The first hour

Bo Ah arrived at the restaurant just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings. The golden light washed over the street, but nothing about it felt warm to her.

She stepped inside and gave her usual soft greeting. “I’m here.”

Her boss, a kind man in his late forties, looked up from behind the counter and gave her a once-over. “You look like someone just stepped on your shadow again.”

Bo Ah offered a faint smile. “Just tired.”

Without saying another word, he reached into the small freezer beside him and pulled out a cup of vanilla ice cream—the cheap kind with just enough sweetness to make you forget your worries for a minute.

He held it out to her. “Here. On the house. You need it.”

Bo Ah hesitated, then took it with a small bow. “Thank you.”

She sat at her usual corner booth, slowly peeling off the lid. The ice cream melted slightly around the edges, just how she liked it. As she took her first spoonful, her eyes fell on a crumpled piece of paper stuffed in her phone case.

The list.

The dramas the mysterious woman from a few days ago had written for her.

Her eyes traced the titles again. And there it was.

Our Happy Hour.

She tapped on her phone and found it online easily. The thumbnail showed a man and a woman standing at a beach, looking away from each other. The title card faded in soft pastel letters.

There were still no customers. The restaurant was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and a few distant car horns outside.

She pressed play.

The episode started.

Soft music. Rain. A woman sitting alone at a hospital bench. A man walking by without an umbrella. He paused, looked at her, and asked, “Are you waiting for someone who won’t come?”

Bo Ah blinked.

That line hit her a little too hard.

She leaned in, spoon still in her mouth, eyes fixed on the screen.

Bo Ah was completely drawn in.

The way the characters looked at each other without speaking, the slow pacing, the music it wasn’t just a drama. It was a feeling. Something about it was alive.

She had barely made it twenty minutes into the first episode when the restaurant bell chimed.

A customer.

Then another.

And another.

Her boss peeked his head out from the kitchen. “Bo Ah, can you take table three and four? Looks like dinner rush came early.”

She forced herself to pause the episode, quickly stuffing her phone into her apron pocket. “Yes, coming.”

But her mind was still in the hospital hallway from the drama the one where the man and woman first locked eyes.

She carried trays, took orders, cleaned tables, but the scene kept replaying in her head.

“Are you waiting for someone who won’t come?”

She couldn’t shake that line.

It felt like it was meant for her. Like the drama somehow knew her… understood her.

She scribbled down orders automatically, barely hearing the voices around her. Her hand delivered plates with practiced muscle memory, but her thoughts stayed glued to the screen she couldn’t look at.

The more customers poured in, the more frustrated she grew.

Why today? Why now?

The restaurant buzzed with laughter and chatter, but all she could think about was returning to that quiet, rainy bench in episode one.

Just one more minute… she thought every time she passed the corner booth where her ice cream sat melting.

But there was no time.

And the more she was pulled away from the drama, the more it ached.

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