In his hand was a photograph of Hana, worn at the edges from years of being held. The villagers said it was a tragedy, a love cut short. But those who knew Min-jun and Hana understood—their love was never truly lost. It lived on in the stars, in the flowers, in the words he left behind. And somewhere, beyond the veil, they were finally together again.
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