The day of the seminar arrived sooner than Nara had expected.
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror that morning, dressed as simply as possible in a plain white shirt and dark slacks, deliberately avoiding anything that might make her stand out among the hundreds of other attendees who would be there.
Raka offered to drive her, but Nara gently refused. “I want to go there by myself,” she said. “If you come with me, even if you only wait outside, I’ll keep thinking about you waiting for me, and it’ll distract me.”
Raka nodded in understanding, though he still asked her to keep him updated on even the slightest development.
The convention center where the seminar was being held occupied the third floor of a modern office building downtown.
Nara arrived thirty minutes early, giving herself enough time to observe the surroundings before the room began filling with other attendees—students, activists, journalists, and several company representatives who looked as if they had come purely for public relations.
She chose a seat in the middle rows, close enough to see clearly but far enough not to attract too much attention.
Her heart began pounding faster as the time drew closer to the scheduled start.
At exactly ten o’clock, the moderator took the stage and opened the event with a brief welcome.
After the first few speakers gave their presentations on the latest workplace safety regulations, the moderator finally announced the next speaker.
“Our next speaker is someone who has devoted the past ten years of his life to ensuring that the tragedy that befell his family never happens to another family. Please welcome the Executive Director of Yayasan Wijaya Peduli, Kang Ji-han.”
Thunderous applause filled the room as a man stepped onto the stage.
Nara felt her entire body go still.
It was really him.
The same man from her future photograph.
The same man she had caught a brief glimpse of in the back row during her wedding ceremony.
But now, from much closer, Nara could see details that the photograph had failed to capture: the way he stood with his back straight but not rigid, the way his eyes swept across the room with practiced calm, and a faint scar, nearly invisible, on the right side of his chin.
Ji-han began to speak. His voice was deep and steady, flowing without an awkward pause.
He told the story of his father, the accident that had claimed his life, and the long journey that had brought him to this point—a man who had transformed profound grief into a fight to protect others from a similar fate.
Nara listened carefully to every word, captivated by the way Ji-han spoke without excessive bitterness, even though it was clear that the old wound still lingered in the way he emphasized the importance of every policy he fought for.
In the middle of the presentation, whether by coincidence or not, Ji-han’s eyes briefly swept toward the middle row where Nara was sitting.
And for a fraction of a second, their eyes met.
Nara felt something strange in that brief moment, something beyond the ordinary eye contact between a speaker and one audience member among hundreds.
There was something in the way Ji-han looked at her, as though he had paused in the middle of a sentence for an instant, as though a flash of recognition had surfaced before he immediately pushed it away.
Ji-han continued his presentation as if nothing had happened, but Nara was certain she hadn’t imagined it.
There had been a brief hesitation in his eyes—a hesitation that shouldn’t have appeared if they were truly strangers to each other.
Nara tried to calm her own racing heart, convincing herself that perhaps she was simply hoping for too much, too eager to find meaning in something that was actually ordinary.
The rest of the presentation lasted forty minutes, covering the various policy proposals his foundation was advocating, minimum safety equipment standards, a more transparent incident-reporting system, and mandatory training for workers in the manufacturing sector.
Nara took notes on several important points, though most of her attention remained fixed on the man onstage, trying to understand what it must feel like to spend one’s entire adult life fighting for justice over the death of the person one loved most.
When the question-and-answer session opened at the end of the presentation, Nara considered raising her hand and asking a question that might open the door to a longer conversation.
But her courage faltered every time she imagined what would happen if Ji-han recognized her directly in front of the entire room.
She decided to wait.
The seminar ended an hour later.
The attendees began rising from their seats, some lining up to take photos or exchange a few words with the speakers.
Nara stood in a corner of the room, watching Ji-han surrounded by several people who wanted to exchange business cards or simply express their appreciation.
She waited for the crowd to begin thinning, gathering the courage to approach him.
But before she could take a step, someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.
Nara turned around, and her heart began pounding again—not because of the person who had tapped her, but because across the room, the man who had just come down from the stage was standing not far away, staring at her with an expression that was difficult to decipher, as though he had just seen something he should never have been able to see.
Slowly, Ji-han walked toward her, ignoring the few people who were still trying to get his attention.
He stopped directly in front of Nara and stared at her in silence for several seconds that felt far longer than they should have.
“Excuse me,” he said at last, his voice quiet but clear. “Have we met before?”