Do-yun's apartment had become my prison, and his immobility was my sentence. I, unseen, drifted between the walls, old and familiar, like through a closed labyrinth, counting minutes, hours, days. Do-yun sat at the table, staring at a single point. His existence resembled the still air before a storm — silence devoid of life, but with a growing, almost tangible pressure. Every breath came with effort, as if underwater, where breathing itself was an achievement.
I perched on the edge of the sofa, pressing my invisible hands to my head, trying to silence the noise that existed only in my mind: Go away. You're holding him. You're killing him. It wasn't Min-seo's voice, but the logic I, a dead man, could not dispute. I felt every pulse of his pain, every drop of longing that squeezed his chest.
Do-yun didn't touch the flash drive with the music Min-seo had left. It lay next to his phone, a small foreign object in his world of emptiness. It was a bridge to life, and he didn't step onto it. He didn't work. He didn't eat. He didn't cry. His grief was too vast to manifest in emotion. It expressed itself in absence — a void, containing nothing but the dead pages of time.
— You have to listen to this music, Do-yun. It's about light, — I whispered, hoping that even my ghostly signal might stir the air around the flash drive.
But Do-yun sat like a statue. His eyes were empty, like mirrors reflecting only my own memories.
I could not break Min-seo's rules and reach for the flash drive myself. The deal was fragile, and I understood: only Min-seo could pierce this armor. He was the hammer; I, the quiet, guiding wind.
***
That evening, after another autumn rain washed the city, reflecting it in the wet window glass as blurred gold and blue patches, Do-yun's phone vibrated faintly. He didn't react immediately. His gaze fogged before focusing on the screen. A message. From Min-seo.
I hovered over his shoulder, reading the text with him. Just a few lines, but every word surgically chosen:
Min-seo (20:15): Hi. Sorry to bother you. I removed old prints from the studio. I came across one frame. The one you asked me not to develop. Do you remember it? Don't think it was easy for me. I still feel guilty for how we parted. I could have done better. I'm letting go of this guilt, Do-yun. And you must too.
I gasped. Min-seo had chosen a strategy: to release old guilt. He didn't speak of my death, but of the breakup — the wound Do-yun had inflicted on him to save me.
But he didn't ask him not to develop it! I asked him not to develop the frame where Do-yun cried after arguing with his father! — my inner voice wanted to scream.
Min-seo had masterfully woven truth and lie, using our shared memories to craft a scenario Do-yun could perceive as his personal responsibility for healing.
Do-yun sat motionless. But I saw the reaction. His right hand, resting on the table, slowly, almost imperceptibly, clenched into a fist. Then a tremor ran through his body like a faint electric current, and he closed his eyes.
Guilt. That word was the key. Do-yun had never been able to forgive himself for the pain he caused, even if it was to protect. If Min-seo, the victim of his long-ago betrayal, let go of that guilt, then Do-yun could allow himself to live, even partially, again.
He opened his eyes, and for the first time in a long while, a fire lit within them. Not joy, not sadness — pure, unadulterated rage.
Do-yun rose sharply. The phone he gripped fell to the floor with a crash.
— Liar! — he shouted, the first loud sound since the funeral. — You're lying!
I was stunned. He didn't accept reconciliation. He perceived it as an attack.
I hovered near the phone, watching Do-yun pace the apartment, his body finally freed from catatonia, screaming at the walls, at the air, at himself:
— Why do you come back? Why won't you leave me in peace? Why are you all trying to make me live?!
I realized that Min-seo had achieved his goal, but not as I expected. He hadn't given Do-yun comfort; he gave him focus for suppressed grief. Instead of blaming himself, Do-yun now blamed Min-seo for trying to heal him.
Half an hour later, Do-yun collapsed onto the sofa, breathing heavily. He was exhausted, but, more importantly — alive. He was no longer an empty vessel. He was torn, but full of emotion.
I followed Min-seo to the studio. He sat with his feet on the table, sipping cold black coffee, staring at the wall. He was waiting.
— Did you see that?! — I burst out, unable to contain my emotions. — What was that?! He didn't accept it! He called you a liar!
Min-seo slowly lowered his legs.
— He reacted, Cheon-woo. That's the important part. Silence is death. Anger is life. We gave him something he could feel, something to contest.
— But he thinks you're lying!
— I am lying. I haven't fully forgiven him. But he needs it. He cannot forgive himself. But he can hate me for trying to free him. Hate is connection. Connection is a step toward recovery.
I went silent. His cold, cynical rationality stunned me. He was willing to sacrifice his reputation and potential relationships to pull Do-yun from the mire. His love was active. Mine was passive, selfish.
— Fine. Next step? — my voice nearly vanished.
Min-seo took a pencil and began to draw chaotic lines on paper.
— Now he will search. That frame. But not our path. We have to give him something yours. Something only he can know.
— What? — I clenched my invisible fists.
— Something you wanted to tell him the day you died, — said Min-seo. — Farewell, not guilt.
I closed my eyes, remembering the last moment before the door, the last kiss, nervous and brief.
— He was upset about the argument. Thought I was angry he didn't wash the dishes. — I felt a pang of guilt. — He said I always leave when he's upset.
— What would you say so he stops thinking that way? — asked Min-seo.
— I… — my ghostly eyes closed. — I said: "Your hands smell of coffee, not of notes. I'll wait for you at dinner. I'll wash the dishes myself, just be home by seven."
— "I'll wash the dishes myself…" — Min-seo repeated. — Too simple.
— No. "Your hands smell of coffee…" — I said firmly. — He knows I scolded him for it. He should play, not drink coffee.
Min-seo wrote it down.
— Fine. Tomorrow I'll come. Under the pretense of apologies. I'll say, as if long ago: 'Back when we parted, I wanted to tell you… that your hands smell of coffee, not of notes.'
I shuddered. Again, substitution. Again, theft of my words. Jealousy almost consumed me, but this was our only chance.
— You will watch, Cheon-woo, — said Min-seo. — My lie, my sacrifice, will be more healing than your honesty. You are dead; I am not.
He left. I remained alone, cold, transparent. Every breath of Do-yun echoed through my shadow. His movement was a signal that my work here was soon complete. I feared vanishing. But I could not stop.
______________________
"Being a ghost means more than observing. Being a ghost means loving, waiting, and hoping, even when your shadow dissolves in the light."