Seong-ah and Jiho were still sitting at the canteen table long after the others had left, their trays pushed aside.
"But…" Seong-ah leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping into a whisper, "I think Do Doyeon is the dangerous one."
Jiho blinked at her, confused. "Dangerous? Why would you say that?"
Seong-ah hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering toward the doorway as if to make sure no one was listening. Then she confessed softly, "Because… a baby ghost has been stuck to her from the very beginning."
Jiho frowned. "A baby ghost? Like the ones Mother Goddess warned you about?"
She nodded. "Yes. And you know… you can usually feel something strange when you sit beside her, right? That heavy… suffocating feeling?" Her voice was calm, but there was a chill in her words.
Jiho tilted his head, thinking back. "Now that you mention it… sometimes it does feel weird. Like the air gets heavier…"
"Exactly," Seong-ah murmured, her eyes briefly clouding with worry. "It's always there, clinging to her like a shadow. And baby ghosts… they're the ones you have to be most careful with. They look harmless, but they never leave… no matter how much you try to console them."
Jiho leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed, clearly unsettled by the thought.
The late afternoon sun draped the streets in molten orange, melting into soft rose at the edges of the horizon. Long shadows stretched ahead of Gyeonwoo, Seong-ah, and Jiho as they walked side by side, the quiet between them holding an odd kind of comfort. The air smelled faintly of street food from a nearby vendor, mingling with the faint perfume Seong-ah carried with her.
Her steps slowed for just a moment, a faraway look in her eyes, as though she was savoring the stillness before the world called her back. And then it did.
A sharp buzz from her phone broke the fragile calm. Seong-ah glanced down, her shoulders sinking almost instantly. The name flashing on the screen seemed to carry the weight of inevitability.
"Mother Goddess," she muttered under her breath, her voice colored with resignation.
She slowed further, the pace of someone already halfway gone. "Okay, I'll go early," she murmured into the phone, forcing a small smile toward Gyeonwoo as if to soften the abruptness of her departure.
As she stepped past him, her fingers brushed against his hand — light, fleeting, yet startling in its intimacy. For Gyeonwoo, it was enough to make the cool air around them feel warmer.
And then she was gone, the moment torn away as she broke into a run, Jiho following in her wake.
Gyeonwoo remained where he stood, his gaze tracking her retreating figure until it vanished around the corner. A faint, unguarded smile curved his lips — the kind that came without thought, born from the echo of a fleeting touch.
The temple smelled faintly of burning incense, the air heavy with the mingling scents of sandalwood and something older, earthier. Candlelight flickered against the carved wooden walls, casting the serene yet stern face of the Mother Goddess in shifting shadows.
"You've been doing well," the woman said, her voice both gentle and sharp, like a blade hidden beneath silk. "But you must be careful, Seong-ah. Protecting Gyeonwoo is not just about keeping him safe from harm — it's about shielding his spirit. His fate is… complicated."
Seong-ah's hands tightened in her lap. "I know. But sometimes…" she hesitated, her voice dropping, "…sometimes I feel like I'm too late. Like someone else is already ahead of me."
The Mother Goddess's gaze sharpened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Then you must move faster," she replied, her tone leaving no space for comfort. The words landed heavy, more command than advice.
---
The night air bit at Gyeonwoo's skin as he made his way down the dimly lit street. His footsteps echoed in the stillness, each exhale misting faintly in the cold. It was the kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
"Aren't you so happy now?"
He froze, the voice slicing through the silence like a cold wind. Slowly, he turned.
Yeomhwa stood a few paces away, her smile sugar-sweet, but her eyes gleamed with something poisonous — a darkness that no pleasant curve of lips could hide.
"By the way," she lilted, her tone singsong, "do you want a surprise?"
She slipped a hand into her bag and pulled out a neat stack of photographs. Gyeonwoo's jaw tightened as he recognized them — snapshots of him with his grandmother.
But then his stomach twisted. Across his grandmother's face, thick black marks had been scrawled — symbols that pulsed faintly under the streetlight.
His voice came low and strained. "Why don't you mark only my face? Why… does it have to be my grandma?"
Yeomhwa's smile widened, slow and deliberate. "Hmm… maybe to send her somewhere she's meant to be."
Before he could react, her hand dipped into a small pouch at her side. She scattered what looked like rice over his head, but it wasn't ordinary. Its dull gray hue caught the light strangely, and an acrid, metallic smell hit his nose. The moment it touched him, a prickling sensation raced down his spine, crawling over his skin like icy ants.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
The soft click of the door sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet of Gyeonwoo's small apartment. He tossed his schoolbag onto the couch, his movements a little heavier than usual. The day's weight clung to him, but his mind kept drifting back — not to the curses, not to Yeomhwa's taunting smile, but to the small, inconspicuous tube of lip care in his pocket.
He pulled it out, holding it in his palm as though it were far more fragile than it was. The label was faintly smudged, probably from being carried around for so long, but he could still see it clearly in his mind — the moment Seong-ah had pressed it into his hand without explanation.
For some reason, that memory felt warmer than anything else that day.
---
The next morning, the school bus rattled down the road, carrying with it a chatter of voices and the faint hum of a pop song playing from someone's phone. Gyeonwoo sat by the window, watching the passing scenery blur into streaks of green and gray.
Seong-ah, seated beside him, was unusually still.
When they arrived, the air inside the classroom was buzzing with a different kind of energy. A group of students huddled near the back, snickering as they passed around a phone. The video played on repeat — grainy footage of Seong-ah visiting a temple, accompanied by whispered theories and bold claims.
"She's totally a shaman," one voice hissed. "Look at her — she's even wearing those beads."
Seong-ah's jaw tightened, but she didn't respond. Instead, she kept her eyes on her desk, letting the words slide over her like cold rain.
Gyeonwoo noticed. His frown deepened as he reached out and took her by the wrist, pulling her toward the door without a word.
Once they were outside, away from curious eyes, he finally asked, "Why are you silent again?"
Seong-ah stared at him — her lips unmoving, her gaze steady. On the surface, she looked calm.
But in her mind, a storm raged.
She imagined grabbing him by the collar, dragging him close so he could see the anger in her eyes. "You have no idea," her imagined voice spat, "how much risk I'm taking to protect you — at any cost. And now you're accusing me?"
The thought burned in her chest, but she swallowed it.
Her lips parted… then closed again.
She turned her gaze away, letting silence be her answer.
Later that afternoon, Jiho and Gyeonwoo strolled down the quiet hallway toward the school yard, chatting idly about nothing in particular. The sun slanted through the windows, streaking the floor with warm golden light. Seong-ah followed a few steps behind, her gaze drifting toward the outdoor range visible through the glass panels.
Before they could turn the corner, the archery coach suddenly appeared, blocking their way like an ambush. His whistle swayed on his chest, and his eyes brightened the moment he saw them.
"Hey, you two! Want to join some archery practice?" he asked enthusiastically.
"No," Gyeonwoo said without hesitation, his tone dry.
But Jiho, never one to pass up a chance for something new, grinned and caught Gyeonwoo's sleeve.
"No, coach, we're coming," he declared before Gyeonwoo could walk away.
The coach smiled wide and ushered them toward the open-air range. The moment they stepped onto the wooden platform, the air shifted — the scent of polished bows, taut strings, and faint traces of dust mingled with the sound of distant chatter from other students.
Seong-ah wandered to the sidelines, leaning against the railing as her eyes scanned the range. But instead of looking at the targets, her gaze lingered on the far end where Bok-i's faint outline shimmered near Kim Jun-ung. She smiled faintly to herself, admiring the ghost's calm, watchful presence.
From the corner of his eye, Jiho noticed her expression and frowned, remembering what he thought earlier. Again with Kim Jun-ung? he thought, rolling his eyes slightly.
Meanwhile, Jiho stood at the shooting line, gripping a bow far too loosely. He pulled back on the string, his elbow jutting out awkwardly, his face scrunching with effort. The arrow rattled against the bow before tumbling to the ground with a dull clink.
"Pathetic," Gyeonwoo muttered under his breath, stepping forward. He took the bow from Jiho and demonstrated without a word — his stance perfect, posture relaxed but steady. The string drew back in a smooth arc, his eyes sharp on the target.
The release was crisp; the arrow whistled through the air and landed just shy of the bullseye.
Jiho gawked for a moment before smirking.
"...Show-off," he said, though his voice carried more admiration than annoyance.
From the side, Seong-ah crossed her arms, watching Gyeonwoo. She didn't say a word, but a quiet thought bloomed in her mind — Protecting you is harder than you think.
"How did you and Seong-ah meet?" Gyeonwoo asked one afternoon, his tone casual but his eyes curious.
Jiho tilted his head as if thinking back. "She was alone at first," he said slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I saw her sitting in the corner of the canteen. Everyone else was laughing with their friends, but she… she was quietly eating, like she didn't want to bother anyone. So I sat down beside her." He chuckled softly. "Guess she didn't mind, because we've been stuck together since then."
Gyeonwoo hummed in response, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.
---
That evening, the air was heavy with the faint scent of burning herbs.
At the edge of town, in the shadow of an abandoned house whose roof sagged under years of neglect, Seong-ah and the Mother Goddess knelt on a worn mat. Small charms and bowls of water surrounded them, shimmering faintly in the candlelight. The rhythmic chanting of the Mother Goddess mingled with the soft clinking of bells as Seong-ah placed talismans at each corner of the room.
When the ritual was done, they stepped out into the cold night air. The wind whispered through the grass, carrying with it the distant hum of city lights.
Seong-ah adjusted the mask covering her face, tucking a strand of hair beneath it. But as she lowered her hands, a shadow suddenly stepped into the moonlight ahead.
Gyeonwoo.
He stood right in front of her, his gaze lingering as if trying to pierce through the fabric hiding her features.
"Huh… can I get to see your face, Shaman?" he asked, his voice low, almost teasing.
Before Seong-ah could reply, the Mother Goddess moved slightly in front of her, her tone firm but not unkind.
"No. Don't you see that the Heaven and Earth Fairy is busy?" she said, almost protectively.
Gyeonwoo shook his head, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. "It's not like that, Mother. I just… wanted to see her face so that the rumors about my friend don't spread."
But the Mother Goddess didn't move aside.
With a small sigh, Gyeonwoo gave up and began walking away. Yet as he moved down the path, his fingers slipped into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Without looking back, he typed a message to Seong-ah.
From behind her mask, Seong-ah felt the familiar buzz in her pocket — but before she could check, the shaman's phone, lying beside her in the basket of ritual items, lit up and chimed with the exact same ringtone.
Gyeonwoo froze. Slowly, almost in disbelief, he turned his head just enough to glance at the source of the sound.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Her gaze was sharp but startled.
"Go," she said quickly, the firmness in her voice tinged with something almost flustered. "Why are you watching? Keep your eyes on the road."
He hesitated — just for a second — then walked away without another word, though his mind was anything but calm.
Later that night, Seong-ah sat on the edge of her bed, her knees drawn up, staring at the floor as the memory replayed over and over.
She had been so blunt with him.
"Mother," she mumbled, her voice tinged with guilt, "how could I be so harsh with him? I told him to 'keep your eyes on the road' like—ahh—it sounded so cold!" She buried her face into her hands, pouting like a child who'd been caught doing something wrong.
The Mother Goddess, seated nearby with her tea, let out a warm chuckle. "You only said that because you were flustered, child. Your words came from nerves, not cruelty."
Still, Seong-ah groaned. "It's not an excuse."
The Mother Goddess didn't argue further. Instead, the next day she led Seong-ah to a small shopping mall in the town center. The warm light from the glass storefronts spilled onto the pavement as they walked past mannequins dressed in autumn colors. After a short while, the Mother Goddess stopped before a boutique and turned to her with a knowing smile.
"You need something nice to wear," she said. "Go and meet him properly this time."
Seong-ah blinked, surprised. "Really?"
When the Mother Goddess nodded, Seong-ah's lips curved into a bright smile. She threw her arms around her in a quick, tight hug. "Thank you, Mother."
---
That afternoon, a soft wind stirred the forest leaves as Gyeonwoo followed a narrow dirt path. Sunlight spilled through the branches in broken fragments, painting the ground in shifting patterns. The trail opened into a clearing where a small, crystalline lake lay still as glass, its surface reflecting the sky like a mirror.
He took out his phone and typed a short message.
Come here.
When Seong-ah arrived, her footsteps slowed as the forest gave way to the lakeside view. For a moment, she simply admired it — and then she saw him.
Their eyes met, and both smiled, an unspoken easing of tension passing between them. She walked closer, the hem of her dress brushing against the grass.
They exchanged small talk at first, neither wanting to rush the moment. But eventually, Gyeonwoo's gaze drifted toward the water, his voice turning quieter.
"My parents abandoned me when I was young," he began. "Said I was… bad luck." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I guess they thought getting rid of me would fix their lives." His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, but his eyes stayed distant, fixed on the lake.
Seong-ah's fingers curled at her sides. She didn't interrupt, sensing the heaviness behind his words.
"My grandma… she took care of me," he continued, softer now. "She's the only one who didn't see me as a burden."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the lake's cool water between them. Seong-ah's heart ached at his quiet confession, her earlier guilt deepening into something heavier — and something much more tender.
For a long moment, Gyeonwoo's words hung in the air, heavy as the stillness between them. His eyes stayed fixed on the lake, as though speaking had taken more out of him than he expected.
Then, without warning, Seong-ah stepped forward. Her arms slid around him from behind, her cheek pressing lightly against his back.
"You're not bad," she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray how deeply she meant it. "Not anymore… not ever."
He froze, startled by the sudden warmth that wrapped around him, by the quiet conviction in her tone.
"You have such a good heart, Gyeonwoo," she continued, her breath brushing the fabric of his shirt. "Anyone who says otherwise… they're wrong. Completely wrong."
For a moment, the forest seemed to fade into silence — only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant ripple of water remained. Gyeonwoo lowered his head, closing his eyes as her words sank into him like sunlight into cold earth.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned enough to glance at her over his shoulder. "You really think that?"
Seong-ah nodded against his back, holding him just a little tighter. "I don't think it. I know it."
Something in his chest loosened — something that had been knotted for years.
Before either of them could say more, a sudden click echoed through the quiet.
The gentle glow of the nearby lamps vanished, plunging the forest path into an unexpected darkness.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The only thing Gyeonwoo could feel was the steady warmth of Seong-ah's arms still wrapped around him — a warmth that, in the dark, felt even more real, even more dangerous to acknowledge.
It was then they both seemed to realise how long they'd been holding onto each other.
Seong-ah's breath caught. "Oh…" she murmured, stepping back a little too quickly, her hands brushing away as though the contact had burned her.
Gyeonwoo cleared his throat, glancing away into the pitch-black surroundings. "Guess… the power's out," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual steadiness.
"Y-yeah…" Seong-ah replied, her gaze darting to the ground. The moment lingered between them, heavy and unspoken, before they both instinctively took a small step apart — as if distance could erase what had just passed between them.
But even in the dark, they could still feel the echo of that closeness.
The next morning arrived with a gentle golden light spilling across the quiet streets.
The air carried the soft scent of blooming flowers and freshly watered gardens, the kind of fragrance that made people slow down without realizing it.
Seong-ah's bicycle tires rolled over the smooth road, the faint hum of the wheels matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. Beside her, Gyeonwoo pedaled with an easy, steady pace, his posture relaxed but his eyes occasionally drifting toward her with a quiet fondness he didn't bother hiding anymore. The breeze teased at her hair, brushing strands across her cheeks, and each time she tucked them away, he caught himself smiling.
They weren't speaking, yet the silence between them wasn't empty — it was warm, comfortable, like two melodies blending into a single tune without effort.
From across the street, Jiho had been walking toward the school gates, distractedly flipping through his phone. When he looked up, his steps faltered.
His eyes fixed on the sight before him — Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo riding together, shoulders brushing every now and then, as if even their bicycles knew how to keep them close.
He didn't notice he was staring until they reached the school entrance and casually stepped off their bikes, their fingers naturally intertwining as they walked in.
Inside the campus, the archery coach was crossing the courtyard with a clipboard tucked under his arm, checking off practice schedules. He spotted them immediately, his steps slowing until he came to a full stop.
His gaze lingered for a long moment before a small, knowing smile tugged at his lips. "Ah… young love," he murmured to himself, the words carrying a note of nostalgia. "So bright… so pretty… it reminds me of when life felt simple." He shook his head lightly and continued walking, but the warmth of the image stayed with him.
---
Later that day, the mood shifted entirely.
Kim Jun-ung, with his ever-present air of arrogance, appeared in front of Gyeonwoo like an unwelcome shadow. The smell of cigarettes clung to the group behind him, their smug expressions practically daring Gyeonwoo to react.
"They're smoking again," Gyeonwoo muttered sharply, his tone clipped and direct. He didn't waste another second lingering in their presence. Without looking back, he strode toward the archery range, his expression carved into quiet determination.
The familiar scent of varnished wood and taut bowstrings greeted him as he stepped onto the practice field. His hands moved with precision, the bow fitting perfectly in his grip.
The first draw was slow, deliberate — his fingers curling around the string, feeling the tension build like a steadying heartbeat. Then, with a clean release, the arrow flew, slicing through the air before landing with a sharp thud at the center of the target.
Each shot after that was a rhythm, a way to burn away frustration until nothing but focus remained.
---
That night, under the cover of a moonless sky, Mother Goddess sought out Do Ryeong.
Her arrival was silent but heavy, like the air just before a storm. "Where is Yeomhwa?" she demanded, her voice calm on the surface but threaded with an edge that could cut glass.
Do Ryeong looked up from where he sat, the flicker of lantern light casting shifting shadows across his face. A slow, amused laugh escaped him — the kind that made it clear he wasn't intimidated. "How would I know?" he replied lazily, leaning back in his seat as though the question was nothing more than an idle curiosity.
Her eyes narrowed, a quiet warning sparking in their depths. "Call her. Now."
He sighed as though greatly inconvenienced, yet he reached for his phone, dialing without haste.
When Yeomhwa's voice came through, he said with a hint of teasing, "Yeomhwa, your mother's here. What should I tell her? She wants to know what you're doing right now."
On the other end, Yeomhwa's tone was cool and dismissive. "Tell her… it's none of her business."
The line clicked off, the silence after her words lingering like the aftertaste of bitterness.
---
Meanwhile, in another part of the town, Seong-ah was preparing for her own reluctant errand.
"Why does Mom always send me for this kind of work?" she grumbled under her breath, shifting the strap of a beautifully painted drum over her shoulder. The polished wood gleamed faintly under the lanterns, and the colored designs seemed to come alive in the moving light.
In her other hand, she carried a pair of ceremonial fangs — gleaming, curved, and symbolic. The shaman dress she wore clung and flowed in all the right places, the silk shimmering with each movement, making her look like she had stepped out of another world entirely.
As she walked toward the festival square, the air grew warmer with the smell of burning incense and the distant sound of drums. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, colors flashing from every corner — ribbons, lanterns, and embroidered fabrics creating a living tapestry of celebration.
It was then she noticed a striking woman she didn't recognize — tall, poised, with an elegance that drew attention even in the chaos of the festival. Her dark hair flowed down her back, and her eyes held a glint of something unreadable.
"Hey," the woman called, stepping into her path. "Since you're a shaman, think you could help me with this dance? I was going to do it with another shaman, but you'll do."
Seong-ah blinked, caught between surprise and curiosity. There was something magnetic about the woman's presence, but she couldn't place why. Still, she nodded.
The two moved into the center of the performance circle as the drummers began their steady beat. The fangs in Seong-ah's hands caught the light, gleaming with every turn of her wrist. The stranger moved with fluid grace, her steps deliberate, her eyes occasionally flicking toward Seong-ah with an intensity that was almost… knowing.
Seong-ah didn't realize she was standing beside Yeomhwa herself, nor that their dance was unknowingly weaving a far deeper connection than either of them yet understood.
At that time, Seong-ah had no idea what kind of obstacles were waiting for her beyond the delicate steps of her dance. The night seemed quiet, almost harmless, but destiny had already begun to weave its invisible threads, pulling her closer to a truth she never intended to reveal so soon. Every move of her feet, every swirl of the colored ribbons, was unknowingly carrying her toward the very heart of the mystery she had been trying to protect.
The air was cool, the faint fragrance of incense drifting lazily from the ceremonial stands, mingling with the faint hum of the drums. Her hands gripped the long silk ribbons attached to the fangs, their colors—crimson, gold, and azure—catching the faint glow of the lantern light. She moved with practiced grace, her face calm, her eyes focused, unaware that somewhere in the crowd, fate was watching.
Meanwhile, Gyeonwoo, following the subtle traces he had picked up along the way—whispers in the wind, shadows that shifted when no one else noticed—found himself drawn toward the sound of drums and the hypnotic rhythm of movement. Each step brought him closer until, at last, he emerged from the dim path into the open courtyard where the dance was unfolding.
And there she was.
Seong-ah, dressed in the shaman's robes, her hair swept back and adorned with delicate ornaments that shimmered whenever she turned. The fangs in her hands gleamed under the lantern light, and the ribbons fluttered like wings of exotic birds, wrapping the air in waves of color. She danced with Yeomhwa, their movements perfectly in sync, the sight so breathtaking that for a moment, Gyeonwoo could only stand frozen.
But then—like the bite of cold steel—realization struck. His heart pounded, not from the beauty of the dance, but from the truth hidden in plain sight. The shaman… the one cloaked in mystery and rumors… was Seong-ah. His Seong-ah.
In that instant, the world around him seemed to blur, the music fading into a distant echo as his eyes locked on her. The gentle trust he had built, the strange coincidences, the moments she avoided his questions—all of it now fit together like the pieces of a puzzle he wished he hadn't solved.
Suddenly, the air thickened—dense, almost suffocating—as if the night itself was holding its breath. The rhythm of the drums faded in Seong-ah's ears, her feet halting mid-step. Her gaze froze on the lone figure at the edge of the courtyard.
Gyeonwoo stood there, his face unreadable, his eyes fixed on her with a stillness that made her chest tighten. For a brief moment, she forgot the ribbons in her hands, forgot the crowd, forgot even to breathe.
"Gyeonwoo… it's not what you think—" her voice wavered, the words rushing out as if they could erase the scene before him. She took a step forward, desperate to explain.
But he only gave her a bitter smile, one that felt more like a wound than a gesture, and before she could say another word, he turned on his heel and ran.
From the corner, Yeomhwa's lips curled into a quiet, knowing laugh, her eyes glinting with satisfaction as if the turn of events was a melody only she could hear.
---
Later,
The street was quiet, except for the distant hum of a flickering streetlamp and the low hiss of the wind. Gyeonwoo walked alone, shoulders hunched, his shadow stretching long across the cracked pavement.
From the darkness ahead, Kim Jun-ung and his gang emerged, blocking his path with smirks plastered across their faces.
"Well, if it isn't our favorite loser," one of them jeered.
Gyeonwoo's jaw tightened, but he kept walking, hoping they would let him pass. They didn't.
"Look at you," Kim Jun-ung mocked, stepping closer, "still pretending you're better than everyone else."
Something in Gyeonwoo snapped. His voice came out raw, shaking with the weight of everything he had been holding back. "Why is it always me?! Why am I the fool?! Why am I the one everyone targets? What did I ever do to deserve this—this everything?"
The words hit the air like a whip crack. For a moment, the gang faltered. Kim Jun-ung's smirk wavered, and without another insult, they turned and disappeared into the shadows, their footsteps fading into the night.
---
But Gyeonwoo wasn't alone.
The needy ghosts slithered out from the darkness, their pale forms flickering in and out of sight. Their whispers crawled into his ears, chilling his skin. His knees buckled, and he sank to the cold ground, wrapping his arms around his legs, curling in on himself as though the world was too heavy to face.
---
Seong-ah had been searching desperately, her breath fogging in the cold air. And then—she saw him.
Her heart broke at the sight: Gyeonwoo, hunched on the pavement under the harsh light of the streetlamp, his eyes vacant. Tears welled in her own eyes, spilling one by one as she knelt beside him.
"Gyeonwoo… I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I wanted to tell you everything. I swear I did. But I didn't know it would… end like this."
She began scattering rice across the ground, the tiny grains catching the dim light as they pushed the ghosts back. But before she could finish, his hand shot up, yanking hers away.
He rose to his feet, his voice low but sharp, every word burning into her. "Don't ever come to me."
And without looking back, he walked into the darkness—leaving her kneeling alone in the street, the ghosts retreating but the emptiness settling in her chest like ice.