Chapter Text
The car moved steadily through the winding forest road, its tires humming over damp asphalt. Around them, dark green trees towered silently, their tall bodies swaying faintly beneath a washed-out, grey sky. The air outside looked cold. Even the windows seemed reluctant to let it in.
In the passenger seat, Sehun slouched deeper into his coat, legs stretched and crossed, arms folded. His gaze moved from the road to the blurred trees to the dull sky, then back again, over and over, restless and unsatisfied.
“How much longer?” he muttered, voice low, petulant. He already knew the answer. But that wasn’t the point. To him, this trip was a waste of time.
Yixing didn’t glance away from the road. He just tapped the GPS screen on the dashboard. “Twenty minutes.”
Sehun groaned and tilted his head back against the seat, eyes closed in dramatic misery. “This place is in the middle of nowhere. I still don’t get why I had to come all the way here. Couldn’t someone just send me the papers? I’d sign them. Digital signature. Done.”
“You’re lucky the government’s interested at all,” Yixing said calmly, unfazed, hands steady on the wheel. He always stayed calm when Sehun got worked up. Maybe that’s why Sehun kept talking. Kept him.
“Interested in what, exactly?” Sehun waved vaguely at the forest like it offended him. “The place is ancient. Creepy. Probably mold-infested.”
“They don’t care about the mold. It’s because it’s yours,” Yixing said. “What’s inside is probably more valuable than the walls themselves.”
Sehun frowned. His reflection on the window glass was faint but hollow-eyed. “I seriously doubt that.”
Yixing gave a small shrug. “You still need to do it. Be present. Show thoughtfulness. Your dad’s watching.”
That line landed like a pebble dropped in deep water. Sehun shifted in his seat, pulling his coat tighter around him, like the temperature had dropped a few degrees.
“Yeah. I know.” He groans. “He's supervising me. Giving me these stupid tasks. Selling off old houses, what a joke. I’m an Executive Director of Strategic Development.” The title sounded exquisite even for Sehun. Deep down, he knew why his father doubted him and why he needed to prove himself worthy of it despite being inexperienced compared to his cousins.
Sehun had not exactly been a son to be proud of. But he genuinely wished to change that now.
Yixing’s voice softened, cutting through Sehun’s thoughts. “Exactly. You’re doing this to fund your own project. Remember? Pass the test, and he'll take you seriously.”
“I remember,” Sehun muttered. He stared hard at the road. His jaw ticked once. “So he’ll finally think I’m more than just a controversial disappointment of a son.”
Yixing didn’t reply, but the silence between them suddenly felt heavier.
“If you mess it up,” Yixing eventually added, “Mingyu will be first in line to take your place.”
Sehun let out a sharp laugh. “Fucking Mingyu.”
Yixing smiled faintly, but didn’t add anything. He knew not to poke at that wound too long.
Sehun straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. “He’s not getting it, though. This time, I have something brilliant. A women-only department store. Entirely run by women, designed for women. Clothes, cosmetics, lounges—safe, beautiful. A whole space that gets them.”
“That’s actually really—” Yixing started, amused.
“There’ll be kids’ corners, too. Many women are moms. They’ll need a break. And dogs. People bring their dogs everywhere now. It’ll be pet-friendly. Heaven.”
Yixing smiled more sincerely this time, eyes flicking to Sehun with genuine warmth. “You’ll change the game. If you can keep your head on straight.” Unlike Sehun’s father, who kept rejecting Sehun’s inputs, Yixing always supported his ideas. Above all, he was a good friend.
Sehun opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the GPS blinked off. A second later, the signal bars on both their phones vanished. Dead.
“What the hell?” Sehun tapped the screen with rising annoyance. “Seriously?”
“No reception,” Yixing said, completely unfazed. “Manor always kills signal. Just a minute now—”
And then, the trees gave way.
There it was.
The Oh Manor rose like a shadow at the end of the road. Enormous and weather-stained, it looked as though it had been carved straight from the darkness that surrounded it. Ivy clawed up its stone walls. Black iron fences leaned with age. The windows, too many and too narrow, stared out like watching eyes.
Sehun went still. He stared, eyebrows knitting together.
A lone car was parked out front.
“Someone’s here already?” Sehun asked, frowning, voice low and guarded.
Yixing nodded. “He arrived earlier. Something about an inspection. Valuation and... the library, I think.”
Sehun didn’t move right away. The manor unsettled him. It wasn’t fear, not exactly, but a prickling along the back of his neck, like the house was aware of them.
As they stepped out of the car, the wind bit at their faces. The cold was sharper here. The trees rustled overhead, whispering like they had secrets.
A man stood by the manor’s front steps. He was tall, broad-shouldered, sun-touched despite the gloom, and striking in a way that made Sehun’s breath catch in his throat for a split second.
“Wow,” Sehun muttered under his breath, more instinct than comment.
Yixing elbowed him. “Keep it professional, will you?” he hissed, barely moving his lips.
The man approached with a confident stride, offering a warm handshake to Yixing. “Kim Jongin. We spoke over email.”
“Pleasure. This is—”
“I know who he is.” Jongin’s voice was cooler now as he turned to Sehun.
Their eyes locked. Jongin’s gaze was unreadable, but it didn’t linger. It wasn’t impressed.
Sehun lifted his chin slightly and extended his hand. Jongin shook it briefly. Firm but impersonal. Like a formality.
“Did you come here alone?” Sehun asked, blinking the cold from his lashes. He was expecting a crew. The press, maybe.
“I’m mostly here for the library. If I find anything that warrants it, I might request backup.” Jongin glanced at the manor, his tone easy. “No one else wanted the job.”
“Why not?”
“They say it’s haunted.”
Sehun stilled. “And you still came?”
Jongin smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I don’t believe in that crap.”
Before Sehun could respond, Yixing’s phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He frowned and stepped away, pulling it out with visible confusion. He struggled to find a good spot to boost the reception, lifting the phone in all directions. Until he got it, for a brief second, enough to open his email. He squinted at the screen, then swiped rapidly.
His brows furrowed. Then his face darkened.
“Shit,” he muttered, moving quickly back toward them. He held the phone up to Sehun.
Headlines. Photos. Social media screenshots.
Sehun’s stomach twisted as his eyes scanned the screen.
“Prince Diana” strikes again
Drunk in broad daylight. Heir might be addicted to heavy drugs. Will he have his crazy-loaded family go bankrupt?
A sick, angry flush crept into his cheeks. His fingers curled around the phone as he stared at the low-quality photos of him snapped without his consent, taken from behind bushes, when he went for a morning jog. He wasn't drunk that day. Not that day. He was sick.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, jaw clenched.
“I can’t believe this is happening again,” Yixing said, voice low, eyes scanning more alerts.
Sehun shoved the phone back into Yixing’s hand. “Handle it. Delete it. Debunk those accusations. They're fake news. Sue Them. Dox them if you have to. Just make it go away before my father sees it.”
“I can’t do much here,” Yixing said, frustrated. “The signal’s too bad.”
Sehun exhaled sharply through his nose. “Take the car. Go somewhere with reception. Handle it. Just don’t let him find out.”
“I’ll send someone to pick you up.”
“You know he won’t allow it.”
Yixing hesitated, but Sehun’s tone left no room. He finally nodded, voice dropping. “Be smart. Keep it together. I'll come back to pick you up ASAP.”
Sehun nodded tightly, but his gaze slid back to Jongin, who was watching him, quiet, unreadable. Judging, maybe.
Yixing gave Jongin a quick nod and left.
Jongin raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
Sehun waved a hand as Yixing climbed back into the car and set off. “Business. He’ll be back soon. Shall we?”
The manor’s door creaked open under Sehun’s hand.
The air inside hit them like a breath held too long. Cold, stale, and heavy. The hall stretched long, lit only by dusty light filtering through narrow windows. Cracked black-and-white tiles spread out underfoot like a broken chessboard. Portraits lined the walls, their faces stretched with time and shadows, eyes seeming to follow.
It smelled like mildew, old wood, and something fainter, like ash.
Sehun hesitated at the threshold.
“I swear I saw this place in a horror movie,” he muttered.
Jongin chuckled softly, stepping in without pause. “Don’t worry. Ghosts don’t exist.”
But even he looked back when the door slammed shut behind them. Loud and final.
*
The heavy door groaned as Sehun pushed it open, and the manor seemed to inhale their presence. The moment they crossed the threshold, cold air coiled around their ankles like fog. The entryway stretched wide and hollow, a grand staircase splitting the space like a scar. Twin bannisters curved upward in opposing arcs, meeting the shadows above. The chandelier overhead hung crookedly, a few crystals missing, the rest dulled by years of dust.
Sehun shivered.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, eyes darting around the unfamiliar architecture. “The library is under the stairs,” he muttered, voice low, as though the walls might echo him. From his coat, he produced a heavy ring of labeled keys. The metallic clatter broke the silence. He fumbled through them, squinting at faded writing. “Music Room… Dining Hall… Ah. Here.”
The key scraped in the lock. A click. The door to the library creaked open. Earnestly, Jongin stepped past him and froze. His breath hitched audibly.
“Woah…” he whispered.
Sehun watched the way his expression changed, how his eyes widened, how a reverent kind of awe softened his features. The library wasn’t anything special to Sehun. Just another cold, neglected room in a house that didn’t want him. To him, the stale air and rotting velvet drapes were the first to slap him in the face. He crinkled his nose.
“It stinks in here.”
But Jongin didn’t flinch. Instead, he crossed to the tall, covered windows and threw the curtains open. Dust exploded from the fabric like spores, catching the light in a golden storm, raining over both of them. Jongin coughed, shielding his face with a sleeve.
“Careful,” Sehun muttered, straightening his jacket. “That’s Armani.”
“I’m aware,” Jongin wheezed, brushing grey motes off his no-brand jacket, unfazed.
He dropped his backpack to the floor and unzipped it swiftly, pulling out gloves, brushes, a flashlight, some digital scanner. Sehun eyed the tools, bemused.
“You really need all that just to read some books?”
Jongin’s brow lifted. “They’re not just books. Every book is important. Especially the old ones.”
Sehun didn’t reply. He took a few hesitant steps inside, looking at the towering shelves that reached the ceiling. The entire room smelled of paper rot and damp wood. He hovered near a table, unsure of where to stand, what to touch. He pulled his coat tighter. “I read Percy Jackson once.”
Jongin’s head turned slowly. He blinked, deadpan. Sehun flushed.
Without a word, Jongin grabbed a rag from his kit, swiped it across the dust-caked armchair near the hearth, and motioned toward it.
It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t kindness either. Just… matter-of-fact. Sehun sat, a little sheepish, suddenly hyperaware of how loud his breathing sounded. The quiet stretched. He felt invisible, like his presence there didn't matter at all.
He broke the silence at last. “So… why are these books so important, exactly?”
Jongin turned back to the shelves, scanning spines with his fingers. “You should know that.”
“I don’t.”
There was no judgment in Sehun’s voice. Just honesty, stripped of pride.
Jongin sighed and faced him. “Your family is one of the oldest in the region. Wealthy. Landed. Traditional. The government believes these books may contain records, like old maps, journals, documents hinting at mineral deposits. Gold, silver, rare ores. We need those now. The country's resources are scarce.”
Sehun’s mouth opened, then closed. His father had never said anything about that.
Jongin continued. “If they can confirm anything, the government can legally seize the grounds and what’s under them. Plus, there are relics in this house that no one’s cataloged. All of it’s valuable.”
Sehun shrugged, feigning disinterest. “They can have them. My family has enough. Might as well help people who need it.”
That earned a laugh. Sharp and disbelieving.
“Right,” Jongin muttered, lips twisting. “Because rich people are always so eager to give things away.”
Sehun stiffened, feeling the jab. “I do care about people.” He protested, affronted.
Jongin didn’t turn. “Is that why you dress like a billboard for Milan?”
The remark wasn’t cruel. It was casual, offhand. That made it worse.
“You don’t know anything about me,” Sehun said tightly.
“I know enough. Your face is everywhere. You’re not hard to figure out.”
“Not lately,” Sehun snapped. “I’ve changed. I’m–I’m not like that anymore.” He couldn't say he was proud of his past. He admitted his wrongdoings and paid the price for them. For the real ones. The excessive partying, the dating around, the ostentation. However, the made-up nonsense people published about him every day felt like they were permanent. Unshakable. It molded a reputation for him that he was not sure ever existed. Not even when he was mad at the world, felt unseen and unloved. Not even then.
“If you say so.” Jongin said quietly.
The indifference, the dismissal. It burned more than insults would have. Sehun stood, suddenly tense. “I was just living my life, okay? Like anyone in their twenties. I didn’t know better. I thought I was supposed to enjoy things while I could.” He wasn't even planning to reach this far in life, in age. Thirty one. Who would have thought?
Jongin finally looked at him, one brow lifted.
“I spent my twenties studying,” he said flatly. “Working two jobs. Making sure I didn’t starve or get evicted.”
The words hung heavy between them. A weighted silence followed. Sehun’s throat worked as he swallowed. There was nothing he could say to that, not without sounding pathetic. He sat again, slower this time, looking away.
“…Do you even like your job?” he asked quietly. Because what was the point if in the end nothing brought joy?
“It pays enough to live.”
But Sehun could hear the gap in definition. Jongin’s “enough” wasn’t the same as his. Not even close.
“I donate,” Sehun blurted, not knowing why he felt like he needed to hand proof of his social mindfulness. “Every month. To multiple organizations. I’m not a selfish prick just because I was born rich.”
“No one thinks that because you were born rich.” Jongin’s voice didn’t rise. “They think that because you acted like one.”
Sehun’s heart pounded. He felt suddenly exposed, cornered. “Most of what people say about me online is fake. It’s all lies. You know that, right?”
Jongin turned to face him fully now. His stare was unreadable. “No offense,” he said. “But are you in therapy? You sound like you need it.”
That hit like a punch in the stomach.
“And I’m not a therapist,” Jongin added, softer this time.
Sehun didn’t respond. He stood again, more quietly now, and without looking at Jongin, he said, “I need a break.”
And then he left, with the dust swirling behind him like ghosts stirred by his steps.
The door clicked softly shut behind him.
Sehun stood in the hall for a moment, trying to slow his breath. The air out here was colder, but clearer, less suffocating than the library, less laced with judgment. Still, his chest ached. His cheeks burned with leftover shame, and he hated how much Jongin’s indifference got to him.
Why did it always feel like he had something to prove?
To his father.
To the board.
To every stranger on the internet who had ever reduced him to headlines and hashtags.
Now even to some historian who didn’t bother hiding his disdain.
Therapy? He'd been in therapy since he was fucking seven.
Sehun ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “You don’t know anything about me,” he whispered again, though no one was there to hear it.
His footsteps echoed faintly as he moved deeper into the manor. The parquet floor creaked beneath his designer loafers, each sound amplified in the vast, hollow silence. Every wall he passed seemed to breathe age. The cracked paint, the peeling wallpaper, the stale scent of old stone and wood.
A corridor opened to his right, revealing a long gallery of portraits. He stopped, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the filtered light. Dust motes danced in narrow beams from the ceiling vents, falling like slow rain over generations of faces. Oil and canvas ghosts in ornate, gold-leaf frames.
He wandered past them absently, until one made him pause.
A woman. Early 30s, maybe younger. Hair pinned in soft curls, lips painted wine-red, dressed in satin the color of antique rose. Her skin was pale, almost too pale, but what stilled him were the eyes.
Not scared. Not angry. Just… sad. Profoundly so.
The placard beneath read:
Oh Minjeong, 1972.
A distant relative, maybe a great aunt. He couldn’t remember. His family tree had too many branches, too many people whose names were listed in history books but never spoken aloud at dinner.
He tilted his head.
The sadness in her eyes unsettled him. Not just because it was there, but because it felt familiar.
He could almost see his mother there. Smiling from behind sunglasses, lipstick perfect, hand wrapped around his when he was small. His mother had always been beautiful, always looked like she didn’t quite belong in the world she’d married into. But her eyes had only ever gone dull when she wasn’t looking at him.
When she had looked at him… He had felt like the whole universe.
He swallowed the lump rising in his throat, forcing his gaze away from the painting. That was when he heard it.
Thud.
He froze.
The sound had come from above. Another heavy step followed.
Thud.
And another.
Thud. Thud.
Not pacing. Not shifting floorboards.
Footsteps. His breath caught.
They were supposed to be alone.
A chill swept over him, slow and deliberate, crawling up his spine like ice fingers. He turned toward the grand stairwell, the one that arched above the main hall like the open arms of something waiting to embrace him. His gaze rose to the dark landing.
No one.
But something still moved up there. He could feel it.
He looked back at the portrait, and staggered.
The woman’s head had turned.
Not much. But enough. Enough that she was looking directly at him now.
Her once-distant eyes had sharpened, darkened. They stared straight into him, as if recognizing him, as if accusing him.
Sehun’s heart jumped into his throat.
He stumbled back, shoes slipping slightly on the dusty floor, and without another glance, he turned and ran. Down the corridor. Around the bend. Past the crumbling staircase and through the half-open library door.
Inside, Jongin looked up, startled.
“What happened?”
Sehun leaned against the wall, chest heaving. “I—nothing. It’s nothing.”
Jongin raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Dust swirled lazily around them again as the door clicked shut behind Sehun. He said nothing more, only drifted to the chair Jongin had cleaned earlier and sank into it, his hands still trembling slightly in his lap.
The silence returned, wrapping around them like cobwebs. But now, it was no longer just uncomfortable.
It was watchful.
Sehun said nothing for a while. The rumors about the manor being haunted were just that. Rumors. People said that about any old, big house. He shouldn't let that get to him.
He sat, stiff and small in the chair, hands tucked beneath his thighs like a child who didn’t trust the dark. He was still shaken, but now more embarrassed than anything. He didn’t dare speak about the footsteps, or the painting. Jongin wouldn’t believe him. Jongin didn’t even blink at the dust or the drafts or the silence pressing in on them like wet velvet.
He looked too calm.
Too… real.
So Sehun kept quiet, shoulders hunched, watching Jongin move through the library like a man with purpose, taking photos of spines and scribbled notes, tapping things into his phone. The silence between them thickened, but this time, it wasn’t suffocating.
It was just… there.
Eventually, Jongin cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
Sehun looked up, startled. “What?”
“I shouldn’t have said those things earlier,” Jongin muttered, eyes still on the shelf in front of him. “It’s hard for me to focus when someone’s talking nonstop. I get irritable.”
Sehun blinked, unsure how to take the apology. “It’s fine. I do talk too much. It’s… a thing.”
They lapsed into silence again.
“How much longer until you’re finished?” Sehun asked after a beat. He'd love to just leave that place sooner rather than later.
Jongin turned, glancing at the endless maze of shelves around them. “Not this week, that’s for sure. But I’ll leave before sunset. I need to report back to my department.”
He paused, then added, “You don’t have to wait here, you know. It’s not like I can steal anything.”
Sehun shrugged. “Yixing will be back to pick me up soon.”
Jongin glanced over his shoulder. “Why’d you come alone anyway? No driver? No bodyguards?”
Sehun’s jaw twitched. “My father cut those privileges.”
Jongin blinked. “Why?”
“He says I need to learn the value of… space. And restraint.” Sehun snorted under his breath. “Whatever that means.”
“And you’re fine with that?”
“I’m fine,” Sehun said, too quickly. “I don’t need them.”
Jongin paused, gaze narrowing. “What if something happens to you?”
There was a strange beat of silence before Sehun answered. His voice was smaller this time. “I don’t think he cares.”
The air cooled again, subtly.
But then Jongin’s eyes caught on something.
He moved toward a far corner of the library, brushing aside an old floor lamp and ducking beneath a crooked beam. Sehun followed without thinking, half because he was curious, half because he didn’t want to be alone again.
“What is it?” he asked.
Jongin didn’t answer right away. He was staring at a shelf along the back wall. One untouched by light, its wood darker, older, almost scorched-looking. Dust layered the books like ash. A few of them had no titles at all, just worn leather and torn labels. But others bore faint gold lettering. Words in languages Sehun didn’t recognize.
“This whole section…” Jongin murmured, “wasn’t in the records.”
Sehun stepped beside him, close now, gaze scanning the spines.
“Are they fiction?” he asked. “Like… Harry Potter or something?”
Jongin didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He reached forward, hand hovering briefly before he plucked a single book from the center of the row.
Its title gleamed faintly in the dim light.
He Who Marks the Loved
Sehun watched as Jongin’s entire body seemed to go rigid.
He muttered something under his breath — something sharp, disbelieving. “No fucking way.”
Then, as if the book had turned hot in his hands, Jongin shoved it back onto the shelf with a hiss. His fingers trembled. A flush had crept into his cheeks.
Sehun blinked, unsettled. “What? What is it?”
But Jongin was already snapping pictures, fast and mechanical. His phone clicked again and again, hands still shaking.
“Why are you freaking out?” Sehun asked, voice lowering instinctively. “You said this stuff’s all nonsense.”
Jongin didn’t answer at first. Just breathed shallowly through his nose, still staring at the books.
“What’s your job again?” Sehun asked, trying to anchor himself to something normal.
“I’m a writer,” Jongin said, distracted. “When I’m not being loaned out to the Ministry of Culture.”
“What do you write about?”
Jongin turned, eyes tired and sharp all at once. “The truth.”
He gestured toward the shelf.
“About how this,” he said, voice low, “is all bullshit. Demons. Ghosts. Possessions. My work is about proving why these stories start. And why they don’t hold up.”
Sehun opened his mouth to respond. And from somewhere upstairs, not too far, the piano played.
Just three notes. Clear, deliberate, unmistakable.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Sehun jumped, instinctively pressing closer to Jongin. Too close, chest nearly brushing his arm.
Jongin turned his head slightly, like he didn’t notice the proximity at all. “See?” he said softly. “That’s a perfect example.”
Sehun swallowed. “A perfect example of what?”
“There’s probably a vent loose. Or a string got knocked out of tension. Old wood warps.”
“You’re going out there?”
Jongin looked at him, just briefly. “You’re welcome to join me.”
Sehun hesitated.
He looked at the books again. The ones with strange symbols and names that didn’t translate, and at Jongin, who looked fearless and at ease.
And then he followed him out.
Because no way in hell he was staying in the library alone.
Together, they moved through the manor.
Jongin led the way, quiet and focused. Sehun trailed just behind, jumpy at every creak of wood or rustle of wind. The house groaned around them like it had something to say. Sehun clenched his fists to keep from reaching out. It was ridiculous, but he wanted to grab Jongin’s hand. Just to feel something warm. Real. Anchored.
They passed the portrait again.
Of the woman from earlier, from the seventies. Beautiful, pale, her eyes rimmed in something unreadable. Her head was tilted again, just slightly, the way he’d first seen it.
Sehun stared.
Had he imagined her turning? The way her eyes had pinned him down like she knew him?
He blinked, looked away.
They stepped into the music room.
It was dustier than the rest, draped in old silk and moth-bitten lace. A grand piano stood by the windows, its once-glossy surface dulled to a matte gray, keys chipped and discolored.
And on those keys, there were squirrels.
Three of them.
Tiny, erratic things, tails flicking like little flames. They scattered the moment they saw movement, but not before stepping once more on the keys and letting out another strange, off-kilter chord.
“See?” Jongin said, almost smug, waving a hand at the retreating animals. “Told you.”
He brushed the dust off the edge of the piano and leaned lightly on it. “You thought there were actual ghosts in this manor. Quite the contrary. There’s only life. Not a lot, but there is.”
Sehun exhaled, the tightness in his chest finally easing.
“Fine,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “You’re right. Can we go back now?”
“For someone so scared of ghosts, you sure like old houses.”
“I don’t like old houses,” Sehun snapped. “I swear, I want nothing to do with this one. You can have the whole library if you want.”
Jongin looked at him and laughed.
A real laugh. A full one.
And Sehun… stared.
Jongin’s eyes creased, and dimples emerged. Faint, boyish dents that changed his whole face. It wasn’t the blankness from before, or the cutting silence. It was warmth. Lightness. And Sehun, momentarily disarmed, couldn’t help but laugh too, despite himself.
“Stop laughing at me,” he said, weakly.
“I’m not. I swear.” But Jongin was still laughing.
Sehun rolled his eyes and turned toward the window, hiding a smile.
From there, the view was… haunting.
The glass was filmy and gray, but he could still make out the massive lawn, overgrown and lost to time. A cracked fountain stood at the center, now nothing more than stone and rusted piping. Weeds strangled the borders of what had once been flower beds. Beyond it all, the tall black gate stood crooked under the weight of fog.
And above it, the sky.
Darkening. Heavily.
The clouds had changed since they’d entered the room. They boiled now, thick and low and bruising. The air inside felt heavier.
“This could be a beautiful place,” Sehun murmured without thinking, “if it wasn’t so creepy.”
Jongin followed his gaze, then nodded.
“It’s going to rain,” Sehun said. “And it looks ugly. You’d better hurry up.”
He pulled out his phone, frowning at the screen. No bars. Not even one.
“Ugh. Zero signal.” He tapped the screen, moved to the side, lifted it toward the ceiling. Nothing.
“Your friend was lucky to get any signal at all here,” Jongin said. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back soon. And I’ll wrap up fast.”
Then, without ceremony, Jongin turned and slipped back out into the hall, already heading back to the library.
Sehun watched him go, the storm groaning outside, the house creaking above. He
hurried after him.
Being alone in that room felt worse than anything.
*
Back in the library, Sehun felt safer. Not safe, but… hidden.
The sky outside had darkened into a solid wall of grey, barely any light pushing through the clouded windows. The library had become a quiet cave, but Jongin’s desk, with some strange mechanical setup with tools Sehun didn’t recognize, lit the center of the room in a soft white glow. It made Jongin look like he belonged in another era, part scientist, part priest, bent in concentration under the halo of cold light.
But now, Jongin’s eyes were fixed on that particular shelf.
He hadn’t moved in minutes, and something about the stillness in his expression, the way his jaw had tightened, the way his brows had slowly drawn inward, made Sehun straighten in his seat. Jongin looked like he saw something there. But he wouldn’t approach it.
Finally, Jongin spoke. “I can’t stay here through the storm. It’s coming fast.”
He turned away from the shelf, brisk, practical. “I have enough to report back to my department anyway.”
He started packing, collecting papers, photos, memory cards from hidden devices Sehun hadn’t even seen him install. Sehun watched without speaking, watching the way Jongin moved like someone used to solitude. Quiet, competent, used to getting in and out of forgotten places.
Then Jongin paused.
Something in the corner of the shelf had caught his eye. He stepped forward and reached for it, carefully, like it might fall apart in his hands.
“This one doesn’t look as old,” he said, brushing off the cover.
It was a leather-bound book, well-preserved, not nearly as brittle or stained as the others.
“What is it?” Sehun asked, craning his neck to get a look.
“I think it's a journal. From 1993. Like I said, not so old.” Jongin opened it gently, flipping through the pages, then froze.
“‘Seolhwa,’” he read aloud.
Sehun’s breath caught.
He stood up so fast the chair screeched against the wood floor. “That’s my mother’s name.”
He was already crossing the room.
Before Jongin could react, Sehun yanked the book from his hands.
“Be careful!” Jongin snapped, stepping back. “It’s still fragile!”
Sehun cradled the journal against his chest, instantly defensive. “It’s hers. It belongs to me.”
Jongin held up his hands, his voice gentler now. “I know that. I’m just saying… It's old. Be careful with it.”
Sehun swallowed hard.
He was shaking.
He looked down at the cover, leather warm and worn under his fingers, and suddenly felt seven years old again, desperate to hold onto something before it was taken away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter.
Jongin nodded. “Here,” he said, motioning toward the desk. “Use my light. You’ll see better.”
Sehun approached slowly. The desk was covered in tools he didn’t understand: brushes, tweezers, small magnifying lenses, gloves. He placed the journal down like it was made of glass.
But his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
Jongin came close, adjusted the lights without a word. He slid a magnifying glass toward Sehun.
“I won’t look,” he said. “It’s yours. I’ll just stay here in case you need help… but you should have your space. This seems important.”
It was important.
It was everything.
Sehun had never had anything of hers. Not really. His father hadn’t even let him keep her jewelry. He said it was “too sentimental.” That it would “interfere” with the boy Sehun needed to become.
But this… this was hers.
He opened the journal with careful, shaking fingers. Something slid out.
A Polaroid.
It fluttered onto the desk, face down. Sehun picked it up, turned it over, and gasped.
He saw his mother.
Young. Vibrant. Dressed in a flowery sundress, her hair down and swept over one shoulder, laughing as she sat on a wooden swing in what looked like a garden. A sunlit garden. The manor’s garden?
She looked happy.
Not the brittle smiles of old photographs. Not the distant, distracted woman Sehun barely remembered. She looked real. Like she was loved.
His vision blurred.
Jongin leaned in slightly. “Look,” Sehun whispered, holding the photo toward him.
Jongin’s eyes softened. “She was beautiful,” he said. Then paused. “I remember her. How she died.”
Sehun’s face darkened. “Car crash,” he said bitterly. “Paparazzi. They chased her off the road.” He swallowed. “I was seven,” he added, voice quiet.
“Me too,” Jongin said. The whole country remembered.
He didn’t say anything else. Maybe he didn’t care about the drama of wealthy people’s lives. Or maybe he was just being careful. Either way, Sehun appreciated the silence.
He turned the journal’s pages slowly. Most of the ink was smudged, faded into yellowed paper. Entire paragraphs were illegible. He turned again and again, until a line caught his eye.
“She lived here before,” Sehun murmured.
He looked up. “She lived here. I didn’t know that.”
Jongin looked at him with something like understanding. Or maybe just patience.
Sehun kept reading, until another entry stood out, clearer than the others.
“I’m pregnant. And I feel… happy. Strange. I didn’t think I would be. But I am. I’ll do anything to protect this child. Even if it means going back to him. My husband. Even if it means pretending. Even if it means lying to Sangwoo. I don’t even know if he’s the father.”
Sehun slammed the journal shut.
The sound made Jongin flinch. “What— Sehun, are you okay?”
Sehun’s lips parted, then closed. His eyes were wild, chest heaving. He wasn’t even thinking. But the words came out anyway.
“I’m not my father’s son.”
Silence.
It was louder than the storm outside.
Jongin stared at him, stunned. “Sehun—”
“This changes everything,” Sehun whispered. “If it’s true— if she was pregnant with someone else’s baby— I shouldn’t even be in that house. I shouldn’t be in that company. It makes sense. It makes sense why my father never looked at me like a son. Why he never—”
He stopped.
His hands clenched around the journal again.
Jongin stepped forward, his hand halfway out, like he wanted to touch him. Reassure him. But he hesitated, hovering just near Sehun’s shoulder.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Jongin said gently. “You need to read all of it. Let’s take it back. I’ll help you go through it. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Outside, thunder rumbled, low and long. The windows shivered in their frames.
“The storm’s here,” Jongin said. “We need to go. Bring the journal. Just keep it dry.”
Sehun turned to him, still bewildered. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
Sehun didn’t even wait for further reassurance. He nodded, too quickly, too hard.
Jongin handed him a clear archival sleeve, then an acid-free package from one of his supply crates. “It’s for preservation. Wrap it like this.”
Sehun did, hands steadier now with something to do. He placed the journal carefully inside and sealed it.
The first drop of rain hit the library window like a warning.
Then another.
And then the sky opened up.