The room had settled into that hushed, almost sacred stillness that only arrives long after the world has grown tired of moving.
Moonlight, cold and drowsy, filtered thinly through the curtains, spreading a faint silver wash across the floor, catching on the scattered pencils, curled corners of sketch paper, and the spine of a half-read comic book lying facedown beside the bed.
The air carried the faint scent of laundry soap, graphite, and the gentle, unspoken comfort that only arises when two people sleep in peace beneath the same roof.
Taejun lay curled against the far wall, his small frame tucked into the cocoon of a thin summer blanket, the fabric twisted slightly around his legs as if he had shifted restlessly before drifting off.
His breathing was soft, slow, steady, the kind of fragile rhythm that only comes after a long day has finally let go of him.
His brow was relaxed now, his fingers slightly curled near his cheek, the faint glow of moonlight tracing the curve of his nose, the swell of his lip, the softness of a boy not yet hardened by the weight of everything he had begun to see.
Across the room, Haneul lay sprawled on his back, one arm draped lazily over his forehead, the other resting across his stomach, rising and falling with each breath.
The blanket barely covered him, kicked down in sleep, and one leg hung slightly over the edge of the mattress.
His expression, though peaceful, still held traces of the day's energy, a furrow between his brows, the faint crease near his mouth from the way he'd smiled at Taejun during the show, or laughed when the prince had fallen out of the sky.
The remnants of his warmth lingered in the air like steam long after a kettle had been taken from the stove.
Outside the window, the night had deepened into something thick and velvety, the kind of darkness that blurs the edges of rooftops and softens the sharp corners of the world.
The last car had passed more than an hour ago, its engine fading into silence and its red taillights swallowed by the curve of the road.
Trees stood in slow, swaying reverence beneath the pale gaze of the moon, their branches breathing against the breeze, casting tangled shadows across the houses like lazy ghosts slipping quietly from one roof to another.
Inside, time felt slowed, suspended in a warm, invisible cradle where even the ticking of the old wall clock downstairs seemed to hesitate between seconds.
The refrigerator's low hum was the only sound that moved, a dull mechanical whisper pressing faintly through the floorboards, unnoticed.
Taejun stirred slightly in his sleep, brows knitting in a faint ripple of unease, lips parting around an unspoken word.
Somewhere within the haze of his dreaming, something was shifting, not sharply, not with fear, but with the unsettling softness of something just out of place.
Images moved slowly through his mind like drifting leaves caught in a still river: a narrow hallway that led nowhere, doorframes taller than they should be, walls stained with shadows that didn't belong.
Somewhere, a dripping sound echoed in the distance, rhythmic and hollow, as though coming from a faucet in a room he couldn't enter.
Then, a voice, barely a whisper, not threatening, but drawn out and wet with sorrow.
It called his name, once, then again, so faintly it seemed born from the seams of the dream itself, as if the dream were remembering him, not the other way around.
He shifted again, but did not wake.
The images passed like mist, and in their place came the crossroads, familiar now, but changed, no longer washed in amber light from a dying sun; it was instead bathed in a pale, washed-out blue, the color of porcelain just before it cracks.
The street was empty.
The tree, the one that stood across from his house, remained still and bare, as though the breeze had forgotten it.
There was no woman, no ghost, only the hollow quiet where she had once stood, as if her presence had been scooped clean out of the world and sealed behind glass.
A breeze passed, too faint to feel, but it carried with it the scent of something out of place, lilies, perhaps, or the memory of them, sharp and sad and far too fragile to belong in the city.
The air seemed to exhale, and the dream dissolved with it, melting away like frost in morning light, vanishing so gently he never knew it had gone.
Taejun's breathing eased once more.
His fingers uncurled.
Whatever tension had crept into his bones slipped quietly back into the dark.
Across the room, Haneul stirred faintly, turned onto his side, and exhaled a breath that was almost a word, though it never quite found shape.
The night continued, vast and undisturbed, no footsteps passed the gate, no shadows lingered near the window, only the stars blinked quietly above the rooftops, and in the little room at the top of the house, two brothers slept on, one wrapped in dreams, the other guarding him with nothing more than his breath, his warmth, and the simple, sacred fact of presence.
Morning crept into the world not with golden light or warmth, but with a pale drizzle that tapped gently against the windows, each droplet falling like a thought left unfinished.
The sky hung low and colorless, smothered beneath a blanket of thick grey clouds that refused to break, their weight pressing down on the rooftops as though reluctant to let the day begin.
Outside, the neighborhood looked almost unreal in its stillness, streets slick with rain, trees bowed with moisture, the familiar colors of fences and hedges muted to the point of vanishing.
It was as if someone had drained the world of saturation overnight, leaving only a faint echo of what had once been vibrant.
Inside the house, however, there remained the soft warmth of routine, the kind that clings to the corners of rooms like an old comforter, worn thin by repetition but still able to hold something close.
The low murmur of the morning news drifted from the television in the living room, a background hum that spoke of politics and weather and tragedies far away.
In the kitchen, ceramic mugs clinked quietly against the table, accompanied by the faint rattle of a spoon stirring sugar into tea, the occasional scrape of toast against a plate, and the rustle of paper as Haneul flipped lazily through a comic book spread open beside his breakfast.
Taejun sat at the table, his small frame hunched slightly over the steaming mug in his hands, the sleeves of his uniform jacket brushing against the ceramic as he lifted the tea toward his face but never drank.
Steam curled upward in soft spirals, dancing just out of reach, and his eyes followed the motion without really seeing it.
Haneul spoke to him, something about the comic's newest issue, a storyline involving time travel and sword fights on rooftops, and Taejun nodded at the right moments, smiled when his brother laughed, and offered the occasional murmur of agreement, though his voice remained low and distant.
There was nothing wrong with the conversation, and yet it felt hollow in a way he couldn't name, like the echo of laughter in an empty room long after the people had gone.
There was a tightness in his chest that hadn't been there the day before, a low ache not born of illness or fear exactly, but something quieter and more persistent, like a warning whispered through a crack in a wall.
He kept glancing toward the window, toward the rain-dappled glass that blurred the street beyond into a watercolor smear of grey and green and brown, and each time he looked, he found himself expecting to see something.
He didn't know what, only that it wasn't there, not yet.
The house smelled faintly of damp clothes and black tea and something else he couldn't identify, something metallic and sour, like rainwater left to sit too long in old metal gutters.
It lingered at the edge of perception, too faint to accuse, but impossible to forget once noticed.
Everything felt slightly off-kilter, as if the house had been rotated a few degrees in the night and nothing had quite settled back into place.
After breakfast, Taejun stood from the table with slow, deliberate movements, his chair sliding back with a sound that seemed too loud in the hush of the kitchen.
He pulled on his schoolbag, the strap tugging awkwardly at the collar of his uniform, and made his way toward the door as Haneul's voice trailed after him, reminding him to take his umbrella and come straight home.
He nodded without turning around, fingers tightening around the doorknob for a moment longer than necessary, as if expecting resistance, perhaps hoping for it.
When he finally stepped outside, the cold met him like a breath from another world, not biting or cruel, but damp and clinging, the kind of chill that slid under clothes and sank deep into the skin.
The drizzle had grown finer, a mist more than rain now, yet it soaked into everything with quiet persistence, beading on his sleeves and hair and settling over the world like a second skin.
The street lay empty, the usual signs of life absent. No other children walked the sidewalks with lunchboxes or umbrellas.
No dogs barked, no birds called from the trees, even the wind, which moved his bangs across his forehead, did not stir the leaves on the branches above.
And that was when he saw her.
Not as a flicker or a shape in the distance, but fully and unmistakably present, standing at the edge of the neighbor's front gate, precisely where she had been the night before.
She had not changed position, had not shifted a single inch, as though the passing hours had washed around her without touching her in any meaningful way.
Her posture remained eerily fixed, arms hanging limply at her sides, head slightly bowed, the long black strands of her hair clinging to her face and neck in sodden tangles.
Her dress, once perhaps pale or floral, was now soiled with streaks of brown and grey, the hem frayed and damp, heavy with rain and time.
Taejun froze with one foot hovering above the stone path, unable to move or breathe or even blink.
His mind stuttered in the space between recognition and disbelief, because it wasn't possible, no one could stand unmoving through the night, exposed to the cold and the wet, without shelter or response.
Yet there she was, not swaying, not shivering, not even breathing visibly.
She existed, like a memory that had refused to fade, burned into the fabric of reality itself.
He wanted to convince himself she had just arrived, that she had stepped out of her house only moments ago, but the mud caked around her bare ankles told a different story.
The way her dress clung to her body in sagging folds suggested hours, not minutes, spent beneath the rain.
And worst of all was the certainty blooming quietly inside him, a cold, blooming truth that told him she had never left.
That she had remained there, motionless and waiting, long after he had fled inside the night before.
The rain seemed to quiet further, as if reluctant to fall in her presence.
And then she moved.
Not her arms, not her legs, just her head.
With a slowness that bordered on agonizing, she lifted her chin and tilted her face toward him, the wet strands of her hair parting ever so slightly to reveal what lay beneath.
Her eyes were the first thing he saw, and they were not simply empty; they were ruined, blackened pits that seemed to swallow the light around them, twin abysses in a face that bore no warmth or recognition.
There was no flicker of anger, no gleam of malice, no spark of life, only hunger with grief.
Her lips parted then, not in a scream or a cry, but with the trembling softness of something about to break.
Her voice emerged slowly, the sound so faint it barely rose above the hush of the drizzle.
"…help…"
The word did not sound like a plea so much as a confession, spoken with the fragile desperation of someone already lost.
It wavered in the air between them, fraying at the edges like damp paper, and dissolved before it could fully reach him.
Yet it struck him with the force of a stone to the chest, stealing his breath and locking his limbs in place.
He stared at her, unable to speak, unable to blink, unable to tear his gaze from those eyes that knew something he did not want to understand.
"…help…"
The word came again, softer this time, barely a whisper, barely a sound at all.
Taejun's heart hammered in his chest, each beat so loud he could feel it in his throat, in his ears, in his fingertips.
He glanced desperately toward the neighbor's house, toward the drawn curtains and the lifeless windows, but found no refuge there, only silence and shadow.
The world had closed itself off.
The street had abandoned him.
And still she stood there, not approaching, not threatening, only watching.
And beneath her gaze, he felt something unravel inside him, something small and frightened that had always believed the daylight would keep the monsters away.
He knew, with a certainty that chilled him deeper than the rain, that if he acknowledged her fully, if he met her eyes, if he spoke a word, if he reached out his hand, something would change.
He didn't know what. He didn't want to know.
So he turned slowly.
He forced one foot in front of the other, then another, walking away with every muscle taut and screaming.
The rain grew colder with each step, sliding down his back like fingers made of ice.
The trees whispered above him without moving.
The wind pressed against his face, yet the leaves on the ground remained still.
Behind him, her voice followed.
"…help me…"
He did not look back.
He did not speak.
He did not run.
Because the moment he did, the moment he acknowledged the truth of what stood behind him, the boundary between his world and hers would vanish, and he would never be able to return.
And so, with eyes fixed on the road ahead, on the damp pavement leading toward the school, he kept walking.
And he prayed the silence would not follow.