Chapter Text
“I can’t get closer to you;
there’s no name you can call me.”
- BTS,
‘The Truth Untold’
i.
I dreamt of my sister last night.
This in itself was not unusual—she was a constant companion in my dreams, ever since we were children. A sixth sense, my mother had always said. We had known each other for longer than we’d even known the world, shared a womb, shared every waking hour, of course our dreams would be no different.
Even after she died, I saw her constantly; skinny arms and thin hair and big brown eyes staring at me from every corner I turned. She was inescapable.
I had never wanted to escape her before, but then, I was coming to learn, things could change so quickly. Even things you had always thought would be immortal.
Last night was different. Last night she had been whole once more. She had been fly-away hair and too-loud laughter and sweet lemonade in the back garden. She’d smiled at me and leant close, and said in her strong, melodic voice, “Guk, why are you so serious, huh? There’s nothing to be so serious about.”
Give me a smile, she used to say to me, whenever I was sad. For practice, give me a smile, just so I know you haven’t forgotten how.
I must admit, I was somewhat out of practice since she’d gone.
“Ah, Jeon, you’re already here, perfect.”
Like a genie summoned from its lamp, Dae appeared at my shoulder. As usual, her fitted blazer fell perfectly on her, not a stray hair in sight, her shoes polished to a shine that glinted even in the dull office light. Trusty pen in hand, she grinned down at me so that all her blinding teeth were on show. Who was she trying to impress? Surely not me.
“Morning, Dae.”
“Jeon,” she said—a habit I hated. Every time she spoke, she insisted on saying my name. Why? Did she think I’d forgotten it? Would she forget it, if she didn’t say it out loud? Perhaps she thought I would simply cease to be, if she didn’t speak me into existence with every other word. “I have a job for you.”
She clicked her pen. Click-click.
I spun in my desk chair to face her fully. The office was still quiet. Since I had arrived only two other people had appeared, taking their seats on the opposite side of the open-plan room. We’d nodded to each other, as we did every day, and returned to our busy work, coffees in hand. Coffee. Heaven forbid anyone discover that hidden in my cardboard cup wasn’t the black-coffee-no-sugar that people seemed to assume, but a frothy hot chocolate, with a shot of hazelnut syrup, if it was a Friday. My one vice.
“Once you’re settled in, of course, Jeon,” Dae continued. “Come see me in my office.” She smiled again. Click-click.
“But I am settled. I’ve been here for half an hour already.”
“Half an hour?” Dae’s brows raised, her fingers drumming an off-beat against my desk. “Jeon, it’s not even eight o’clock yet, do you sleep here?” she chuckled.
“Just, uh, like to get ahead of the traffic.”
The truth was, I never liked to linger at home. She was there in my dreams. Out here in the world, at least I could pretend she was one of the crowd.
“If only we could all be like you, hey, Jeon?” Dae joked, folding her arms.
It was a joke she liked to make. Often. Are you after my job, Jeon? We’re not paid by the page, Jeon, you know! Good God, Jeon, don’t you have a home to go to?
“I enjoy the work,” I replied.
Click-click.
“Yes, well. Give me twenty, I have to do the rounds.” She pushed away from my desk and headed back towards the corridor, where the private offices were tucked away. As she left, Hobi arrived.
“Jung,” Dae cried, beaming. “So many early birds this morning.” She winked at me and I, uncomprehending and perhaps a little unwilling, merely blinked in return. Hobi grimaced, sailing past her. Dropping my gaze, I could see Dae’s thumb click, click, clicking away as she, in turn, vanished through the double doors.
“Kill me,” Hobi groaned, dropping against the desk next to mine.
I hummed. Reliable Hobi, as dramatic as usual. “No, I think I won’t,” I said. “Too many cameras in here.”
Hobi pouted, the sight forcing out of me a faint upturn of my lips—the most that could be expected from me these days.
I had met Hobi (Jung-Hoseok-call-me-Hobi) my first day on the job. Fresh out of university and eager to please, Hobi had taken me under his wing. He was just the kind of person I wanted to be: competent, charming, easy-going. I now know, of course, that half of that was just for show. He’d only been at the company for six months when I arrived, still desperate to find a friend there to share in his utter bemusement at the world in which he’d found himself in. The real Hobi was something of a performer, but still everything I had first thought, and more. Empathetic, observant, determined. A true friend. More than I deserved.
“... was packed, I don’t know how people survive like that,” Hobi was saying. I zoned back into the conversation just as the other man had pulled off his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair. “What are they all doing up so early?” he asked me.
I wrinkled my nose. What had he been talking about? The gym, right? Swimming. His hair was still a little damp at the ends.
“Why did you go? I thought you did lengths after work?” I asked. “New Year’s resolution?”
“Oh, no. It's just I won’t be able to go tonight, will I? Didn’t want to get out of the routine.”
Routine. That was perhaps the one thing that kept Hobi on the outskirts. Sticking to a routine had its benefits, of course, but when Hobi clung to his plans so doggedly, it was seen by the higher ups at work as something more like … inflexibility. We need managers who can adapt to new environments, new challenges. We just don’t feel that you quite meet that specification at the moment, Mister Jung. Perhaps next time.
Still, it meant he stayed out on the main floor with me, so I never pushed him too hard.
“Why can’t you go tonight?” I replied, wondering what could have possibly motivated him into such a drastic change.
“Joon’s lecture.”
Joon’s lecture. Namjoon’s lecture. That was tonight. Shit.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Hobi drawled, clicking his tongue at me as he shook his head. “I knew you were going to forget. Jin sent a message to everyone this morning.”
“I didn’t forget,” I lied. “I just wasn’t thinking. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Right, sure you are,” Hobi fired back, laughing. “Well, I’m picking you up, so you better be ready. Really. Six p.m.”
“Right.” Something flittered in the back of my mind. I’d been deliberately pushing thoughts of the lecture aside, hadn’t I? Why? “You’re bringing someone, aren’t you?” I asked, slowly. “Didn’t you say? Uh, friend from - Wuh-what was it?”
“New neighbour, Park Jimin. He’s moved in across the hall,” Hobi nodded, smiling as he rolled himself closer to his desk. His dimples were on show—a full smile. Either I’d been entirely forgiven already for my faux pas, or this Park Jimin was delightful enough to clear my name for me.
“You’ll like him,” Hobi said as his screen flickered to life, lighting up his face.
I took a heavy breath. Liking people wasn’t really a thing I did any more. “If you say so,” I offered into the silence.
“Right. I do say so,” Hobi replied. He wasn’t looking at me, wasn’t talking to me, really. It had already been decided in his mind—I had no choice in the matter.
ii.
“What is ‘truth’?” Namjoon asked the crowd.
He looked nervous, gripping the sides of the podium with firm fists. The lecture had started five minutes late, something that I knew would have caused Namjoon no end of worry. The four of us managed to get seats decently near the front, having arrived early, but the hall had filled up since then. I was honestly surprised, and then perhaps a little guilty about feeling so, that so many people attended. When Namjoon had first explained to us about his guest speaker slot in one of the evening lectures at the university, I’d thought, who goes to those? Public lectures?
Namjoon was forever trying to teach me and Jin and Hobi about Korean literature. It was his great passion, something I rather envied. How wonderful, to have a passion that was just your own, that couldn’t be spoiled by other people, or taken from you without warning.
On the screen behind Namjoon, in clear black letters, were the words, ‘Folklore and its Impact on Modern Korean Literature’. I willed him to do well. If he was poorly received tonight, he would think of nothing else for weeks.
“In storytelling, what does ‘truth’ mean?” Namjoon continued. Immediately to my right, Hobi shifted in his seat. When I turned my head to him, more out of instinct than anything, my eyes instead met Jimin’s, just on Hobi’s other side. He smiled, wide and perfect. I was drawn in even as he tilted his head, regarding me for a moment, before turning away.
I hadn’t spoken to him, really—hadn’t said more than ‘hello’ when Hobi had picked me up, letting him and Jin take a hold of the conversation once we’d arrived at the hall. I remembered his voice, when he’d greeted me, though. A sweet, musical sound—a tenor in a sea of baritone.
There was the sharp jab of a pointed elbow between the ribs on my left flank and I jolted, facing the front once more, all too aware of Jin’s narrowed eyes on me.
Tuning back into Namjoon’s speech, I caught him ask, “Is it objective?” His voice was a little steadier now that the crowd had made themselves comfortable. “Is it about historical accuracy? Is it more about the moral of the story we’re telling? Think of modern day adaptations.” He must have seen us then, I think, for he huffed out a small laugh—perhaps he hadn’t believed Jin when he’d promised that we’d all attend. I watched as he cleared his throat, eyes flitting along the back rows. “I’m going to give you an example,” he said. “There is one fairy tale that I always loved as a child. ‘The Princess of the Flower Kingdom’, has anyone heard of it?”
My stomach clenched. Why had I not thought of this? The lecture was about folklore. Folklore and fairy tales.
Jiyeong had loved them so much; mystical tales full of magic and love and good overcoming evil. Of course, it sounded infantile to put it that way. Jiyeong wasn’t a child, she was infinitely smart, so much smarter than me. She could have done anything she wanted to. Still, she’d loved the hope in those stories; the adventure, the honour, the sheer boundlessness of them. We both had.
Since she’d gone the limitations of the real world had become all too clear to me.
“Good,” Namjoon said. “I can see the twinkle of recognition in some eyes. In ‘The Princess of the Flower Kingdom’ we have the story of two warring kingdoms. The Flower Kingdom, and the one whose name everybody forgets, because it’s not in the title -” A smattering of polite laughter rippled up the aisles. I felt stupidly proud, despite my discomfort. Namjoon inclined his head. “The prince of the untitled kingdom makes the terrible mistake of stumbling across a woman, bathing in a river near the border of his territory. Immediately, he sees her and he falls for her charms.” Namjoon's eyes glimmered with a smirk. “Her feminine wiles.
“It just so happens that this beautiful woman is the princess of the Flower Kingdom. She seduces the prince and convinces him to put down his weapons, so that her father the king may win the war. Naturally, this does not go down well with king number two, father of the prince. He beseeches the prince with his fatherly wisdom to return to the nameless kingdom and once again pledge his loyalty. On hearing his father’s pleas, the prince acts to free himself from the princess’ spell. How does he do this? Well, by slaying her where she stands, of course. True love,” Namjoon sighed. “And as a reward? For his heroic actions and demonstration of his loyalty, he is blessed with eternal youth.”
Namjoon clapped his hands. At my side, Jin startled. “So,” Namjoon declared. “What truths can we glean from this tale? Where does this story come from?”
There was a pause and I wondered for a moment if Namjoon was actually waiting for an answer. Thankfully, it appeared that he was simply leaning into the dramatics of the stage as he finally continued, “No takers? Well, that’s fair, as the answer is, we don’t know. Scholars are divided on this one, have been for years. That brings me back to my original point, through. We don’t even know if this story is based on any kind of reality at all, if the journey is quote-unquote real. But,” Namjoon raised one finger where his hands were steepled together. “Again, is it any less true? No, we can’t claim in big letters on a cinema screen that it was based on real life events, and yet - Why has this story lasted for a thousand years, where the story of when old King Whatshisface back in the year eight-hundred and something moved the entire capital of his territory two hundred kilometres to the west, so that his fish in the morning would be fresher, has been entirely forgotten?
“It’s not a trick question, don’t look so scared,” Namjoon chuckled. Hobi let out an answering snort. “The story of the king who liked his morning fish may have happened, but retelling that does not ring true to us. It is not universal, it is not something that we, a thousand years later, can understand. Being taken in by a liar with a pretty face, however? Not seeing eye to eye with our parents? Struggling to carve out your own individuality under the weight of what others want from you? These are all truths. These are all things that we can relate to.”
Pausing for a moment, Namjoon once more took in the room, the silence of it, much more thoughtful now. I thought over his words. I knew all the fairy tales, all the folk stories, practically by heart. My mother had read them to us almost every night; beware of the dokkaebi, or the gwisin, or the gumiho. As children, Jiyeong and I had dutifully adored them. All I could see now were tall tales designed to scare the impressionable, however. There was no truth in those stories. What did it matter what the journey was? You were still left with nothing to show for it at the end.
Of course, these were not thoughts I would be sharing with Namjoon any time soon.
“That is what I mean,” Namjoon said, his voice cutting through my ruminations. “When I ask ‘what is truth’? That is how literature starts, not from retelling historical events, but from recounting the journeys we take.”
The remainder of the lecture was interesting, moving on to universal themes in folklore from across the globe, and further matters of alterations made to stories throughout the centuries. I found myself somewhat blocking it out, however. The whole thing had left a bitter taste in my mouth. I’d never disagreed with Namjoon on anything before, not on anything more serious than where in the city sold the best bulgogi, at least. This wasn’t fundamental, I knew—how often did the accuracy or importance of fairy talks come up in everyday conversation?—but something about it troubled me. It felt too sensitive, like a scab that was too fresh to pick at.
And yet, pick at it I did.
We waited out in the foyer for Namjoon to meet us. Twenty minutes later the man ambled out from a side door, a bashful smile plastered across his face.
“You came!” he called. “I wasn’t sure that you’d make it.”
“Of course we came, we said we would,” Seokjin replied with a grin, clapping Namjoon’s back as they embraced.
“Guk forgot,” Hobi piped up, sparing me an impish smile.
“Hobi!” I cried. I turned to Namjoon, entreating, “I didn’t forget -”
“Don’t worry about it,” he waved off, pulling me into a hug. “You’re here aren’t you?” I’d always secretly loved Namjoon’s hugs. It was the way he seemed to invest every part of him in that moment, that touch, that completely engulfed all thought and feeling. When he stepped away it was like being left out in the cold. “What did you think?” Namjoon asked us, wide-eyed. “Was it awful? I thought I was going to throw up the entire time.”
Over a smattering of good-natured chuckles, Seokjin assured, “It was brilliant, Joon. You did really well.”
“Oh, no, you’re just saying that, I know,” Namjoon demurred. He ducked his head, running his palm across the back of his neck. “You’re too nice to me. You have to tell me, if I messed it up.”
“I would tell you,” Seokjin replied. “And you didn’t. You should be more confident.”
“I thought you were fantastic,” Jimin spoke up, leaning his head forward to smile at Namjoon.
Namjoon blinked. “Thank you, that’s - You’re kind.”
“No, he’s Jimin,” Seokjin said. He was biting down on a grin, clearly delighted to stumble across such an opportunity so early in the evening.
“Jin -” I groaned (an expected reaction—I knew the lines for this one).
Taking the introduction in his stride, Jimin stretched out his hand to Namjoon. “Park Jimin,” he said, as Namjoon shook it. “Hoseok invited me.”
“He’s just moved to the city and I’ve promised him we’re going to become the best of friends, so don’t let me down,” Hobi said, resting his hand on Jimin’s shoulder. “And, please, call me Hobi.”
Seokjin hummed, looking down at his phone. “Hoseok was his father. Come on, I have a table booked.”
“Seventeen Eonju Street, right?”
“Naturally.”
The walk to Seventeen Eonju Street—our default haunt, when not attempting to ‘broaden our horizons’, as Seokjin put it—was at least twenty minutes. We’d have been there in no time at all if we’d taken the subway, but Namjoon was still feeling a little queasy, and insisted on the fresh-air.
I only cursed him a little as Jimin fell into step by my side at the back of the group.
“Hoseok, er, Hobi said you two work together?” he said, politely, as we waited for the lights to change at a crossroads.
I grimaced. Small talk had never been my forte and after everything I had somehow—rather impressively—become even worse.
“Yes,” I replied, clearing my throat and wincing at the crack in my voice. “Five years now.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
It was a perfectly ordinary question, of course, but as the light turned green all I could think was that I hated it with every fibre of my being. The crossroad chimed, urging me to move. Beep-beep. “I - Well, I mean, yes, but - It’s a job, isn’t it? Anything gets a little dull day in, day out.”
“I suppose,” Jimin sighed. “I’m part of a dance company here,” he went on without prompting. “New, obviously. It’s why I moved to the city. The opportunities here are just so much better. I’ve got my first show next season, though. You should come and see it. I’m not the lead or anything, but I do have some parts, you know, in the limelight.” He had his hands in his pockets, looking up at me through long lashes, with the streetlights dousing him in a faintly orange glow. The whole effect was rather ethereal.
“Oh, uh - I think I’m actually pretty busy at the muh-moment. With, uh, stuff at home,” I replied, stiltedly. Why did it sound like a question?
“Right, of course.” Jimin’s smile flickered and I felt, all of a sudden, as if I made some kind of monumental error. “Some other time.”
Thankfully, once we were seated at the restaurant, I was able to hide much more successfully in the company of the others. Always fairly quiet, I knew I had retreated into myself in the past few years. The others knew it, too; they let me get away with it. I wondered, sometimes, if they’d forgotten how I used to be entirely. Still, as I listened to their chatter, surrounded by their warmth, I knew it was better than the alternative—home alone in my small flat, just the sound of the city and my own thoughts for company.
“Is it really your favourite?” Jimin said later, after we had all eaten our fill and were leant back against our chairs, sipping at our drinks. “‘The Princess of the Flower Kingdom’?”
Seokjin grunted in agreement, swallowing his wine. “Yeah, Namjoon, I mean really?”
“What?” Namjoon chuckled.
“It’s awful.”
“It’s not awful!” he protested. “It’s a seminal classic!”
Neither Seokjin or Jimin seemed persuaded. “My dad used to always use that story, whenever I disagreed with him,” Seokjin carried on. He lowered his voice, pushing his shoulders up to his ears. “‘Listen to me, Jin, you’ll live forever.’”
Hobi laughed, brightly, leaning his head closer to Seokjin’s shoulder. I caught his eye across the table and he smirked at me, eyebrows raised.
“You got the story wrong, anyway,” Jimin added. “With the princess, I mean.”
“Excuse me,” Namjoon spluttered. Splotches of red had burst across his cheeks and he grinned wide, dimples deepening. “No I did not.”
“You did!” Jimin crowed. He tipped his bottle of beer in the other man’s direction. “The prince doesn’t murder her at the end.”
“Of course he does,” Seokjin said. He was frowning a little as he spoke, concentrating on his words in the way he always did when he’d had a drink. “Then it breaks the spell she’s put on him.”
Hobi leant forward, almost draping himself over the table. “No, no, I’m with Jimin,” he said. “It’s a love story. The princess dies because she’s been away from her flowers too long. The prince ends up living forever, getting older and older, because he’s too ashamed to die and face her.”
Everyone at the table stared at Hobi for a moment, who sent us a small bow.
Too ashamed to die? Jesus.
“Oh, yes, well, that’s the version of the tale further South, I think,” Namjoon replied, straightening his chopsticks next to his cleared bowl. “A more depressing version, I’d say.”
I had to agree. More depressing and just like a Goddamn fairy tale.
“No, but, I like it,” Jimin replied, unbothered. He gave Namjoon a playful smile and I watched as his blush spread further, reaching towards his ears. “It’s like, how love is never permanent, you know? It’s fleeting, but it still lasts forever, just in a different way.”
I scoffed, regretting it the minute everybody turned to me. “If I were the puh-prince I wouldn’t bother,” I continued, deciding it was better to power through. “Feeling guilty for all eternity? He’d be better not meeting the princess in the first place.”
A small frown appeared on Jimin’s face before Hobi laughed, “Guk, no! Where’s your sense of romance! Really, it means that love is even more valuable when you do find it.”
“Joon’s version is the one my mother used to tell us,” I muttered with a shrug. “Jiyeong -” I caught myself, a pang of something stabbing at my chest.
“‘Jiyeong’ what?” Seokjin asked, gently.
Shit.
I coughed. “Uh, she always used to say it was more like a curse than a gift. Eternal life.” I licked my lips. “She thought the king was the villain.”
“Smart woman,” Jimin added, after a moment. I let out a breath. For a second, I thought he might ask me who Jiyeong was. “The king’s definitely the villain. Poor princess, murdered by her own love. No,” he let out a sigh. In the low light of the restaurant, his skin seemed to emanate a soft glow of its own, earrings shimmering and eyes twinkling. He smiled at me and leant closer. “I much prefer my version, don’t you think?”
For the longest time, I didn’t know what to say.
iii.
Several weeks went by where I didn’t think about Jimin at all. I let the image of him fall into a box, alongside all that fairy tale nonsense, and packed it away in the back of my mind. I was all the happier for it. February had announced itself with great fanfare, a storm of snow covering the city in a cosy white blanket. The whole world seemed to be reduced down to middle-aged men grumbling about driving through the thick flurries, children running gleefully through the parks, their legs all but vanished in the deep banks, and tired office workers, dragging themselves through the early morning cold, clutching their hot drinks close to their chests.
“Are you staying much longer?”
“Huh?”
I tore my gaze away from the large window where my eyes had been following the floating path of flakes against the dark sky.
Hobi stood by my desk, coat on, bag slung over his shoulder, and large woollen mittens in hand. “Are you staying late?” he asked. “Me and Jimin are going to try to watch that film, you know, the scary one with the girl and the hair.”
“You don’t like scary films.”
“No,” Hobi pouted. “But safety in numbers. Jin kept saying how good it was. You can swing by, it’d be nice to see you some more.”
“Oh, uh, Maybe. I’ve just got to finish this report.”
I didn’t have to finish the report, the deadline wasn’t until next Wednesday. There was a part of me, though, that knew I wouldn’t be able to handle an evening with Hobi and Jimin. Hobi had been dropping hints about the other for a while, hints that I was steadfastly ignoring. Several hours confined in a small space with him, though, and I wouldn’t be able to avoid addressing it. Even so, Friday night watching films with Hobi had been a staple in the past, I was keenly aware that he had been trying to restart it. I scratched the desk, digging at an imaginary bit of dirt.
Hobi let out a strange, strangled sort of noise. “Alright, don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?” I asked, peering up at him.
He pouted again and then said, voice pitched high, “Please come, I’m going to be terrified and I need you to hide behind so I don’t embarrass myself. Besides, it’s officially the weekend now, and, you know, Jimin’s been asking about you. I’m sure he’d like to see you.”
I turned back to my screen. “I have to finish this. If I’m done in time I’ll come over.”
“My hero,” Hobi grinned. “The sooner I leave you, the sooner you finish, right? See you later,” he called over his shoulder, already heading to the door.
“Maybe!” I shouted back, but he waved me off.
With the office now empty, I leant back in my chair and ran by hands over my face. The thing was, I liked Jimin. I’d only met him once and, although I had been actively ignoring any mention of him, I couldn’t erase the memory of the strange flutters I felt in my chest the night we met. He was beautiful, and charming, and the small part of him I’d seen gave every indication of being just the kind of person that I’d imagined myself ending up with.
Except those flutters—that in a past life had sent a thrill of excitement up my spine—were followed now only by the reality of one absolute certainty: that the more people you loved, the deeper you loved them, the more it would hurt when you inevitably lost them.
So, no—I would not be spending the evening with Hobi and Jimin. I would not be opening up my heart to him, not even a little. I had to protect myself from any further grief. Any more and I’d be liable to break.
The minutes ticked on and, though the sound of traffic on the ground below was as present as ever, I knew it was late. Too late, really, to be in the office, even with my facade of dedicated employee. My stomach rumbled and I pushed away from my desk, heading towards the small kitchenette in the corner.
“Up in this magnificent blue sky,” I sang under my breath and reached into the cupboard for a packet of ramyeon. “Come into the magic garden.”
With the packet of flavouring one hand, chopsticks in the other, I was engulfed in darkness as every single light in the office went out all at once.
I startled.
“Uh, hello?” I called out, wondering if perhaps the cleaning staff had mistakenly thought nobody was left on the floor. When no answer was forthcoming I set everything back down on the counter and strode over to the wall. The moonlight outside was bright enough, reflecting off the snow through the window, that I could still make out the outline of the light switch. I flicked it back on. Nothing.
Just as I was considering whether this was a sign that I should really go home—even the building itself had stopped working—a loud gust of wind had me frozen in place. Normally, I would consider myself a fairly unflappable person—there was a reason Hobi had wanted me to hide behind during his film, after all—and a gust of wind was really nothing to be alarmed about.
Except.
It had been so very loud. Like it was inside the building. Like it had been right behind me. Panic inducing, almost—a kind of desperate howling that ricocheted through your body and into your heart. Demanding and unrelenting and unavoidable. Even after it had ended, in the quiet once more, I could still feel it.
I forced out a laugh. What was I thinking? Monstrous gusts of wind. I’d been awake too long, and the weather outside was making me claustrophobic, that was all. Time to call it a night.
Turning on the spot, I had every intention of dumping the ramyeon in the bin and heading out.
The wind roared again—quieter this time, more like a breeze. It was definitely inside now, though, there was no mistaking it. I stood, stupefied, in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at the entrance to the corridor where the noise came from.
“Come on, Jeongguk,” I muttered to myself. “Come on.”
I edged closer. It was probably just an open window, right? The floor was pretty high up—the eighth storey—the weather would be loud outside, what with the wind tunnels forming through the streets. I repeated this to myself as I approached the corridor, simultaneously relieved that nobody else was there to see my overreaction, and desperate for somebody to investigate with me.
Usually, around the corner, further down the corridor, all that could be seen were doors. Doors to a supply closest, the toilets, and one of the floor’s smallest meeting rooms. There had never been anything remarkable to note about this corridor whatsoever. I must have walked this path a dozen times a day without even thinking about it.
Now, though, as I stepped out beyond the wall, I saw something very odd indeed.
One of those doors—the one that led to a tiny closet full of pens, paperclips and spare staplers—was glowing.
Not the door itself, but between the cracks, light spilled onto the floor, cutting through the air. It was as if, behind the door, a powerful light was pushing its way out, bursting at the seams, desperate to escape, to be free.
Stupidly, I felt like I might cry. Without thinking about it, I ran my thumb across the chain around my neck, feeling the ridges against my skin until the locket dropped into my hand. The weight of it calmed me. There was nothing to fear. Nothing could hurt me anymore.
The rays of light that seeped from the gaps around the door had an odd quality to them. It took me a moment to pin it down—it was like summer. Those warm rays of summer sun that had such a particular feel, so out of place in the frozen shadows of the office. Dust floated in the air, glinting like jewels in the non-existent sun.
I took a shaking breath and pressed my ear to the door.
If I closed my eyes, I could be in a forest, or a mountainside, or resting by a lake. The wind from before was there, less terrifying now—more like a gentle breeze, cooling against overheated skin. I could hear birds singing, the delicate trickle of running water, the chirp of cicadas in the trees. Was I imagining it? But, then, the fresh fragrance smell of summer flowers filled my nostrils, too. Sweet honey and tall grass and damp soil.
I pushed away, eyeing the wooden door, which stood there so still, mocking me, almost. The dust swirled and danced in the light around me.
This wasn’t real. This wasn’t normal. This was something altogether … I bit my lip. I didn’t want to think it, but what else could it be? It was magical.
With a heavy breath, I flexed my fingers just once and heaved the door open.
A store cupboard. A perfectly normal, dark and dusty cupboard.
I slumped, bewildered. But, then, what I had been expecting? A forest trapped inside one small room? A lagoon in the floor, revealing some underwater kingdom? A gateway to a mystical land, filled with birds and mountains and flowers?
What a fool I was. A sleep deprived, driven to distraction fool.
A feeling of utter disappointment consumed me and I turned my back to the cupboard, ready to swing the door shut with a satisfying slam, before something caught my eye. In the corner, on the floor, tucked away behind several boxes of paper: a golden glint.
I narrowed my eyes, disappointment already forgotten. Crouching down, I reached forward, letting my fingers travel over the dusty floor until they reached it. A tapestry, I thought, feeling a little hysterical. Something like my grandmother used to make, sat in the corner of the living room for hours on end while the rest of us watched television, needle and thread working away. Yes, a tapestry, with its worn texture—somehow rough and smooth at the same time.
Grunting, I tugged it free and stumbled backwards into the corridor and the light—oh, I hadn’t noticed, the buzzing tubes overhead, back on and flickering weakly. The fabric in my hands was old, whatever it was. The piece depicted, from what I could tell, a forest scene, with flowers and trees and wild animals filling the small piece—barely larger than a sheet of paper.
What on earth was it doing here?
I peered closer, spotting something in the centre. Camouflaged in the treeline, a wooden door sat in the woodland, out of place and yet perfectly serene. Above the scene, in rough gold thread, the words, ‘Death shall not greet you, for you are not his friend. Age shall not know you, for you cannot be seen. Love shall not defeat you, for you are hard of heart.’
“Death shall not greet you,” I muttered to myself. I knew those words, better than I wanted to. They were from that story, the one Namjoon had mentioned in his lecture, the one Jiyeong had loved so well. Age shall not know you, for you cannot be seen. It was the spell the king’s mage had cast on the prince; the spell for eternal youth.
A coincidence, surely, that it should appear to me now, just when I had been forced to bring it to mind once more?
I turned on the spot, struck with the urge to make sure I was alone. Perhaps I was going mad? I was hearing noises that weren’t there, seeing lights where there were none and now, somehow, ugly old rags were presenting themselves to me for no earthly reason.
But, then, they were such pretty words. I let my eyes run over them once more.
Death shall not greet you.
Fairy tales, they were full of that kind of thing, weren’t they? Life and death and eternity. Death was nothing, in those stories. It could be avoided, undone, defeated in the blink of an eye. Had it been real, what I’d heard on the other side of the door? Was this real? Could this spell be real?
God, what the hell even time was it? How long had I been in here, staring at this tapestry?
Grabbing my phone to check, I was greeted with a barrage of notifications, all of which I was sure had not been there before I’d left my desk earlier.
+82 5685 983461 ~Park Jimin
Hobi said you’re coming over? I’m excited to see you again 😊 I hope that’s not too forward?
+82 5685 983461 ~Park Jimin
It’s Jimin by the way Namjoon gave me your number a while ago
Hobi ☀️
films about to start! get you and your muscles over here!
Hobi ☀️
jeongguk!
Hobi ☀️
you’re not coming are you?
Hobi ☀️
you know we’re all worried about you. you can talk to us
Hobi ☀️
don’t work too late 👐 xx
Fabulous. But, then, it was done, wasn’t it? I’d deal with the fallout tomorrow. The lights flickered above my head. Tonight, I had other things to think about.
Just after I shoved my phone back in my pocket, pushing away any thoughts of what Hobi meant by we’re all worried about you, it vibrated against my leg. For a wild second I thought maybe it was my mother—she used to call me every evening it felt like, but, of course, she hadn’t done so in a while now. Not after our argument. Funny, though, that for that second, I was almost pleased to speak to her, pleased to tell her that I might have found an answer. Instead, Seokjin’s face beamed at me from the screen. I gnawed at my cheek, standing in the corridor still, the small tapestry clasped in my hand.
The vibrating stopped.
Then started once more. I answered it straight away this time.
“Jin,” I snapped. “I’m working, wuh-what could be so important?”
On the end of the line Seokjin remained silent for a moment. Then, dry as the desert, he started, “And good evening to you, too, Guk. What a polite young man you’ve grown up to be.”
“Jin, I’m busy,” I huffed, shifting my weight on my feet.
“Yes, alright, we’re all very busy and important, I know,” the other man’s voice came through the speaker tired and worn. “Listen, what’s your goal here?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“With Jimin. What’s your goal? Because from where I’m standing it appears to be making yourself out to be one of the biggest arseholes in the entire metropolitan area.”
“Jesus,” I scoffed. “I just passed on a film night, that’s all.”
That wasn’t all, but Seojkin didn’t need to know any of that.
“And the dinner at mine last week, and the game night at Hobi’s the week before, and I know Joon’s invited the pair of you out for coffee more than once. We’re used to you flaking out -” I bristled at that. ‘Flaking out’? Is that what they all thought I was doing? “- but Jimin’s not. You know he’s taking it personally.”
I was lost for words. I’d been sure, so sure, that I wouldn’t be called out for any of it, that none of it would be noticed in between my usual hesitance. Though, how often was it that any of us made a new friend? Of course the others were invested. I was the odd one here—the achor, tying everyone else down.
“It’s not personal,” I ventured. “I don’t even know him, how could it be personal?”
Seokjin sighed on the other end. I could picture him, on his sofa or at his kitchen bar, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like it always was, just waiting for me to offer an olive branch. “I know it’s not, but it is starting to look like you’re deliberately avoiding him. We can only cover for you for so long.” There was a pause, before, tentatively, “He’s a nice guy. You’d like him. Jeongguk, I know you’ve had a tough time -”
“Seokjin,” I winced. I didn’t want to hear this. Not ever, really, but especially not now. Not when—
“- and I don’t want to push you, none of us do. But, Guk, there comes a point where your unkindness starts to outweigh your sympathy, you know? I’m not saying - I just think you might want to start thinking about where that line is for you. Nobody’s angry with you, nobody’s - No damage has been done, but, just, it might be, if you carry on the way you’re going. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, Seokjin,” I replied, voice thick. Throughout his little speech, my eyes had started to burn. I willed them to stay dry. “Time to stop being sad about the person I loved most in the whole world dying, right? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was such an inconvuh-vuh-venience for you all.”
“No, Guk -”
“I’ll try to do better in the future. Goodnight, Jin,” I rushed before hanging up. Almost immediately, several message notifications pinged on my screen.
Kim Seokjin
I’m sorry.
Kim Seokjin
I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow ❤️
Shit. I leant back against the wall, sliding to the floor, and dropped my gaze to the fabric in my hand. Stupid. A flush crept up my neck at the very thought of it. The mere idea of seeing Jiyeong again, just the tiniest notion and I’d jumped head-first into the deep-end. Magic? Really?
No.
It was a fairy tale, nothing more, and nothing that I needed. What I needed was to speak with my friends and move on. As hard as that would be, it would undoubtedly be harder if I kept clinging to the past.
That thought swam in my mind as I stalked back down the corridor and towards my desk. With a clatter my drawer opened beneath my palm and I reached for the large pair of scissors sitting amongst the ocean of junk. It took only seconds for the tapestry to fall to my desk in shreds, my hand as steady as my breathing was not.
There you are.
I dropped the scissors once more.
Some fairy story.
Beyond the window, the snow continued to fall. I tugged on my coat and my bag and swept the remnants of this ridiculous evening into the bin beneath my desk, determined to think no more of it. As I strode through the office floor, I ardently ignored the entrance to the corridor.
I lived in the real world, where people died and stayed dead, and there was nothing I could do about it. What I could do was pull myself together, stop dreaming of the past, and get over it. And, even if I couldn’t let myself fall in love with Park Jimin, I could, at the very least, be his friend.