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The rain fell in diagonal sheets over Seoul, but Yun Seo-jun stood dry beneath a bus shelter, invisible to the rushing crowd. His coat was immaculate, his expression blank. Inside his chest, the sword ached—a cold, familiar throb. 937 years of waiting.
"I'm changing the ending." She reached out and, for the first time, touched the hilt. The sword flickered—not solid, not ghost, but something in between. "This isn't a curse anymore. It's just... a scar. And scars mean you survived."
He took her to the sea at sunrise. To a jazz bar hidden beneath a laundromat. To a rooftop garden where fireflies blinked like fallen stars. She showed him instant ramyeon eaten at 3 a.m., the smell of old paper, the way stray cats purred if you waited long enough.
The sword trembled. For one breathless second, Seo-jun felt the weight of 937 years lift—not disappear, but become bearable. He looked at Jin-ah's determined, tear-streaked face and understood: she wasn't his bride because she could kill him.
On the 365th day, she stood before him in the rain again. Same bus shelter. Same broken umbrella.
"I'm not pulling it," she said.