A/n: This is a 1600 word preview of the first chapter (aka all I've written so far). My chapters are not going to be this short (when are they ever?) and.. yeah. Just an idea of what this is going to be, so I can not update for 20 years (ㅠㅠ). I promise I won't take so long to update ㅠㅠ On that note, I have about 10,000 things I do need to update 헐 I seriously need clones.

Tell me what you think! (Everything mentioned in this will make sense eventually, I promise. But feel free to ask questions, and I will explain without spoilers c:)

A figure was sat at the stand-up piano pressed against the corner of the wall, still save for the movements across the keys as they melodied out a sorrowful tune. The room was as empty as the world, the song all that filled it and the performer; not even light dared to creep in. Tears splashed across the keys, fingers slipped out of rhythm, and the tune faded out in a muddled, unforgiving splatter of sound. The piano heaved a sigh, knowing its song suffered the same fate as all those that had once been played so well before – their pride deceased, hopelessly abused and worn out, unable to perform as they had in the past.

As the performer slumped against his broken black-and-white canvas, another tiny soul floated into the room, hovering at the doorway unnoticed until the silence broke in a tiny voice.

“Father, I can’t fall asleep when the piano is so loud,” it whispered, barely a ghost above the hush, as though afraid of its frailty. The air wasn’t what was so hopelessly fragile. Wordlessly, the man allowed the cover to plunk closed and stood, retrieving the child and carrying both of them back to bed. Neither mentioned the occurrence, nor the tears still staining his countenance. The latter situation was entirely common, the former none-too-rare; the same with the piano playing when the inability to sleep some nights arose. There were no stories of angels that night; it was too late, and the pair needed the remaining hours to sleep.

Morning followed, and nothing was spoken of their mid-night adventure. Two – or too – cheery smiles exchanged and greeted father and child both as they sat down to breakfast, preparing for their days. A man off to the bank, a child to pre-school.

Eight hours a day, five days a week as a teller at a bank was not much of a job worthy of neither loving nor hating. It was merely a job that satisfied financial needs – of both employee and customer – and paid the wages of a babysitter for two hours in each day. In other circumstances, he would have quit his job years ago – three years ago, precisely. In other circumstances, he may never have found himself working here at all – hardly qualified beyond a family connection to be in the position. Knowing that was enough – if the only – reason to stay.

That morning a customer came in, different from the usual customer. He gave her no special attention until she was directed his way, and he got a good look at her. Not particularly beautiful, but rare, at least where they were. Fair hair shone as a halo around a fair, blush-painted face, clear blue eyes peering out from a high brow. Her makeup wasn’t heavy, but too much so for his taste. It wasn’t so much her appearance as the memory she evoked that made her feel significant. The scene was one too familiar.

“You can speak English?” she asked in their common language. Only a nod in reply as he thought about how the roles had been reversed. “Okay, great.”

Speaking English was hard, not because he didn’t know it – he didn’t sound like a native, but he had enough vocabulary to get by – but because English was attached to things that didn’t belong in his life. English was one of many things drawing a string to the stars, to memories of Heaven which had been lost and found.

Funny how four years could disappear in a second, sometimes.

Without having to say a word that morning, he was offered a two hour lunch break for seeming “under the weather”. He accepted, heading out down the strip of restaurants and carefully avoiding the coffee shop three stores down from the bank. Instead, he made his way to a place near the end of the street, slipping inside and relaxing under the cover of the dimly lit, always slightly-dusty familiar restaurant. It was peaceful – empty as per usual – and that was all he could ask for.

He had been here the past thousand weekdays or so, and the staff was familiar with him, his usual order; tea not coffee, noodles not rice. Honey-glazed chicken most days, but sometimes sesame chicken or barbeque pork. Today he was hardly feeling up for anything different, although he was dying for a change. A thousand days or so, and everything felt the same; if not maybe a little worse, especially on days like today.

It was pretty odd for other customers to be there, especially around one-thirty, the time he regularly visited. By the time he had (slowly) made his way to finishing his meal, another customer did indeed come in and take a table. He didn’t acknowledge this newcomer, but his existence seemed to be noted by theirs, because when the stranger’s order arrived at their table a few moments later they asked the waitress, “Do you know anything about that man?” The waitress said she knew only his order – the same one he had every day. No further conversation passed, and soon he and the stranger were alone in the dining area.

An hour was left in his break, and this often passed quickly, staring at the same few photographs hung on the wall. He knew them all – there were only four on the wall by the table he frequently inhabited – well enough to describe them inside out to anyone. The one over his table always felt the most ironic to him. A beautiful white flower seeping light pink from the centre onto its petals, teal blue background, inscribed Live Your Dream in curly, artistic handwriting. Today, staring at that flower, time seemed to tick by infinitely slow, and his neck felt warm. Eyes were on him, watching – observing.

It still surprised him when the stranger spoke. “Do you come here much, then?” There was something of a smile in his voice, and they both seemed to be trying to hold it in, because that was always the line in typical rom-coms, and it surely hadn’t been the stranger’s intent, but it was almost comical anyway. On top of that, however, the fact that the answer was Every day, for the past thousand days or so, made it more humorous, in a humorless sort of way.

“Yeah,” was the reply he gave instead. “I work at the bank down the street.” He glanced back at the other as he said it, catching a glimpse of his face. Very youthful, on first impression. He didn’t keep his eyes on the other long.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be working in a bank?”

He cringed. I’ve heard that before. “My uncle owns the branch.”

“Oh. Well, lucky you.” He didn’t feel very lucky. He hadn’t for a very long time. “Is that why you can sit in a restaurant for an hour and do absolutely nothing?”

At that he stood, having had enough of this conversation. He left bills in his place on the table – enough plus a ten percent tip exactly – and grabbed his jacket hanging over the back of the booth he’d been in. Obviously catching his mistake, the stranger retracted his words, apologizing. “I didn’t mean to offend you-”

“I’m not having a very good day,” he muttered as he went by. And he ignored the other’s calls to wait, to let him apologize, let him say something. Inevitably, the man must have deserted his half-finished meal (whether he paid for it or not was never said), because not a minute later he had caught up to him on the street and was taking hold of his arm lightly, but firm enough to cause them both to stop.

On second glance, he had an underlying maturity in his features.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, holding their gazes unwaveringly. “What’s your name?”

Without caring to ask the reason, he answered the other. “Jongin.”

“I’m sorry, then, Jongin.” It was a genuine apology, and Jongin could tell he wouldn’t be satisfied unless he was given some sign of forgiveness. So he assured the stranger that he had caused no harm (none intentionally, anyway, though Jongin forwent that detail), and he simply wished to go back to work. He expected to be allowed to depart at that point, but his arm remain in the other’s grasp, just barely but enough to know he wasn’t free yet. He watched the other fish out his wallet, and then was asked, “Sorry, but do you have a pen?”

By this point, the other was looking about as flustered as Jongin felt, although on Jongin’s part he wasn’t sure why he was feeling flustered. Still, he happened to have a pen – because he always did; it was always smart to carry a pen – and he lent it to the man, watching in amusement as he pulled out a thousand-won bill and scribbled briefly across it before handing both pen and bill to Jongin.

“Here, just – call me, sometime?”

A simple glance at the bill would have been enough to tell him that it was a name and phone number he’d just received, but the circumstances seemed to be working on – or perhaps, against – his mind, rusting the gears that would allow him to comprehend anything. It really wasn’t one of his better days, today. As it was, by the time he pieced it all together and peered up to offer the stranger an odd look, he found himself standing on his own, the other having left him the moment he’d given the bill over. Whether he went back to the restaurant to finish his meal, or had gone and was trying to put as much distance between them now as possible, Jongin didn’t know. He only had a thousand-won bill with a number and the owner’s name.

Kyungsoo.

A/n: Feel free to check out my other fics while you wait - Miscalculation (+Spinoffs, +Rewrite from Jongin's POV), Category 9 (Kaisoo sequel upcoming) - dystopian!au, Meretrix de Menses XI - ion!au, and various others (including a cooking!au, Hannah Montana!au, asylum!au) HERE. Or join the RP I run and message me daily to update faster! c: While you wait for this to be updated~