The velvet curtains were stiff with age. When Ethan Han pulled them apart, the fabric shuddered and released a flurry of dust motes that danced like tiny ghosts in the afternoon light. The scent of cedar and timeworn books filled the study, wrapping around him in a way that was strangely intimate, like stepping into the memory of a stranger.
He should have felt nothing. This was another property, another asset to be cataloged, renovated, and ultimately sold to the highest bidder. That was what he did best turning old spaces into new profits. But as he crossed the threshold, a chill threaded up the back of his neck, and for reasons he couldn't explain, he stopped short.
The air itself felt heavy with a story he hadn't yet heard.
"Mr. Han?"
His assistant, Jihoon, hovered just inside the doorway, tablet in hand, expression uncertain. "Do you want me to call the contractors? The foundation report says the structure's unstable, and the electricians"
"Later," Ethan said, his voice softer than he intended.
Jihoon blinked, unused to any hesitation from the man who'd built Han Global Holdings into a billion-dollar empire by age thirty-two. Ethan never stalled. He never second-guessed. But now, in this forgotten house outside Gyeongju, something felt different.
He stepped further into the study. The wooden floor creaked in protest under his polished shoes. Sunlight slanted across a massive oil painting above the cold hearth. It was the only decoration in the otherwise spare room.
A woman, her gaze lifted just past the viewer, her expression delicate and tinged with sorrow. She wore a pale pink hanbok, the embroidered skirts pooling around her ankles, her long dark hair pinned in an intricate braid that spoke of noble blood.
Ethan couldn't look away.
"Who is she?" he murmured.
Jihoon shuffled closer, glancing at the tarnished brass plaque beneath the frame. "'Lady Seo-yun. Born 1821. Presumed deceased 1844.'"
"Presumed," Ethan repeated.
"Yes, sir. She vanished. The local archives mention rumors scandal, forbidden romance, that kind of thing." Jihoon's voice dropped as though the walls might still remember. "Her family was among the last yangban in the region."
He knew the word. The old aristocracy of the Joseon dynasty. Bloodlines that measured worth in centuries and called commoners by names that barely sounded human.
And yet…
Her painted eyes didn't look cold. They looked heartbreakingly alive.
"She looks young," Ethan said after a long moment.
"She was twenty-three when she disappeared," Jihoon confirmed. "Some say she fell in love with a scholar. Others claim she ran off with a servant." He cleared his throat, clearly eager to steer the conversation back to things that made sense, like ledgers and inspection permits. "Sir, the contractors can have the place cleared by next week. We can start evaluating restoration costs"
"No." Ethan's gaze never left the portrait.
Jihoon stopped. "Sir?"
"We're not gutting this house," Ethan said quietly. "Not yet."
A flicker of confusion crossed Jihoon's face. "Forgive me, but this isn't your usual approach. The property's not exactly"
"Just catalog everything," Ethan said. "Make a record of every piece. Don't remove anything."
Jihoon hesitated only a moment before bowing. "Understood."
The door clicked shut, and silence crept back into the study.
Ethan exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The rational part of his mind ticked through the facts: he was exhausted after three weeks of trans-Pacific negotiations; he hadn't eaten since dawn; he'd never believed in ghosts.
But none of those things explained why he felt like this woman this long-dead noblewoman was waiting for him to do something.
He approached the fireplace. The closer he got, the more he noticed the finer details her slender hands clasped over a small lacquered box, the glint of a hairpin that didn't match the rest of her attire. A secret tucked in plain sight.
"You're not just a footnote in an archive, are you?" he murmured.
Of course, she didn't answer.
And yet…
A draft slipped under the door, rustling the edges of yellowed papers stacked on the desk. A single page fluttered loose, gliding to the floor.
Ethan bent to retrieve it.
The paper was brittle, the ink faded but still legible. He couldn't read much his grasp of classical Korean was thin at best but the date at the top made his heart lurch.
April 12, 1844.
The last day she was seen alive.
He looked up at the portrait, his pulse a slow, unsteady drumbeat.
For a man who built his reputation on cold, rational decisions, this was absurd. Yet he felt certain he was standing on the edge of something vast and unseen, as if he'd stumbled across a hidden door that only opened when no one else was looking.
He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
His phone buzzed. Jihoon again. Probably to press for permission to start the clearance. He ignored it, studying Lady Seo-yun's face one last time.
If the stories were true if she had risked everything for love, only to vanish into disgrace then maybe the house itself remembered.
Maybe she was waiting for someone willing to listen.
And maybe, Ethan thought with a quiet, inexplicable ache, he was the only one left to hear her.
He forced himself to turn away. The rest of the house loomed behind him: shadowed corridors, locked doors, countless artifacts sealed in dust. Each one a puzzle piece he hadn't known he was searching for.
This was supposed to be a simple transaction. A neglected property, an easy flip.
But now he felt a reluctant, inexorable pull.
He glanced back at the portrait.
"I'll find out what happened to you," he whispered. "I don't know why it matters. But it does."
The air in the study seemed to shift, settling around him like the hush before a confession.
Ethan Han didn't believe in destiny. But for the first time in years, he felt something close to it, low and insistent in his chest.
A promise.