BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

The Lost Bookshop ✿⁠ (Kim Namjoon/RM)

The rain had been falling since morning, turning the streets of Seoul into ribbons of silver. It wasn’t the heavy, merciless kind that soaked through clothes and patience — it was the slow, contemplative kind. The kind that made the city hum softer, like a poem whispered under breath.

She wasn’t planning to stay out long. Just coffee, a walk, maybe a bookstore if she found one open this late. The clock on her phone read 9:42 p.m. — too late for most shops, too early to give up.

Then she saw it.

Down a narrow alley off Gyeongnidan, between a noodle bar and an antique shop, there was a light. Dim, golden, almost hesitant. A small sign swung gently above the doorway: The Lost Bookshop.

She frowned. She’d lived in Seoul for nearly a year and had never seen it before. The name alone was enough to pull her in.

The bell above the door tinkled softly as she stepped inside.

It smelled like paper and rain. The kind of scent that felt alive, like memory. Shelves leaned against one another in uneven rows, some books stacked to the ceiling, others lying open as though mid-conversation. A dusty record player murmured jazz from somewhere in the back.

And there he was.

A tall man in a beige sweater, sleeves rolled up, sitting on the floor surrounded by books. His hair was slightly damp, curls brushing his forehead, and a pair of round glasses rested low on his nose. He was reading with the kind of focus that looked sacred.

When he noticed her, he blinked, startled but not alarmed. Then he smiled — small, genuine, a curve that softened everything about him.

“Oh,” he said, his voice warm and low, “didn’t think anyone else knew this place existed.”

“I didn’t either,” she replied, brushing raindrops from her sleeve. “Is it new?”

He tilted his head. “Depends on how you define new. It only seems to appear when it rains.”

She laughed, unsure if he was joking. “So… a weather-dependent bookstore?”

He grinned. “Something like that.”

She wandered between the shelves, fingertips trailing over spines worn smooth by years. Letters to the Earth. A Man Called Ove. The Metamorphosis. It felt more like she was being chosen by the books than the other way around.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed him watching her — not in a way that felt intrusive, but thoughtful, like he was trying to place her in a poem he hadn’t finished yet.

“Do you work here?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said, standing. “Sometimes I just keep it company.”

“What about the owner?”

He smiled again, and somehow it sounded like a secret. “Maybe there isn’t one.”

They talked as the rain deepened outside. He told her about books that had changed his life — Neruda’s verses, Rilke’s letters, a first edition of Whitman he swore smelled like summer storms. She confessed she hadn’t read poetry in years, that life had gotten too loud for it.

“Then you’ve been listening to the wrong kind,” he said, reaching for a book. “Try this.”

He handed her Letters to the Earth. The cover was faded green, edges soft with time.

“What’s it about?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Everything we forget to say until it’s too late.”

She flipped through the pages. In the margins, someone had underlined lines in pencil, written small notes — reflections, sighs, sometimes just yes.

“Did you write these?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said, eyes glinting.

Hours passed like minutes. At some point, the rain outside softened, and she realized it was close to midnight.

“I should go,” she said, reluctant. “Before the city decides to sleep without me.”

He nodded, sliding the book toward her. “Take it.”

“I can’t. I don’t have cash—”

“It’s not for sale,” he interrupted gently. “Just for safekeeping.”

She hesitated, then accepted it. “At least let me know your name, so I can return it.”

He thought for a moment. “Namjoon.”

“Okay, Namjoon,” she said, smiling. “I’ll bring it back when it rains again.”

He nodded, eyes soft. “Then I’ll be here.”

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When she stepped outside, the alley was still damp, but the air had changed — lighter, almost expectant. She turned back once more.

The bookstore lights flickered. Then dimmed.

And when she blinked — it was gone.

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That night, at home, she made tea and opened the book again. Between pages 112 and 113, something slipped out — a folded napkin, edges smudged with ink.

“If we meet again, it’ll be under clearer skies. — Namjoon.”

She smiled, tracing the words. Outside her window, the last drops of rain tapped the glass like a quiet applause.

She fell asleep with the book open beside her, unaware that in another part of the city, Namjoon was sitting under the same sky, writing another note he’d never send:

“Some people don’t find books — they find readers who remind them why stories matter.”

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