Seong-ah turned on her heel, her footsteps light but firm on the wooden floor. "Gyeon-woo," she said over her shoulder, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her concern, "don't let yourself get consumed by unnecessary, dark thoughts. If you do… Grandma would be sad."
Her words hung in the room like a warm, protective blanket. Gyeon-woo stayed frozen for a moment, staring at the empty doorway she had just passed through. For the first time since the funeral, he felt a faint sense of calm amid the storm of his grief—a small anchor to reality.
---
The quiet of the house was soon broken by a sharp knocking at the gate. Gyeon-woo's eyes snapped toward the sound. Hesitant, he walked to the door and opened it.
There, standing under the dim glow of the streetlight, was Ji-ho. His expression was unreadable, but the familiar calm presence he always carried seemed to soften the chill in the night air.
"Hey," Ji-ho said simply, his voice low. "Thought I'd check on you."
Gyeon-woo blinked, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He didn't speak at first; words felt heavy, unnecessary. But the presence of someone who cared, someone steady, made the silence almost bearable.
Ji-ho shifted, glancing toward the house. "Seong-ah said she was here earlier… I take it she left?"
Gyeon-woo nodded slowly. "Yeah… she told me… not to drown in my thoughts." His voice was rough, almost a whisper.
Ji-ho's lips twitched into a small, reassuring smile. "Good. That's all she can do—remind you to stay afloat. But… sometimes even reminders aren't enough. You need to let someone in, Gyeon-woo. You don't have to carry it all alone."
Gyeon-woo looked up, meeting Ji-ho's steady gaze. For the first time in days, he felt a faint warmth breaking through the shadow of his grief.
The corridor leading to Yoemhwa's secret chamber was narrow and dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense, old wood, and something far darker—ambition that had metastasized into obsession. The Mother Goddess moved silently, her feet barely making a sound against the wooden floorboards. Every step was deliberate, measured, as though the room itself might notice her approach.
Inside, the chamber stretched wider than it appeared from the doorway. Swords of every shape and size were arranged meticulously on racks, their edges gleaming with a cold, predatory light. Ancient talismans, inked with forbidden scripts, hovered faintly above trays as if repelling any intruder. Dark crystals and jars filled with strange powders and oils lined the shelves. Each item carried a latent energy, a residual echo of the rituals Yoemhwa had performed to make herself formidable—and feared.
Yoemhwa had transformed her dangerous knowledge into a business empire of shadows. She was widely popular—not for kindness or wisdom, but because the thrill of engaging with someone who flirted with the boundaries of life and death was irresistible to her clientele. Many came seeking answers, some seeking power, few understanding the cost of walking so close to the edge.
The Mother Goddess's eyes narrowed as she examined the array. "Too many of these are connected to the mortal world… and Gyeon-woo is dangerously close to becoming a target," she murmured, brushing her fingers over a talisman that thrummed with unholy energy. The slightest touch sent a shiver up her spine, a reminder that Yoemhwa's influence was not just in the physical realm but in the threads between life and death.
She took a slow breath, centering herself. Her hands hovered over the nearest sword, feeling the subtle vibrations that marked it as cursed, bound to the will of Yoemhwa. "I need to remove them… before she uses them to ensnare someone innocent. Especially him."
The chamber seemed to react to her intent. Shadows twisted along the walls, and the faint hum of latent energy rose like a warning. Every item was a potential trap, every corner a possible ambush. The Mother Goddess's heartbeat steadied, her eyes sharpening. She would have to move carefully, strategically—any misstep could alert Yoemhwa or unleash a curse that would take far more than a single life to repair.
Her fingers tightened around a protective talisman at her belt, and she whispered a soft incantation to shield herself. Then, with quiet determination, she began her careful approach toward the most dangerous section of the room—the place where Yoemhwa's most potent and malevolent tools were kept.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Later, after the Mother Goddess left, Yoemhwa entered her chamber. Her robe swished silently across the polished floor as she paused at the threshold, her sharp eyes scanning the room. Everything was just as she had left it—or almost. A subtle shift in the arrangement of her talismans, the faint scent of protective incense still lingering in the air. Her lips curved into a smirk.
"So," she murmured to herself, "the Mother Goddess has been here." Her fingers traced the edges of a ritual knife, and she tilted her head, amusement flickering across her face. "Checking on me… and probably leaving her little warnings. Clever."
---
Meanwhile, back at her modest home, the Mother Goddess finally returned, her shoulders heavy with the lingering energy of the ritual. Seong-ah waited for her, her eyes wide and innocent, hands clasped tightly together. The unspoken urgency of her expression spoke volumes before she even said a word.
"Mother Goddess," Seong-ah began softly, her voice almost trembling, "I need your help. There's… there's a suicide ghost with him. I don't know what to do—he's…" She faltered, glancing toward the quiet street outside, as though Gyeon-woo's grief could seep into the room through the walls.
The Mother Goddess sighed, settling onto a chair, the weight of centuries in her calm gaze. "Seong-ah," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "just keeping him alive doesn't solve the problem. Protecting him, shielding him… it only delays what he must face. He needs hope. If you want to save him, you must inspire him to find a reason to live, not just keep him from dying."
Seong-ah's brow furrowed, a mixture of fear and determination in her gaze. "Hope… but how can I give him that? He's so lost… and so alone."
The Mother Goddess reached out, placing a steady hand on Seong-ah's shoulder. "That is exactly why you must try. A single spark of hope can grow into a flame strong enough to guide him through the darkness. You cannot carry the weight of his grief for him—but you can help him find the strength to carry it himself."
Seong-ah nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of the words. Her hands tightened around the charm in her pocket—the small talisman she had prepared for Gyeon-woo. "I'll try," she whispered, determination threading her voice. "I won't let him give up."
The Mother Goddess gave a small, approving nod, her eyes distant for a moment, as if seeing far beyond the room, into the threads of fate where Gyeon-woo's life and spirit intertwined with powers neither mortal nor human could fully comprehend.
The Mother Goddess's eyes gleamed with quiet resolve as she leaned back in her chair. "The amulets I can make for him will be strong," she began, her tone steady, "but not strong enough to last forever. If you truly want him to live… and to keep the ghost far from him… you must become more than a protector. You must become a human amulet for him."
Seong-ah blinked, the weight of those words settling into her chest. "A… human amulet?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.
The Mother Goddess reached under the low altar table and drew out a thick, worn book bound in faded crimson cloth. The pages crackled with age as she laid it open on the floor between them. Ancient symbols and intricate diagrams spiraled across the parchment, each drawn in careful black ink, some smudged with time.
"This," the Mother Goddess said, tapping the page with one long finger, "is the Ritual of Binding Life. These designs are not for decoration—they will fuse your life energy with the one you protect. Wherever you are, the barrier will stand. If the ghost tries to harm him, it will have to face you first."
Seong-ah's breath caught. "But… won't that be dangerous for me?"
"It will," the Mother Goddess admitted without hesitation. "Your spirit will be tied to his. If he falls into despair, the bond will weaken. If he dies… you may follow. This is no small vow."
Despite the chill in her veins, Seong-ah gave a firm nod. "I'll do it."
The Mother Goddess studied her for a moment, then handed her a brush dipped in red ink mixed with protective herbs. "Then begin."
Seong-ah pulled her robe slightly off her shoulders, exposing pale skin. Her fingers trembled at first, but she steadied them as she dipped the brush again. Slowly, she began to paint the first of the amulet's designs across her collarbone—sweeping arcs that joined into protective loops, each one holding a symbol for life, strength, and clarity.
The lines spread over her shoulders, trailing down toward her chest. Every stroke of the brush felt heavier, as if the ink carried a weight far greater than its color. She could feel the faint thrum of energy beneath her skin, like the air before a storm.
The Mother Goddess watched closely, murmuring incantations under her breath, the air in the room growing warmer, charged with unseen power. "Remember," she said softly, "this is not just a shield. This is a promise—you are tying your fate to his."
Seong-ah's lips pressed into a thin line as she finished the final stroke over her heart. "Then I'll keep that promise," she whispered.
The Mother Goddess closed the book, her gaze softening just a little. "One more thing, Seong-ah," she said, folding her hands on her lap. "Humans… are warm. That warmth is what keeps the darkness from settling in. If you are to be his human amulet, you must always provide him that warmth."
Seong-ah tilted her head, unsure. "Warmth… like… giving him soup?"
The Mother Goddess gave her a pointed look. "Not just food. Your presence, your touch, your energy. The ghost feeding on him wants him cold, empty, lifeless. You—" she tapped Seong-ah's chest "—must be the opposite. You must remind him that he's alive."
Seong-ah blinked, then her lips pulled into a pout. "That sounds… embarrassing…"
A sly smile tugged at the Mother Goddess's lips. "Oh? He's your crush, isn't he?"
Seong-ah's cheeks flamed red. "W–what?! N–no! I just—!"
"Mm-hmm," the Mother Goddess hummed knowingly, leaning back. "You don't have to smother him. Just touch him like a feather. A hand on the shoulder, brushing his hair away, holding his arm if he's about to stumble… That's enough for the bond to work."
Seong-ah groaned and covered her face with her hands. "That's even worse!"
The Mother Goddess chuckled. "Then you'd better start practicing now. Because if you freeze up in front of him, the ghost will know your weakness."
And so, later that night, Seong-ah stood in the middle of her room, staring at a pillow propped up on a chair. She reached out hesitantly and poked it. "Too stiff," she muttered, trying again with a lighter touch. Then she brushed her fingers over it as if it were hair. Her face turned scarlet.
"This is ridiculous," she mumbled to herself, but she kept practicing—touching, pulling back, repeating—until she could do it without flinching. Somewhere deep inside, though, her heart still raced at the thought of actually doing it to Gyeon-woo.
The morning sun streamed faintly through the bus windows, casting a warm glow over the dusty seats. Seong-ah's gaze never wavered from the faint, dark haze curling near Gyeon-woo's shoulder. It wasn't just there—it moved, almost breathing, whispering something only he could hear.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached out, her fingertip brushing the back of his neck like a feather. The warmth of his skin jolted her—humans really were warm, just as the Mother Goddess had said. But the shadow flinched back, shuddering like smoke disturbed by a breeze.
Gyeon-woo turned his head, frowning faintly. "What are you doing?"
Seong-ah forced an easy smile, even though her pulse was racing. "Your posture looked stiff. I thought you needed… a little adjustment."
Jiho, sitting beside him, raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He was too busy scrolling through his phone, though his eyes flicked toward Seong-ah once or twice, suspicious.
The bus jolted over a bump, and Seong-ah caught a clearer glimpse of the shadow—its face was a warped, twisted echo of a human, eyes dull and mouth moving in endless murmurs. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting. Suicide ghost, she thought, remembering the Mother Goddess's warning. It wasn't just lingering—it was trying to pull him into its despair.
Gyeon-woo shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck where she'd touched him. For a moment, his expression softened—almost as if the heaviness on him had lightened, just a fraction.
She leaned back in her seat, hiding her relief. So… warmth really works.
But the shadow was still there, glaring at her with a rage she could almost feel.
Seong-ah's warm smile from earlier had vanished. She sat behind Gyeon-woo in the classroom, her eyes fixed on that small, pale figure clinging to Do Doyeon's leg.
The baby ghost was almost transparent, its hair hanging limply over its face. It didn't make a sound—just a slow, unsteady movement, as if swaying with Doyeon's every shift in posture. Most people wouldn't have noticed it, but to Seong-ah, its presence was suffocating.
Her mind immediately replayed the Mother Goddess's voice, low and warning:
"Baby ghosts are silent… until they cry. When they do, you must console them. If ignored, their sorrow turns into rage—and rage destroys everything."
Seong-ah swallowed hard. If this one started crying here, in a crowded classroom, she didn't even want to imagine what could happen.
She glanced at Gyeon-woo. He was slouched slightly, his gaze unfocused, pretending not to hear the classmates whispering behind him.
> "I told you, my cousin said he was the arsonist."
"Why else would the coach drop him?"
"Even his grandma must have known…"
The words stung her, so she could only guess how deep they cut into him. But he didn't flinch, didn't turn, just kept staring out the window as if the world beyond the glass was safer than the people inside this room.
Seong-ah's chest tightened. She had promised herself she'd protect him—be his human amulet—and yet, here she was, torn between two dangers: the invisible one on Doyeon's leg, and the invisible one eating away at Gyeon-woo from inside.
The baby ghost's head tilted slowly upward. Its tiny face peeked from behind its hair—pale lips trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
It's close… it's going to cry…
Seong-ah bit her lip, leaning slightly forward in her seat. She had to be quick, subtle—if she made it obvious she was doing something strange, Gyeon-woo would notice, and then questions would start.
But before she could act, Gyeon-woo suddenly turned his head, catching her in his peripheral vision.
"…Why do you keep staring over there?" he asked quietly, suspicion threading his voice.
She froze. The ghost's tiny fingers curled tighter around Doyeon's leg, and Seong-ah realized she might have only seconds before both situations spiraled out of control.
After class, Gyeon-woo didn't head straight home. Instead, he walked toward the old archery range tucked away behind the sports building. The place was quiet—most students avoided it now, thanks to the rumors.
He picked up a bow from the rack, running his fingers over the smooth wood. It felt almost foreign after so long, yet familiar enough to make his chest ache. His grandmother's voice echoed faintly in his memory—her encouragement, the way she used to watch him practice with quiet pride.
Pulling an arrow from the quiver, he nocked it and drew the bowstring back. His arms trembled slightly at first, unused to the tension. The whispers of the day still clung to him: arsonist… troublemaker… He exhaled slowly, forcing the noise out of his head, letting the cold air fill his lungs.
The string released with a sharp twang, the arrow slicing through the air before hitting the target—slightly off-center, but enough to stir something inside him.
Again.
This time his stance was steadier, the arrow flying cleaner, closer to the bullseye. He could almost forget the stares, the pity, and the suspicion. Here, it was just him, the bow, and the target.
But he wasn't alone for long. From a distance, Seong-ah stood quietly, watching. She could see the faint, flickering shadow of the suicide ghost hovering near him, lurking as though waiting for a moment of weakness.
Her grip tightened on the strap of her bag. She knew—if Gyeon-woo lost hope now, it wouldn't just be his archery he abandoned. It would be everything.
The next morning, Seong-ah arrived at school earlier than usual. The corridors were still half-asleep, faint light slipping in through the windows. She moved quietly to Do Doyeon's desk, slipping a freshly prepared amulet beneath it. It was small, almost delicate, but the markings were precise—Mother Goddess's instructions still fresh in her mind.
By the time the first few students began trickling in, Seong-ah was already in her seat, pretending to skim through a notebook.
Not long after, Gyeon-woo walked in, his usual quiet presence drawing a few lingering glances from classmates. Without a word, he approached her desk, tilting his head toward the stairs. "Come with me."
She blinked but followed, curiosity tugging her along. They climbed to the upper floor of the school, where the corridors were empty, the world below a muted hum.
"Why do you always follow me around?" he asked suddenly, his tone half-frustrated, half-genuinely puzzled.
She tilted her head. "Why do you love archery so much?"
The question caught him off guard. He glanced away, shoulders tightening. "Because… my grandmother loved seeing me do it," he said quietly. "She used to come watch me practice, every single time."
For a moment, his eyes seemed far away, clouded with memories.
Seong-ah stepped closer, her expression softening. Without thinking too hard about it, she lifted her hand and gently combed her fingers through his hair—slow, deliberate strokes, just as Mother Goddess had taught.
Warmth spread between them, subtle but certain. And then… she saw it. The suicide ghost that had been hovering around him, feeding on his hopelessness, wavered—and vanished, as if chased away by the quiet comfort in her touch.
She let her hand fall back to her side, masking the relief in her chest with a playful grin. "High five?"
For the first time in days, Gyeon-woo smiled—small, but real—and raised his hand to meet hers. The sound of their palms meeting was light, but to Seong-ah, it felt like a victory drum.
The sound of their palms meeting lingered for just a heartbeat before Gyeon-woo's smile faltered into something more fragile. Almost without thinking, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
It wasn't a tight embrace—more like he was afraid she might vanish if he held on too hard—but it was enough for Seong-ah to feel the faint tremor in his shoulders.
"You really… make things feel lighter," he murmured, his voice muffled against her hair.
Her heart thudded, warmth flooding her cheeks. She froze for a moment, caught between the awkward flutter of her crush and the quiet duty Mother Goddess had entrusted to her. Slowly, she let herself relax, her arms coming up to return the hug—soft, careful, as though she was shielding him from the world.
And just like that, the air around them felt… safer. The last trace of the ghost's presence was gone.
When they finally pulled apart, Seong-ah smiled up at him, hiding the pounding in her chest. "See? That's the kind of warmth you need to keep. For your grandma… and for yourself."