And then— A voice beside him, low and offhand, like it had been waiting a long time for this exact moment.
"Hey."
Taejun turned his head slowly, as if surfacing from a warm, quiet dream.
Hanjun stood there.
His uniform was clean, crisp, even, but ill-fitting— like it belonged to someone he used to be.
The sleeves hovered just above his wrists, and the collar sat too snug against his neck.
He looked like a child mid-metamorphosis, caught between sizes and selves.
His shoulders were broader than they should've been, arms too long by a finger's span, giving his silhouette the uncanny proportions of a mannequin dressed to pass as a child, close, but not quite.
And yet, nothing about him looked awkward.
He carried the strange, silent composure of someone who'd grown up too fast.
Like a boy who'd walked through a few too many winters and come out the other side quieter, steadier, knowing more than he ought to.
"What's your name?" Hanjun asked, his voice quiet, like the question was meant only for Taejun and not the classroom at large.
Taejun blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it.
There was nothing unusual about the words, but the way Hanjun said them— soft and certain, like the room itself had leaned in to listen— made something deep inside him pause.
"…Shin Taejun."
The name tumbled from his lips like something long buried and half-remembered, dry and brittle from disuse.
Saying it felt strange, like dragging an old toy out from the back of a forgotten drawer.
Hanjun's grin widened.
It was bright and easy, like it had been waiting patiently for Taejun to say it.
"Nice to meet you, Taejun. Let's be friends."
And something cracked.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't even visible.
But Taejun felt it— a ripple in the fabric of the room, like a thread had snapped in the hem of reality.
The air around them thinned.
Overhead, the fluorescent lights hiccupped, stuttering once as if something had brushed against the wiring.
For a moment, everything paused.
The murmur of voices dipped.
Chairs stopped creaking.
Even the breath of the classroom seemed to hitch.
The children noticed it.
They couldn't say how or why, but they felt the shift.
Heads turned, almost involuntarily, eyes blinking as if seeing something new.
A few kids stared straight at Taejun like they were noticing him for the very first time— like he had only just now appeared, fully formed, dropped gently into the seat at the back of the room.
Gasps flitted like startled butterflies, small and fluttering.
"Who's that?" someone whispered.
"I didn't see him come in," another murmured.
Then, just like that, it was gone.
As though a curtain had been hastily drawn back into place.
The noise returned, the giggles and whispers resuming as if someone had pressed play again.
But it was thinner now, more rehearsed, like the illusion of normalcy had been patched up too quickly, seams showing where they hadn't before.
Taejun didn't move.
He just sat there, breath tight in his chest, feeling the afterimage of that moment cling to him like a shadow beneath his skin.
The classroom hadn't changed, but it no longer felt the same.
The sunlight still poured through the windows, stretching golden shapes across the floor.
The desks, the smell of chalk, the faint hum of the ceiling fans— all of it remained.
But the warmth had dulled, like light filtered through frost.
The floor was still sun-drenched, but now the sun felt far away.
And outside, somewhere in the courtyard, a parent slowed mid-step, phone in hand, glancing back at the school as though a soft instinct tugged at them— an itch they couldn't place.
They lingered a second too long, then turned away.
"Alright, class!" Ms. Jang clapped her hands, cutting through the fog.
Her voice rang like a bell— bright, practiced, filled with something between cheer and duty.
"Now that we've all gotten to know each other a little better, who's ready to see their new school?"
Her smile was warm and lived-in, the kind that came from years of saying the same lines but still meaning every word.
She sounded like someone who knew the exact stops on the ride ahead and couldn't wait to share them.
A few children straightened up, eyes wide with curiosity.
Others shifted nervously, gripping backpack straps with small, fidgeting fingers.
"Line up by the door," she instructed, twirling a hand.
"Hands behind your backs. Eyes forward— like little ducklings!"
The chairs screeched and scraped against the linoleum as kids scrambled to their feet.
Some bolted ahead, eager to be first.
Others lingered, laughing and tugging at each other's sleeves.
Backpacks bumped. Shoes squeaked.
The room was filled with the charming, chaotic rustle of young children on the brink of a new adventure.
"Settle down, little ducklings," Ms. Jang teased, her voice light but firm, finger raised like a conductor's baton. "We're not a pond full of chatter!"
That made them laugh harder.
They lined up, more or less, in a lopsided trail.
Jisoo whispered excitedly, "I bet we'll see the music room!"
Minjae grinned, "Or the roof garden! My sister said it has flowers bigger than your whole head!"
Taejun fell in at the very end, silent but watchful.
He noticed everything— the soft swing of Ms. Jang's ponytail, the faint squeak of her shoes, the sunlight draped across the corridor like a long golden scarf.
Dust motes danced in the beams, and the polished floor glowed like it remembered a thousand footsteps before theirs.
Outside the tall windows, a few parents still lingered, peering in through the glass with proud, worried eyes.
One mother waved both arms and mouthed, "Be good!"
Another tried to snap a photo before being gently scolded by a security guard.
Some parents had already drifted off, gathered in small knots at the gate, pretending not to hover while they exchanged phone numbers and awkward small talk.
But their eyes kept drifting back, just in case.
Inside, the hallway was alive.
"Now," Ms. Jang called cheerfully, walking backward in front of the line, "on your right is the nurse's office! If you get a scrape or your tummy feels funny, Nurse Min will take good care of you."
Little faces pressed against the glass.
Inside, the office was tidy and inviting— plush cushions in pastel colors, piles of folded blankets, and a stuffed tiger propped on the windowsill, one paw wrapped in gauze like a patient awaiting treatment.
"Looks like a nap room," Minjae whispered, already dreaming up imaginary ailments.
Ms. Jang pivoted.
"To your left is the bathroom. Use it when you need it. Don't forget to raise your hand during class. No running, no yelling, and please— no playing with the sinks."
A ripple of giggles.
"And definitely no flushing the toilet twelve times in a row like you're trying to unlock a secret dungeon."
Laughter burst like bubbles. Real, sweet laughter— the kind that crinkles noses and makes shoulders shake.
Jisoo raised a finger in mock indignation. "It wasn't me last year!"
Even the quietest kids chuckled. Someone muttered, "She totally did it," and the whole line snorted.
Ms. Jang raised a brow, expression unreadable.
"Thank you, Jisoo. Good to know you've adapted."
Jisoo turned pink and hid behind Minjae, grinning despite herself.
The line moved again, wobbling forward as Ms. Jang continued the tour.
The walls were lined with student artwork— sunflowers with googly eyes, castles that leaned sideways, hearts and stars, and crayon scribbles.
Some were fresh, others faded and curled at the corners.
It felt like walking through a scrapbook that had been alive long before they'd arrived.
"This is Room 207," she said, stopping mid-step.
The door ahead was plain and wooden, but a thick yellow X had been taped across it.
A sign hung askew: DO NOT ENTER – WET PAINT.
"It's off-limits for now," Ms. Jang said breezily.
"They're repainting inside, so if something smells funny, that's all it is."
A few kids sniffed the air.
"Smells like lemons," one of them said.
"That's the paint. They add the scent so it doesn't smell like, well… paint."
She moved on, expecting them to follow, but several lingered— Jisoo, Minjae, and a boy named Sunwoo, who rarely spoke but watched everything.
His gaze didn't leave the bottom of the door.
And then, a sound.
A knock from the other side of the door.
Jisoo went still. Minjae's grin faltered. Sunwoo narrowed his eyes.
"I heard that," Jisoo whispered.
"Maybe… maybe a painter's still inside," Minjae offered, though his voice had gone thin, almost see-through.
Sunwoo tilted his head, gaze unwavering.
"No one's supposed to be in there," he murmured, almost to himself.
And the hallway held its breath.
Before anyone had the chance to respond, the knock came again— softer now, as though whoever, or whatever, had knocked the first time had grown tired.
There was a dragging quality to the sound this time, a faint scrape that conjured images none of the children wanted to imagine.
It didn't feel like a knock meant to get attention anymore.
It felt like something trying to be remembered.
Jisoo didn't wait for permission or encouragement.
Her eyes widened, and she darted down the hallway, her shoes tapping quickly against the scuffed floors as she called out for Ms. Jang, her voice echoing in the long corridor that still held the dust of countless passing feet and old, faded laughter.
She returned only a moment later, cheeks flushed, dragging behind her two men in maintenance uniforms— familiar faces around the school, though not the kind the children often paid much attention to.
One of them was tall and thin, with a drooping cap and a weathered face that looked carved from tired stone.
The other, stockier and younger, moved with the distracted ease of someone who hadn't yet learned to hate his job.
"We sealed that room this morning," the taller man muttered, squinting toward the door as if trying to see through it.
"No one's been in since, and it should still be locked up tight."
"But we heard knocking," Minjae insisted, standing a little straighter as he spoke, his voice calm but certain.
"And we heard it twice."
The tall man sighed and stepped forward.
He tried the handle, rattling it once before pulling away. Still locked.
He crouched down slowly, joints popping like old floorboards, and peered through the narrow slit at the base of the door.
There was a long silence as he stared into the black.
"It's empty," he said at last, rising with effort.
"The lights are off and the floor's dry. Oh, the paint's cured, though the smell's still sticking around. Old buildings always hang on to things, perhaps."
He gave his hands a half-hearted brush against his pants, then cast a glance down the hallway, his eyes scanning the peeling bulletin boards and the faded locker stickers.
The corridor felt dimmer somehow, as if the sunlight coming through the windows had taken a step back.
"Now, now," he muttered, shifting his belt and speaking in that weary tone only adults who have spent too many years in the same place develop.
"Little kids shouldn't be hanging around places like this. Especially not during cleaning hours."
He squinted again, this time at the children, his expression softening but still unreadable.
"Where's your teacher?"
Minjae, Jisoo, and Sunwoo exchanged a silent glance, the kind of glance kids shared when they weren't sure whether they were in trouble.
None of them spoke.
Instead, their heads tilted downward in subtle, guilty unison— small, reluctant shakes that answered nothing and everything all at once.
The shorter maintenance worker chuckled under his breath, a dry little sound that didn't quite reach his eyes, but the tall man crouched slightly to meet their gaze.
His face cracked into a grin— not mean, but the kind of grin grown-ups give when they're teasing kids just enough to make them squirm.
"You three shouldn't be anywhere near this room," he said with mock seriousness, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.
"You know what they say. Room 207's got a ghost."
Jisoo's eyes widened again, lips parting as she instinctively stepped closer to Minjae.
The man leaned in, eyes twinkling, and added in a hoarse whisper, "And worse… if you get too close, it might just eat you."
That was enough.
Minjae let out a startled noise that was half-laugh, half-gasp, and grabbed Jisoo's sleeve.
She didn't argue.
They turned and hurried down the hall, their sneakers tapping in rhythm on the smooth floor, past old class photos and dusty windows that hadn't opened in years.
They ran toward the familiar sound of other children— toward life and noise and light— until they turned the corner and disappeared into the fold of the school.
Sunwoo didn't follow right away.
He stood at the edge of the yellow caution tape, the kind that fluttered slightly whenever a breeze sneaked in from a stairwell.
He stared at the sealed door, unmoving, his expression unreadable but pale, like something had been left behind in his eyes.
Something that had heard the knocking differently than the others.
"You too, kid," the taller man said, softer this time. Just a gentle nudge, more kind than strict.
Sunwoo blinked once, slowly, as if surfacing from deep water.
Then he turned without a word and walked after his friends, his steps quiet, his back a little too straight.
The hallway grew still again.
The quiet that followed wasn't the usual kind of school silence.
It felt heavier, like the air itself was listening.
The two maintenance men remained behind, standing near the sealed door of Room 207.
Then— another knock.
So faint it almost could've been imagined.
But they both heard it. A slow, dragging sound again.
A hollow thump muffled by thick walls.
The shorter man frowned. "You sure no one's in there?"
"I locked it myself," the tall one said, though this time his voice carried less certainty, more hesitation.
His words hung in the air, brittle as dry paint.
There was another pause.
Then came a second knock.
Lower this time.
Not from the center of the door— but from near the floor, where no hand should reach unless it was crawling.
They turned toward the door in unison.
Neither of them moved right away.
The taller man took a slow step forward and crouched once more, lowering himself to eye level with the gap beneath the door.
The floor beneath him creaked.
He peered into the thin black line.
Still nothing. Just darkness.
But it wasn't the kind of darkness you dismissed.
It had depth to it, like a curtain pulled tight against something waiting behind it.
He stayed there longer than he meant to, his breath shallow as the sounds of the school faded behind him— the distant laughter, the scraping of chairs, the clatter of a dropped pencil.
It all seemed too far away, as though he'd stepped just slightly out of sync with the world.
At last, he stood up slowly, dusting off his knees.
"Probably nothing," he muttered, his voice forced light, a brittle kind of casual.
"You know, old building. You know how it is. Pipes. Settling, and things."
The shorter man didn't respond. He was still staring at the door. Listening to him.
Then, from deep within the room, came a new sound, like something being dragged across the floorboards.
It didn't stop. Not right away.
It drew out just long enough to make them question whether they'd heard it right.
They froze.
Neither man said a word this time.
The taller one exhaled slowly and shifted on his feet.
"Maybe it could've been the pipes," he said again, quieter now.
"The walls creak in this place. It's been doing it for years, especially in the fall."
He turned to go, but paused just as he had.
For the briefest moment— just a flicker— he thought he saw movement in the gap beneath the door.
A shape. A whisper of motion, like fingers slowly curling back into the dark.
He didn't speak. Didn't blink again.
Just turned and walked away, his footsteps muffled as he joined the other man.
They didn't speak as they left.
And behind them, Room 207 remained closed.
Quiet but not empty.