The smile on his brother's face softened like the last glow of sunlight over rooftops, the hard edges of worry smoothed into something warmer, something gentler.
His eyes, which had moments ago seemed lifeless in the darkened hallway, now lit up with that familiar mischief Taejun used to see when they played rock-paper-scissors over the last dumpling.
He stood there in the doorway, hair tousled from the wind, his crooked grin tilted just slightly to the left, the way it always did when he was nervous or caught off guard.
A plastic convenience store bag dangled from one hand, crinkling with every subtle shift of his weight, and his other hand moved behind his head in that sheepish gesture Taejun had known since they were small— an unconscious tic, as if he were trying to hide his guilt under his palm.
"Did I scare you?" his brother asked, letting out a quick laugh, light and apologetic.
"Sorry! I didn't think you'd be standing right behind the door like that."
Taejun opened his mouth, but no sound came. His jaw shifted slightly, then stilled.
He blinked once, twice.
The monster hadn't vanished completely.
Its image still clung to his vision like the afterglow of a camera flash— those glowing eyes, the gaping mouth, the breath that reeked of rot and something older than death.
He stared at his brother as if unsure what part of this belonged to reality and what still belonged to the nightmare.
His brother's hand extended the plastic bag toward him, fingers brushing the air between them.
"I brought chicken," he said, almost proudly.
"I got a bonus at work today. I figured we could eat together like the old times sometimes."
Taejun reached out.
The bag was warm and greasy at the bottom, and his hands trembled so badly that the thin plastic rustled like dry leaves crushed underfoot.
The smell of soy garlic and fried batter rose to meet him, rich and grounding, like something familiar trying to pull him back into his own body.
But beneath it lingered the phantom scent of iron and decay, clinging stubbornly to the back of his throat.
He gave a faint nod, unable to trust his voice with something so fragile as words.
His brother chuckled softly, already stepping inside, toeing off his shoes with the lazy ease of someone coming home after a long day.
That night passed like a fogged-up window.
Everything was visible but slightly out of focus, edges smudged, sounds muffled.
They sat at the small table where they used to do homework as kids, now scattered with mismatched dishes and packets of pickled radish.
The chicken tasted fine— salty, crispy, a little too oily— but every time the floor creaked or a shadow shifted, Taejun flinched.
He couldn't help it. The air felt wrong. It was hollow.
As though the apartment hadn't fully exhaled whatever had been breathing through it.
His brother talked as he always did— casual and animated, chuckling about a coworker who got caught sleeping in the storage room, complaining about how the cold was creeping in faster this year.
But the words passed through Taejun like wind through a broken window.
He nodded when it felt appropriate.
Laughed once or twice, the sound dry in his throat.
All the while, his gaze kept flicking up to his brother's eyes, watching, waiting, looking for a crack, a slip, a glimpse of something still wearing his brother's skin.
By the time dawn crept in through the blinds, pale and stretched thin like old parchment, Taejun hadn't slept.
The light spilled across the wooden floor in quiet gold ribbons, catching the dust as it danced lazily in the air.
The dust looked beautiful, almost, in that soft morning hush, like snow frozen mid-fall.
But none of it felt warm. Not really.
The sunlight skimmed across his skin without sinking in.
It was there, but it didn't touch him.
He moved through the room like he was underwater, dressing slowly, his limbs stiff, uncooperative.
Every sock, every button, every step felt like an effort.
The collar of his shirt sat wrong against his neck.
His pants clung uncomfortably to his legs, damp from sweat or something worse, something he didn't want to name.
When he finally shuffled to the table, his brother was already seated, spoon in hand, grinning as if nothing had happened.
"Look at that," he said, motioning to the plate.
"Tteokbokki for breakfast. What kind of brother am I, huh?"
Steam curled gently from the shallow dish, carrying the sweet-spicy scent of gochujang and sugar.
Taejun sat down, nodding once.
The spoon in his hand felt strangely cold, the metal heavier than usual.
The kind of weight that didn't belong to steel.
"Special breakfast today," his brother added, poking at a rice cake with his chopsticks.
"Gotta start the year off right."
Taejun frowned. His voice scraped its way out. "It's April."
His brother paused— not long, just enough to notice.
The grin didn't vanish, but it shifted.
It grew wider at the corners like something behind it was tugging too hard on invisible strings.
"Right. Still," he said with a shrug, "no harm in celebrating, right? The first week's always the hardest. So, how was school? Met anyone yet? Made a friend or two?"
Taejun looked down at the food.
The red sauce gleamed dully under the kitchen light.
It wasn't the vibrant orange-red he remembered from street carts and childhood picnics.
It was darker, something heavier, like dried blood warming on porcelain.
The rice cakes sat bloated and slick in the bowl, swollen like something that had been left out too long.
He picked one up, hesitated, then took a bite.
The texture was wrong.
It fought back.
Gummy and thick, refusing to break apart, like cartilage or sinew caught between molars.
The flavor followed— sweet, yes, but with a bitter edge, a metallic taste like rust, like the taste of a penny pressed to the tongue.
He swallowed with effort, every muscle in his throat resisting the gesture.
His brother watched him. "Taejun?"
He didn't answer, just stared into the bowl, fingers tightening around the spoon.
"You're quiet," his brother said. "Rough day?"
"I'm fine."
"Is it nightmares?"
Taejun froze; something in his chest caught.
He raised his eyes slowly, his heartbeat loud and slow in his ears.
His brother was still smiling, but the smile was fixed now, unmoving.
His eyes didn't blink.
He didn't scan the room.
They just stared, patient and wrong, like he was waiting for a cue.
Taejun shook his head. "No."
His brother stood abruptly, his voice light again.
"Wait! Forgot the kimchi." He moved to the fridge, opened it.
The mechanical hum of the appliance filled the room like static, every noise slightly too loud.
The cold air rolled out in a breath.
Taejun watched the back of his brother's hoodie.
The fabric clung to his left shoulder, darkened at the seam.
Damp, but not with water. It was something thicker, something that didn't dry easily.
And then it was gone. Blink, and normalcy returned.
His brother placed the dish on the table.
"There. Now it's a real breakfast." He stirred the bowl gently, rice cakes circling like they were being hypnotized.
"You've gotta eat. You'll fall behind if you don't keep your strength up."
Taejun didn't move.
The red sauce had spilled over the edge, dripping down the side of the bowl and pooling on the table like a wound.
He stared at it.
"I'm heading out first," his brother said, grabbing his coat with practiced ease.
"Don't forget to lock up, okay? And don't be late."
Taejun didn't speak.
The door opened, then shut.
Silence.
He sat in that silence for a long time, watching the steam rise from his food.
It didn't waver.
It curled upward in perfect spirals, unnatural and too still, like something was pulling it into place.
The air in the apartment felt full, not with sound, but with something heavier, like breath held just out of sight.
Eventually, he stood. He moved toward the door.
But as he passed the shoe rack, his eyes dropped— something instinctual, or perhaps dread, had guided them.
There it was, a stain, small but undeniable.
Rust-colored in the center, damp at the edges, the pattern spreading through the floorboards like veins. It pulsed with memory.
He crouched, touched it.
His fingers came away sticky.
Red.
Not the sauce.
His breath caught.
His hands trembled.
He wiped the blood off on his pants, the smear staining the fabric like ink.
It was too real.
He stepped into the hallway.
The light flickered overhead, casting long, distorted shadows.
The walls leaned too close.
The silence followed him, heavy and alert, as if something unseen was still holding its breath.
And though the street outside buzzed with life— honking horns, chattering children, the smell of coffee from the corner cart— he couldn't shake the feeling that something was still watching him from just beyond the edge of memory.
Something that had worn his brother's smile just a little too well.
But then he saw it.
Across the street, just beyond the steady stream of morning commuters and yawning parents, stood a silhouette— still as stone, impossibly tall, and curiously adrift.
It didn't walk. It didn't stand.
It simply hovered there, toes not quite touching the pavement, as though the earth itself had quietly decided not to bear its weight.
Its face was not hidden by shadow so much as erased from reality— a murky void, darker than shadow, like a smudge on the fabric of the world.
No features. No eyes.
Just a blankness that pulled at the corners of Taejun's memory, like something he should remember but couldn't quite hold onto.
And yet, no one else saw it.
Not a single person.
The crowd swirled around it effortlessly, unfazed, their chatter unbroken, their steps unaltered, like it had always been there— or never was.
Taejun blinked once, then again.
The shape dissolved.
Nothing remained.
Just people and cars and the faint rumble of a city waking up.
He didn't stop walking.
The school building grew closer, casting long shadows in the slanted light.
Its paint was a cheerful pastel— too cheerful, like someone had tried to cover something up.
The murals along the outer wall smiled down with cracking eyes and peeling cheeks: cartoon suns, stick-figure kids, birds flying forever in chipped arcs across a blue sky that had long since faded to gray.
The iron fence was lined with flowers, or what was left of them— plastic daisies bleached bone-white by seasons of sun and rain.
The smell of wet concrete clung to the air, mingled with the faint, ghostly odor of cafeteria stew and aluminum lunch trays.
Inside, the hallways had already begun to pulse with noise and color.
Parents clustered in twos and threes, crouching beside desks, whispering soft encouragements and wiping smudges off their children's cheeks.
A mother tucked a note into her daughter's backpack, hand lingering a little too long.
A father crouched to hug his son with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Some kids clung like vines to their parents, others stood stiffly with wet cheeks and red noses.
A few teachers hovered nearby, trying to manage the swell, their voices warm but strained.
Somewhere, behind the staffroom door, a quiet argument festered— Taejun heard the sharp syllables of a father's voice, taut with worry.
He moved through it all like a ghost, barely brushing sleeves, unnoticed by the adults, untouched by the warmth.
He was looking for her.
The girl from before.
The one with the bright ribbon in her hair and that laugh, sharp, sudden, impossibly full of life.
She wasn't there.
Not by the fish tank.
Not at her desk.
Not in the hallway, giggling behind someone's back.
He felt something small and mean tighten in his chest.
Don't think about it.
Don't think about the red on the floor, or the smell that clung to the corners of his room like something forgotten.
Don't think about the thing in the dream— that dream that wasn't a dream at all— the knife glinting like a second moon, the face behind it not entirely unfamiliar.
He kept his head low, letting the noise wash over him in blinding waves.
Laughter. Whispers.
A sharp reprimand sliced through the din.
His footsteps made no sound on the linoleum floor, but the world around him echoed like a tunnel filled with rushing water.
When he reached the door to Class 1-2, he hesitated only a moment before pulling it open.
The track let out a groan, metal grinding like old bones, drawing stares.
A few students turned.
One boy flinched so hard his pencil flew from his hand and rolled under a desk.
Taejun murmured a soft apology and made his way to his seat by the window, heart thudding like he'd done something wrong.
The classroom was warmer than the hall, heavy with the smells of waxed floors, chalk dust, and something sour that lived in forgotten lunchboxes or beneath the radiator grates.
Morning sunlight poured in through the high windows in golden bars, catching in the dust and drawing long, prison-like shadows across the rows of desks.
He sat without a word.
The surface of his desk was familiar and not scratched initials, pencil grooves, but now something new: a spiral gouged into the corner.
Deep, deliberate, and not there yesterday.
Voices drifted around him.
"Did you hear? That girl in Class 1-1? She didn't come back home yesterday."
"My mom said she saw the police outside last night…"
"I bet she just moved, or caught a cold."
"Yeah, but… what about the sound? That scream?"
A girl in the front hugged herself, lips trembling.
"It didn't sound human. Like... something was pretending to be human and got it wrong."
"Shh! We'll get in trouble."
Taejun said nothing.
His face remained still, but something curled and twisted in his stomach like wet rope.
He stared straight ahead as the room filled— too many feet, too many whispers.
Then: two sharp claps.
Ms. Jang stood at the front, the same wide smile pressed onto her face, her dress decorated with tiny cartoon peaches, sleeves fluttering as she gestured toward the class.
"Alright, everyone! Time to begin our class session!"
The class captain, a boy whose voice was always too loud for his size, shot to attention.
"Stand up!"
The chairs screeched.
A wave of legs scraped back from their desks.
"Good morning, teacher!"
"Good morning, little stars!" Ms. Jang beamed. "Let's make today even more wonderful than yesterday, alright?"
"Yes, teacher!"
"But maybe next time," Ms. Jang said gently, her voice laced with that soft, sing-song patience only the kindest teachers seemed to master, "we should also practice how we introduce ourselves properly."
She paused, letting her gaze sweep across the rows of small, eager faces, her smile never wavering.
"Your greeting was wonderful— so bright and full of energy— but remember, it's even more polite if we bow while folding our hands like this."
She stepped away from the chalkboard and turned to face the class fully.
Her peach-patterned dress swayed slightly as she brought her hands together, fingers nestled neatly in front of her chest, and dipped into a graceful bow, her head lowering just enough to show respect without seeming too formal.
The motion was fluid, practiced, almost like part of a song she'd known since she was a child herself.
"Like this," she said softly, rising back up. "You try."
There was a brief shuffle of movement, a rustle of sleeves, and a scraping of chairs as the children mirrored her.
Some bowed a little too low, some not quite enough; a few giggled at themselves, unsure if they were doing it right, while others peeked sideways to see if their classmates were doing any better.
"Good," Ms. Jang encouraged, clapping her hands once with a light snap that drew their attention again.
"And then, after you bow, you say, 'Annyeonghaseyo.' Can we try that together?"
All around the room, small voices bubbled up in unison.
"Annyeonghaseyo!" they chimed, sweet and slightly imperfect, the way only first graders could sound— some stretching the word too long, others skipping over syllables with excitement.
A few said it too softly, their shyness catching in their throats, while others beamed with pride, voices lifted like tiny flags of accomplishment.
Ms. Jang nodded, her eyes bright with affection.
"Perfect," she said, and though she meant the performance, her tone made it feel like she was speaking to each child individually, as if every single one of them was the reason her morning felt meaningful.
For a moment, the classroom seemed to glow— not with the sunlight filtering through the windows or the bright murals painted across the walls, but with something quieter and warmer.
It was the glow of a memory in the making, the kind that lingers long after the desks are empty and the name tags peeled away.
The children sat, the noise of their chairs a second wave of sound.
Ms. Jang's eyes swept the room like they always did— but this time, they paused.
Just for a moment.
On the empty seat in the back.
The one that had held the girl with the ribbon.
Her name tag was still there, faded ink curling at the edges.
Ms. Jang didn't say a word about it.
She simply turned and began writing the date on the board in smooth, careful strokes.
"April 4th," she said. "Now, who remembers what special day is coming this week?"
"Children's Day!"
"My birthday!"
"Field trip!"
She laughed, soft and warm.
"All wonderful guesses, but I was thinking of something else…"
While the classroom bubbled with energy, Taejun stayed quiet.
He kept glancing at that chair, waiting for it to scrape back from the desk, for her to burst in late, hair flying, voice too loud, and laugh too bright. But the door stayed closed.
The space stayed empty.
He turned back to the window.
The yard outside was golden, peaceful.
A janitor wheeled a rattling cart past the flowerbed, whistling something off-key and oddly cheerful.
The trees barely swayed.
Everything shimmered with that strange stillness of early morning, as if the day itself was trying too hard to feel normal.
But it wasn't normal.
The stillness felt held; it was as if stretched, like the entire school was holding its breath, waiting for something to move.
Taejun didn't know what, but somewhere deep inside, in a part of him that dreams had scratched and memory had bruised, he felt it coming.
That desk wouldn't stay empty, something was waiting to sit there.
And next time… it might not be someone who walked in through the door.