Our Last Summer in 1997

The first time Seo Jieun heard Kang Hyun’s voice, it came from a broken cassette tape buried inside a dusty cardboard box.
Outside, Seoul drowned beneath summer rain.
Neon signs blurred across wet pavement.
Cars hissed through puddles.
The city sounded exhausted.
Inside the editing studio, the only light came from computer monitors flickering against stacks of unfinished film reels.
Jieun sat alone wearing headphones around her neck.
Thirty-two years old.
Award-winning documentary filmmaker.
Emotionally hollow.
People called her talented.
No one called her happy.
The studio smelled like instant coffee and overheated electronics.
Kim Bora entered carrying convenience store ramen and two cans of beer.
"You’re still here?"
Jieun didn’t look up.
"Deadline."
Bora sighed.
"You’ve said that every night for three months."
"That’s because deadlines keep existing."
Bora placed food beside her.
"At least pretend to be human occasionally."
Jieun smiled faintly.
It vanished quickly.
Her newest project was a documentary about Seoul youth culture during the late 1990s.
Old music.
Old protests.
Old heartbreaks.
A generation suspended between hope and collapse after the Asian financial crisis.
The producers wanted nostalgia.
Jieun wanted truth.
She spent weeks interviewing former musicians, street performers, underground artists.
Everyone remembered the era differently.
But one name appeared repeatedly.
Kang Hyun.
A rebellious indie musician who disappeared mysteriously during the summer of 1997.
No body.
No explanation.
No confirmed sightings afterward.
Only rumors.
Some said he ran away.
Some said he drowned near the Han River.
Some believed he killed himself.
But everyone remembered his music.
Especially one unfinished song.
"Summer, Before You Vanish."
The cassette tape containing the only surviving recording arrived anonymously that afternoon.
No return address.
Just a handwritten note.
"Some memories should stay alive."
Jieun inserted the tape carefully.
Static crackled.
Then guitar.
Raw.
Messy.
Beautiful.
And then a male voice began singing softly.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
Human.
Lonely.
The lyrics sounded like someone trying desperately to stop time.
Jieun froze.
Something inside his voice hurt.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
Like a wound hidden for too long.
Then suddenly—
The tape distorted violently.
The studio lights flickered.
Thunder exploded outside.
Jieun removed one headphone slowly.
A strange ringing filled the room.
Bora frowned.
"Did you hear that?"
The cassette player spun faster.
Too fast.
The music warped into static.
Then everything went black.
When Jieun opened her eyes, Seoul sounded different.
No traffic.
No smartphones.
No distant electronic advertisements.
Instead:
Street vendors.
Cassette shop music.
Bus engines.

Laughter.
Warm summer wind brushed against her face.
Jieun sat upright.
She was lying beside the Han River.
Confused voices surrounded her.
Teenagers passed wearing 90s fashion.
Old advertisements covered nearby walls.
A massive banner hung across a convenience store.
"Summer Festival 1997."
Jieun stared blankly.
Then laughed once.
Because clearly she had finally worked herself insane.
Except the world refused to wake up.
That night, she met Kang Hyun.
And everything began unraveling.
He stood outside an underground music club smoking beside a flickering neon sign.
Tall.
Messy dark hair.
Leather jacket despite the heat.
A guitar case hanging loosely from one shoulder.
His face carried the kind of beauty people only notice after watching someone long enough to realize sadness lives inside them.
Jieun recognized him instantly.
Not because of photographs.
Because his voice had already reached her before time did.
Hyun noticed her staring.
"You lost?"
Jieun blinked.
Rainwater dripped softly from nearby rooftops.
"I think so."
He smirked slightly.
"That obvious, huh?"

The neon lights reflected across wet pavement between them.
And for one strange moment…
it felt like they had already met somewhere before.
Hyun took her to a tiny rooftop café hidden above a comic bookstore.
The owner didn’t ask questions.
Apparently Hyun regularly brought home stray disasters.
Jieun sat silently drinking canned coffee while staring at the city.
Retro signs glowed across narrow streets.
Music drifted upward from nearby bars.
Everything felt painfully alive.
Hyun watched her carefully.
"You really don’t remember how you got here?"
Jieun hesitated.
Should she tell him the truth?
That she came from 2026?
That he was supposed to disappear in two months?
That she already knew his ending before learning his beginning?
Instead she said quietly:
"I don’t think anyone would believe me."
Hyun laughed softly.
"Try me."
Over the following days, Jieun discovered time travel was less magical than terrifying.
There was no portal.
No explanation.
No way home.
She was simply… there.
1997 unfolded around her like an old movie.
Payphones.
Cassette shops.
Street food carts.
The smell of cigarette smoke and summer rain.
Everything moved slower.
People looked at each other more.
Loneliness felt less hidden.
Hyun introduced her to the underground music scene of Hongdae.
Basements filled with cigarette haze and amateur bands.
Cheap beer.
Broken amplifiers.
Dreams louder than reality.
He played guitar for a struggling indie band called Blue Summer.
They were talented.
Too talented to stay unknown.
But success felt impossible during an economic collapse.
Most nights they barely earned enough for subway fare home.
Still, Hyun played like someone trying to survive himself.
Jieun noticed it immediately.
Music was the only time his guard disappeared.
Kim Bora existed in 1997 too.
Twenty-two years old.
Film student.
Sharp-tongued.
Ambitious.
Jieun nearly fainted when she first saw her younger producer arguing passionately outside a university theater.
Younger Bora wore oversized denim jackets and carried a camcorder everywhere.
She was louder.
More reckless.
Still painfully honest.
Bora narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"Why do you keep looking at me like that?"
Jieun quickly looked away.
"You remind me of someone."
"Handsome?"
"Annoying."
Bora grinned immediately.
"Then we’re destined to be friends."
As weeks passed, Jieun slowly became part of their world.
Summer festivals.
Late-night convenience store meals.
Rooftop drinking.
Music rehearsals beneath flickering lights.
And Kang Hyun.
Always Kang Hyun.
He was infuriating.
Careless.
Emotionally closed.
Too observant when it mattered.
Sometimes he disappeared for days.
Sometimes he played guitar until sunrise without speaking.
But he always returned looking lonelier.
One humid night after rehearsal, they walked beside the Han River together.
Streetlights shimmered across dark water.
Hyun smoked quietly.
Jieun glanced at him.
"You should quit that."
"You sound eighty years old."
"You sound like lung disease."
He laughed unexpectedly.
Real laughter.
It softened his entire face.
Jieun’s chest tightened strangely.
Because people in documentaries never laugh like this.
Only living people do.
Jieun tried not to fall for him.
She failed slowly.
Then completely.
It happened through small things.
The way he protected stray cats.
The way he secretly paid for broke bandmates’ meals.
The way he stared at the sky when anxious.
The way loneliness sat inside him like permanent weather.
One evening rain trapped them inside a cassette store.
Hyun flipped through albums while music played softly overhead.
Jieun watched him from across the aisle.
Warm yellow light.
Rain tapping windows.
Dust floating through old songs.
It felt unbearably intimate.
Hyun looked up suddenly.
"Why do you always look sad after smiling?"
The question startled her.
Because no one had ever noticed.
She looked away.
"Occupational hazard."
"What occupation?"
Jieun froze.
She still hadn’t explained anything real about herself.
Hyun stepped closer.
"You know things you shouldn’t know."
Rain thundered softly outside.
"You talk like you’ve already lived through all this."
Jieun’s throat tightened.
Because she had.
Or at least…
the future version.
Hyun carried his own trauma quietly.
His father disappeared when he was thirteen.
Debt collectors destroyed their apartment afterward.
His mother worked herself sick trying to survive.
Hyun dropped out of university to support her through music gigs and delivery jobs.
But beneath his rebellious attitude lived crushing guilt.
He believed every person who loved him eventually suffered.
So he kept everyone at a distance.
Including himself.
One rainy rooftop night, Jieun finally asked:
"Why do you write sad songs if you hate talking about feelings?"
Hyun stared at the city lights.
Long silence.
Then quietly:
"Because songs leave easier than words."
Her heart broke a little.
As summer deepened, Jieun uncovered the truth behind Hyun’s disappearance.
Or what she believed was the truth.
A newspaper archive mentioned a ferry accident near Incheon during August 1997.
Several passengers were never found.
One unidentified male matched Hyun’s description.
The date was only six weeks away.
Fear consumed her afterward.
Every laugh felt temporary.
Every sunset dangerous.
Hyun noticed the change immediately.
"You keep looking at me like I’m dying."
Jieun forced a smile.
"Maybe I’m dramatic."
"No."
He studied her carefully.
"You’re scared."
Meanwhile Bora became increasingly suspicious.
The younger Bora.
Because Jieun accidentally revealed future details too often.
Movie releases.
Sports results.
Political scandals.
One night Bora cornered her outside rehearsal.
"Who are you really?"
Jieun looked exhausted.
"Would you believe me if I answered honestly?"
"Probably not."
"Then let’s save time."
But Bora grabbed her arm.
"You care about Hyun."
Jieun froze.
Bora’s expression softened slightly.
"Whatever secret you’re carrying…"
She glanced toward the rooftop where Hyun played guitar alone.
"Don’t hurt him with it."
The first time Hyun nearly kissed her happened during a thunderstorm.
They got stranded beneath a tiny bus stop after midnight.
Rain poured violently around them.
Electric blue light flickered across flooded streets.
Hyun removed his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
"You’ll get sick."
Jieun laughed softly.
"You sound caring today."
"Don’t spread rumors."
She smiled.
Then silence settled.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Hyun stared at rainwater sliding down her hair.
Jieun looked at his lips accidentally.
His breathing slowed.
He stepped closer.
Very slowly.
Then headlights interrupted them.
The bus arrived.
Both immediately looked away.
But afterward…
nothing between them felt casual anymore.
By August, Seoul burned beneath relentless heat.
Summer festivals exploded across the city.
Music.
Fireworks.
Youth pretending time would wait forever.
Blue Summer finally received an opportunity to perform at a major outdoor festival near the Han River.
It could change everything.
Record labels planned attending.
Hyun pretended not to care.
Everyone else panicked enough for him.
Jieun filmed rehearsals constantly now.
Part documentary.
Part desperation.
Because she wanted proof he existed.
Even if history erased him later.
One night after rehearsal, Hyun found her crying quietly on the rooftop.
Summer wind moved through hanging laundry lines.
He sat beside her silently.
No questions.
Just presence.
After several minutes he spoke softly.
"I had a dream about you yesterday."
Jieun wiped her eyes quickly.
"That sounds terrifying."
"It was strange."
He stared toward distant city lights.
"You were standing somewhere far away calling my name."
Her breath caught.
"Did I look happy?"
Hyun smiled sadly.
"No."
Silence.
Then:
"You looked like someone saying goodbye."
Jieun nearly broke apart right there.
Eventually she told him the truth.
Or most of it.
It happened at 3 a.m. beside the Han River.
The city slept quietly around them.
Hyun listened without interrupting.
Time travel.
2026.
His disappearance.
Everything.
When she finished, wind moved softly across dark water.
Hyun laughed once.
Disbelieving.
Then stopped when he realized she was crying.
"You’re serious."
Jieun nodded silently.
He stared ahead for a very long time.
Then whispered:
"So somewhere in the future…"
His voice cracked slightly.
"I’m already gone?"
Jieun closed her eyes.
"I’m trying to change that."
Hyun suddenly looked angry.
Not at her.
At fate.
At time.
At himself.
"Why would you risk everything for someone you barely know?"
Jieun answered before thinking.
"Because I love you."
The words stunned both of them.
Summer wind carried silence between them.
Hyun stared at her.
Completely motionless.
Jieun’s face paled.
"I didn’t mean—"
Hyun kissed her.
Suddenly.
Desperately.
Like someone terrified the universe might steal the moment.
The Han River shimmered beneath distant bridge lights.
And for one beautiful second…
time forgot to hurt them.
Afterward everything changed.
Not dramatically.
Tenderly.
Hyun held her hand while walking narrow Seoul alleys.
Jieun slept beside him during late rehearsals.
They shared cassette tapes filled with private recordings.
Tiny memories.
Laughter.
Songs.
Breathing.
Proof.
Always proof.
Because both feared disappearing.
But happiness in stories like theirs never survives untouched.
The mid-story twist arrived through Kim Bora.
Older Bora.
Present-day Bora.
One night Jieun discovered an old videotape recorded by Bora in 1997.
Footage showed Blue Summer rehearsing backstage.
Then suddenly—
Jieun herself.
Standing there.
Smiling beside Hyun.
Her blood turned cold.
Because that meant this timeline had always happened.
She hadn’t changed the past.
She was the past.
Every step she took toward Hyun was already part of the tragedy.
And if history remained unchanged…
then Hyun would still disappear.
No matter how much they loved each other.
Jieun spiraled afterward.
She withdrew emotionally.
Stopped smiling.
Stopped filming.
Hyun confronted her during rehearsal.
"Talk to me."
"I can’t."
"Why?"
Tears filled her eyes.
"Because I think I was always supposed to lose you."
The room fell silent.
Band members awkwardly left.
Hyun stepped closer slowly.
"You said you came here to change my future."
"I know."
"Then stop acting like fate already won."
But fear had already rooted too deeply inside her.
Meanwhile Hyun began investigating his own disappearance.
And discovered something horrifying.
The ferry accident story was false.
He wasn’t supposed to die.
He was supposed to vanish voluntarily.
A hidden police report revealed Hyun became involved exposing corruption tied to illegal loan sharks exploiting struggling musicians during the economic crisis.
Several people connected to the case disappeared mysteriously.
Including him.
The deeper he investigated, the more dangerous everything became.
Strange men followed him.
Band equipment was vandalized.
Anonymous threats appeared outside rehearsals.
Jieun realized the future hadn’t erased Hyun.
Someone had.
One humid evening Hyun returned home bloodied.
Jieun panicked immediately.
"Who did this?"
Hyun laughed painfully.
"Apparently exposing organized crime hurts people’s feelings."
She cleaned his wounds inside his tiny apartment while summer rain hammered windows.
Hyun watched her quietly.
"You know what scares me most?"
She looked up.
"What?"
"Not disappearing."
His fingers brushed hers softly.
"Leaving you behind in another lifetime."
Jieun broke down crying.
And Hyun held her through the storm.
The emotional breakdown arrived three days before the festival.
Jieun discovered her return to 2026 was approaching.
The cassette tape that brought her here began malfunctioning again.
Static worsened.
Reality flickered strangely around her.
She started hearing modern sounds randomly.
Phone notifications.
Traffic.
Voices from the future.
Time was pulling her back.
Panic consumed her.
She confessed everything to Bora.
The younger Bora listened silently.
Then unexpectedly hugged her.
"You really love him."
Jieun cried harder.
"I don’t know how to save him."
Bora pulled away slowly.
"Maybe saving someone doesn’t always mean keeping them forever."
The words shattered her.
Because deep down…
she already knew.
The festival night arrived wrapped in fireworks and unbearable tension.
Thousands crowded the Han River park.
Music blasted through humid air.
Blue Summer performed last.
Hyun searched the crowd desperately before going onstage.
Then he found her.
Standing beneath glowing festival lights.
Crying already.
Their eyes met.
And suddenly the world felt heartbreakingly temporary.
Hyun stepped onto the stage.
The audience screamed.
Then he began playing.
"Summer, Before You Vanish."
The unfinished song.
Only this time he finished it.
For her.
His voice carried across warm summer night air.
Every lyric sounded like goodbye disguised as hope.
Jieun cried openly while filming.
Because she knew this moment would survive longer than either of them.
The final chorus ended beneath exploding fireworks.
The crowd erupted.
Hyun stared only at her.
And mouthed silently:
"Wait for me."
Then chaos exploded.
Men in dark jackets stormed backstage.
Screaming.
Fighting.
Someone grabbed Hyun.
Jieun ran after him desperately.
Rain suddenly began pouring from nowhere.
The festival dissolved into panic.
Hyun shouted her name while being dragged away.
Jieun reached for him.
Almost touched him.
Then static exploded through reality.
The world went white.
Jieun woke inside her editing studio in 2026.
Thunder roared outside.
Computer monitors flickered quietly.
The cassette tape lay motionless beside her.
Bora stood nearby frozen in shock.
"You blacked out for twenty minutes."
Jieun sat upright violently.
"Hyun."
Her voice cracked instantly.
"Where’s Hyun?"
Bora stared at her strangely.
Because Jieun looked like someone returning from war.
The world continued normally.
Cruelly normally.
But Jieun couldn’t.
Every street reminded her of him.
Every song hurt.
She searched obsessively for records about Kang Hyun afterward.
This time she uncovered hidden truths.
Newspaper reports.
Deleted police files.
Old photographs.
Hyun exposed a criminal organization exploiting desperate musicians during the 1997 financial collapse.
Three weeks after the festival, he vanished permanently.
No body ever surfaced.
His case became unsolved.
Forgotten.
Except by the people who loved him.
Jieun spent months editing the documentary.
Not for producers anymore.
For him.
She included everything.
His music.
His laughter.
His anger.
His dreams.
His humanity.
Bora watched quietly one night while Jieun edited festival footage frame by frame.
"You still think he’s alive, don’t you?"
Jieun didn’t answer immediately.
Then softly:
"Some people leave too much behind to disappear completely."
The documentary released anonymously online first.
No promotion.
No advertising.
Yet it spread rapidly.
Young audiences became obsessed with the tragic musician from 1997.
His songs resurfaced.
Cassette sales exploded.
People visited old festival locations leaving flowers and handwritten notes.
Kang Hyun became a legend.
But Jieun hated that word.
Legends felt distant.
Hyun had been real.
Warm hands.
Late-night laughter.
Coffee breath.
A heartbeat against her shoulder.
Real.
One rainy autumn evening, Jieun received a package without return information.
Inside was a cassette tape.
Her hands trembled instantly.
There was no label.
Only one sentence written inside the case.
"Did you really think I’d leave without saying goodbye?"
Jieun nearly collapsed.
She inserted the tape carefully.
Static crackled.
Then:
Hyun’s voice.
Older.
Softer.
Alive.
Jieun burst into tears immediately.
"If you’re hearing this…"
A faint laugh.
"Then Bora finally figured out how to mail things properly."
Jieun froze.
Bora?
The tape continued.
"I don’t know if time will let us meet again."
Rain echoed faintly behind him.
"But I survived."
Her breathing shattered.
"After they came for me that night, I ran."
Static crackled.
"Bora helped hide me before you disappeared."
Jieun covered her mouth crying uncontrollably.
"I spent years moving place to place."
A pause.
"By the time things became safe… you were already gone."
His voice softened painfully.
"But I kept looking anyway."
The tape ended with an address.
A tiny seaside town in Busan.
Jieun traveled there immediately.
Rain followed her the entire journey.
Of course it did.
Their love story belonged to rain.
The address led to a small café overlooking gray ocean waves.
Vintage records lined wooden walls.
Old guitars hung above windows.
Warm jazz played softly.
And behind the counter—
Kang Hyun.
Older now.
Older but unmistakably him.
His hair slightly longer.
Tiny scar near his eyebrow.
Same eyes.
Those impossible eyes.
He looked up slowly.
Saw her.
And stopped breathing.
Neither moved.
The entire café disappeared around them.
Twenty-nine years collapsed into silence.
Jieun’s eyes filled first.
Hyun smiled shakily.
"You took long enough."
She laughed while crying.
Then crossed the room and hit his chest weakly.
"You idiot."
He grabbed her immediately.
Pulled her against him.
Held her like someone terrified time might steal her again.
Jieun buried her face into his shoulder sobbing.
His hands trembled too.
Because after nearly three decades…
she still felt exactly like summer.
But bittersweet love stories never end perfectly.
Hyun explained everything slowly over several nights.
After disappearing in 1997, he lived under false identities for years.
The corruption case eventually collapsed.
But by then his old life was gone.
His mother died believing he abandoned her.
Blue Summer dissolved.
Bora became the only person who knew the truth.
And Hyun never stopped waiting.
He kept every cassette.
Every photograph.
Every memory.
Because Jieun was proof his life had once been beautiful.
Even briefly.
One night they walked beside Busan’s shoreline beneath cold autumn wind.
Jieun looked at him carefully.
"Do you regret it?"
"What?"
"Meeting me."
Hyun stopped walking.
Ocean waves crashed softly nearby.
Then he smiled.
Small.
Sad.
"You gave me a future when I thought I didn’t deserve one."
He brushed wet hair gently from her face.
"How could I regret that?"
Jieun cried quietly.
Because even after all the years between them…
he still understood exactly where she hurt.
They tried living normally afterward.
Morning coffee.
Late-night walks.
Shared music.
But time left scars love couldn’t fully erase.
Jieun struggled with grief over the years they lost.
Hyun carried guilt about everyone left behind.
Sometimes they sat silently for hours listening to rain.
Healing isn’t dramatic.
Sometimes it’s just staying when leaving feels easier.
And they stayed.
For as long as they could.
Three years later, Jieun’s documentary won an international film award.
Critics called it:
"A devastating portrait of youth, memory, and unfinished love."
They still didn’t know the half of it.
During her acceptance speech, Jieun looked toward the audience.
Hyun stood near the back wearing the same small smile he always had.
Older now.
A little tired.
Still beautiful.
Jieun’s voice shook slightly.
"This film is dedicated to someone who taught me that memories are not meant to trap us."
Her eyes filled.
"They’re meant to remind us we survived."
Hyun lowered his head quietly.
Because no one else understood those words belonged entirely to him.
Epilogue
Years later, people still searched online for the mystery of Kang Hyun.
Some believed he died.
Some believed he escaped overseas.
Some believed he never existed at all.
But every summer, a tiny seaside café in Busan hosted an underground music night.
Old cassette tapes played softly.
Young musicians performed unfinished songs.
Rain tapped gently against ocean windows.
And sometimes, late at night, an older man with tired eyes played guitar beside a filmmaker quietly filming from the corner.
They never corrected anyone.
Because some love stories survive better as echoes.
Not legends.
Just proof that somewhere between memory and time…
two lonely people once found each other during one impossible summer.
And loved each other enough to outlive disappearance.
Outside, rain drifted softly over the sea.
Like applause.
Like goodbye.
Like 1997 refusing to be forgotten.