The sky was dipped in peach and gold—one of those evenings where even the air feels slowed down, like the city is pausing just long enough to remember how to breathe.

Jin-woo stepped out of the bakery's back door, the scent of sweet bread still clinging to the sleeves of his oversized cardigan. He paused just outside, bowing slightly to the elderly owner as she gave her usual gentle wave goodbye. He nodded back, expression unreadable but reverent in its quiet. The metal door clicked shut behind him.

Jin-woo paused on the sidewalk, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. His eyes followed a ribbon of cloud coiling along the horizon. He took a slow breath through his nose. The air smelled faintly of flour and dusk.

He began walking home, the ache in his legs softened by the quiet. Each step measured, steady. The bakery had been busy today, but the rhythm of kneading, folding, dusting with sugar—those rituals steadied him. They kept his mind from wandering too far into memory.

His gaze wandered up again—watching a patch of sky where the light dipped just right—and he didn't see the figure in front of him until—

Thud.

The world lurched. Jin-woo stumbled back with a startled gasp, catching himself too late. His shoulder struck the edge of a lamppost and his knees hit pavement. Pain flared sharp, but duller than the sudden burn of embarrassment.

Before he could orient himself, a hand reached down—firm but gentle—fingers curling just under his elbow. Jin-woo flinched instinctively, not from fear, but habit. He looked up.

It was the stranger who came to the bakery sometimes, always alone. Jin-woo had seen him often enough to recognize the shape of his shoulders, the way his eyes moved over the display case like someone choosing carefully, even if he never lingered long. But they had never spoken. Not even a nod.

Jin-woo blinked rapidly, lowering his eyes as he pushed himself upright with the help of the stranger's hand. Then—his fingers immediately flew to the inside pocket of his coat. He fumbled a little from the tremble of nerves, pulled out the familiar leather notebook. Kneeling to balance it on his knee, he scribbled quickly with his pen:

"Sorry. Thank you."

He tore the page and offered it with both hands, a small bow of his head accompanying the gesture. His cheeks were flushed, his lashes lowered like a curtain drawn in shame.

And then—

He froze.

The stranger was signing.

Not perfectly, but clearly. Slowly.

"It's alright. You're not hurt, are you?"

Jin-woo stared, breath caught like glass in his lungs. For a moment, he said nothing, did nothing. Just... stood there, notebook still half-open in his hands. Then, tentatively, with a kind of raw wonder, he raised his hands and replied in KSL, the signs flowing like petals falling in slow motion:

"You... know sign language?"

His expression had shifted. Not quite joy, but something warmer than the cold walls he usually wore. His lips parted in surprise, even though he made no sound. His hands trembled faintly mid-air, caught between caution and hope.

The golden hour painted the side of his face in a soft glow, illuminating the slight tilt in his brow, the hesitancy in his posture—as if he couldn't believe someone had cracked a sliver in his silence. His eyes met the stranger's for the first time, truly met them, wide and searching.

He signed again, slower this time:

"Why... did you learn?"