It never ceases to amaze See Joo, the knowledge of who they had been, the chance of being able to meet again.
It takes him by surprise from time to time, when he wakes up and there’s Seol next to him, peacefully sleeping; or when he touches the pages of Chicago Typewriter’s manuscript to chat with the old man.
He’s grateful, above everything else, of this little cocoon they’ve built together. Of having somewhere that feels right and safe, people he can be vulnerable with.
It’s second nature by now, his smile at Seol’s laughter as he catches her trying to read the new book he’s working on, or the feeling that when he touches the old typewriter he isn’t alone.
It’s a fourth presence, the memory of whom they were together; scenes remembered when he picks up another cinnamon stick or passes in front of the photo of the three of them he put next to the typewriter. The look on Seol’s face when she comes back from the shooting range or touches the pocket watch.
And See Joo never ceases to hope: of meeting again, of being able to live, bicker and love with the two of them once more.
Meanwhile, he writes like crazy and laughs with Seol. Sometimes he puts two cans of beer on the table when he's taking a break, speaking out loud all the questions that he had left, and the truths he wasn’t able to say in both of his lives.
He thinks he’ll be able to say them in a third one. When he’ll raise his gaze from the new book he’s writing and will see them hanging out in the same room; waiting for him to come out of his daze to tease him, and bicker and enjoy the freedom they claimed together.
He’s happy, like this.
He’s content because they met again, because if a God listened to him once, he may do it twice.
He’s happy, like this. It’s more than enough.