Chapter Text
Jong-woo’s nose woke up before the rest of him.
The air carried a faint trace of pine, and something warm and starchy—rice, maybe. He breathed it in before he opened his eyes. It was morning again. The type of morning that came in quietly, touching everything with pale light without bothering to warm it.
He was sweating again. Or still. His shirt clung damp to his chest, and the back of his neck felt clammy. But it felt like the fever was gone. Not gone-gone, not like it had never happened, just…quieter. Like it had moved a little deeper inside him, waiting.
Somewhere in the kitchen, a burner clicked to life. Metal scraped gently against ceramic. The sounds weren’t loud or strange, but they still caught on something in him anyway, like a splinter.
He pushed back the covers and sat up slowly, pausing for the expected wave of nausea. It came and went briefly, and then he was on his feet. The air felt thick and moved around him like it knew he wasn’t ready.
He stepped into the kitchen and stopped when Moon-jo turned toward him.
“You’re up early,” he said, voice soft with approval. “That’s a good sign.”
Jong-woo didn’t answer. He didn’t trust the sound of his own voice yet. He eased himself into a chair at the small table. His arms still trembled when he moved too quickly.
Moon-jo poured hot water into a mug, dropped in a tea bag, and placed it in front of him without a word. The steam curled upward, fragrant and mild. The kind of thing that wouldn’t offend a sick person’s senses.
After a while, Moon-jo said, “It might help to get out today. Just for a short walk. The village isn’t far.”
Jong-woo looked up at him. “I haven’t even made it down the hall without you hovering.”
Moon-jo smiled, soft and unbothered. “That’s because you’re much more interesting when I can see you.”
Jong‑woo just stared at him. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? The thought skittered down his spine, sharp and cold. Meanwhile, Moon‑jo only turned back to the stove, smiling as if he hadn’t said a thing.
Jong‑woo sank back into the chair, running his hand through his hair. Maybe a walk wouldn’t be the worst thing. At least it was a chance to see where he was. Maybe spot a bus stop, a side road, anything that felt like a way out. He drew a slow breath and nodded to himself, brushing the thought down deep where Moon‑jo wouldn’t notice.
The path to the village was narrow, barely wide enough for two people side by side. Dirt worn smooth by repetition, framed by low stone walls that leaned slightly inward. Wild grass pushed up through the cracks in clumps, defiant. Ahead, persimmon trees climbed the slope in even rows, their branches bare but budding, like they were still deciding whether to bloom.
Jong-woo walked slowly. He had to. His body wasn’t ready to move like it used to. Every few steps, his lungs made him pause, dragging in breath like he had just sprinted up a hill.
Behind him, Moon-jo followed. Always just behind. Hands casually in his pockets, not touching, not helping. But there. The presence of him settled between Jong-woo’s shoulder blades like a hand.
Mist still hung low in the fields, clinging to the grass in loose, shifting veils. Somewhere off to the left, a dog barked once and stopped. A bell rang in the distance...a schoolyard, he thought. He could picture it, even if he’d never seen it.
It should’ve felt peaceful.
But peace didn’t echo your footsteps back at you. Peace didn’t match your pace exactly, like it had been practicing.
The path curved gently and widened, dirt giving way to paved road—just a single strip of asphalt, the kind a car might crawl along if it had nowhere better to be. And then the village came into view all at once. Just…there. As if it had always been waiting.
Boxy houses with tiled roofs stood shoulder to shoulder, paint faded but not chipped. Garden plots lined their fronts in neat, obedient rows. A few shopkeepers moved lazily through their opening routines, unfurling awnings, brushing down stoops, laying out small offerings to the morning.
Jong-woo stopped at the edge of the road.
It was quiet, but not silent. Still in that way a stage feels just before the actors begin to move again.
Across the street, an older woman was arranging glass jars along a folding table. The contents glinted red and orange in the light—pickled roots, maybe. Nearby, a young man swept leaves from the steps of a small shop. A child dragged his feet on the way to school while his grandmother walked behind him, one hand curled tight around the strap of his backpack. It should’ve been normal.
But normal didn’t look up in unison.
They turned, one after another, and smiled.
“Good morning, Doctor!”
“You’re early today!”
“Beautiful morning for a walk, isn’t it?”
Their voices were easy, warm. Familiar. Like they meant it. Like they knew him.
Some of them looked at Jong-woo, too. Not just glances—looks. Smiles with shape to them. A softness that implied they were glad to see him again.
One woman bowed slightly, her hands folded at her waist.
“It’s good to see you up and walking again, Jong-woo-ssi,” she said gently. “You gave everyone quite a scare.”
Jong-woo blinked. His mouth moved before his mind caught up, and something like a smile appeared, reflex more than choice. He nodded, once.
He didn’t know her. He didn’t know any of them.
But they knew him.
A light pressure settled at the center of his back, barely there. Not pushing. Not quite guiding. Just a reminder.
“We’ll just stop at the cafe,” Moon-jo said quietly, close enough to feel the breath on his ear. “Then head home.”
Home.
Jong-woo didn’t answer. He stepped forward and kept going.
The cafe sat at the far bend of the road, nestled beneath the slope like it had grown there—low eaves, dark wood, hand-painted lettering worn soft at the edges. The windows were open, letting the breeze roll through in warm bursts that carried the scent of cinnamon, tea, and something faintly sweet. Jong-woo caught the clink of cups inside, the scrape of porcelain and polished wood.
Out front, a woman knelt beside a scatter of planters, adjusting the angle of a rosemary bush like it might notice. A row of herbs lined the steps—basil, peppermint, something leafy in a plastic tub that didn’t match the rest.
She looked up at the sound of their footsteps.
“Moon‑jo!” she called, cheerful and familiar. Her gaze shifted past him, lighting up when it landed on Jong‑woo. “And here’s our Jong‑woo, finally out of bed.”
He didn’t recognize her.
She looked to be in her fifties, with a rounded face framed by cropped curls and softened by deep smile lines. An apron hung loosely over a bright, boldly patterned blouse, faint streaks of soil smudged across the fabric. She looked like the type of person who could tell when muffins were done by the smell alone, and she had the sharp, warm gaze of someone who missed very little.
“It’s good to see you, dear,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron as she approached. “We were all so worried when we heard.”
Jong-woo stood still. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t lean into it either. She felt familiar in the way television characters did, like someone else’s neighbor.
Moon-jo gave a slight bow beside him. “He’s recovering well. A little tired, still. I thought the fresh air might help.”
The woman clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head as if to scold and tease all at once. “You’ve done a good job with him. Honestly. Not many would be that patient.” She glanced over at Jong‑woo, smiling as if sharing a secret. “You’re lucky, you know.”
He smiled faintly. “Have we…met before?”
She gave a short laugh and waved a hand. “Of course we have. You used to come by all the time. Always asked for the omija tea, even though you hated it. Made a face every time. And this one”—she tilted her head toward Moon‑jo—“used to steal half your bungeoppang when you weren’t looking.”
Jong‑woo frowned, glancing between them. “I don’t remember that.”
“Of course you don’t,” she said easily. “That fever hit you hard. We weren’t sure you’d remember your own name, much less ours.” She reached out and patted his arm, light and maternal. “But don’t worry. It’ll come back. Muscle memory, right?”
He pulled his arm back slowly, brushing the spot where she’d touched him as if brushing dust from the fabric. “Right,” he said cautiously.
Moon‑jo watched the exchange with a faint, soft smile, but his eyes were sharp and unreadable, like he was recording every word and shift around them.
Inside the cafe, a few tables were already set for lunch. Placemats lined up precisely, menus resting off to the side. The space felt orderly and lived‑in, the kind of place where regulars came to linger and chat. Against the far wall, a large framed photograph hung slightly askew. It captured a scene from what looked like a village festival — lanterns strung across a night sky, a small crowd clustered near a food cart.
Jong‑woo stepped closer. In the center of the frame was Moon‑jo, smiling faintly, unmistakable. To the left, half‑blurred and turned at an angle, was a figure that could have been him. The same build, the same dark hair, one arm reaching toward something just out of view. He frowned, leaning closer, a faint prickle crawling down the back of his neck.
“Would you like to sit?” the woman asked, brushing a hand down her apron as she stepped closer. “I could make you something light. Ginger porridge? Or that barley tea you like?”
“I think we’ll just stop in next time,” Moon‑jo answered, voice smooth as ever. “We’re keeping things short for now.”
“Of course,” she said, and then smiled at Jong‑woo. “If he gives you any trouble, you send him to me.”
Her voice was teasing, but her gaze flicked to Moon‑jo for the briefest moment, sharp and knowing.
“I’ll behave,” Moon‑jo replied, amused.
Jong‑woo didn’t say a word. He nodded as if he agreed, as if he remembered, as if any of this made sense, and tried to ignore how much harder it had just become to breathe.
Moon-jo didn’t turn them back toward the house after the cafe.
Instead, he let the path pull them deeper into the village, where the two main streets crossed in a quiet intersection and low stone houses leaned into the hillside like they’d grown there on purpose. Roofs sloped low under clay tile. Wind chimes stirred against the eaves, their glass voices soft and irregular. Laundry fluttered between wooden poles—shirts, bedding, a bright towel patterned with flowers. Someone had hung a row of radishes to dry under an awning. A woman crouched near a garden bed, pulling up green onions one at a time, her fingers moving quickly through the dirt.
She looked up as they passed and smiled.
Everyone smiled.
“Nice to see you again, young man!”
“Out for a walk today?”
“Be good to him, Doctor, he looks tired.”
Jong-woo didn’t respond. He didn’t trust himself to try.
It wasn’t just that they recognized him. It was the ease of it. The way no one paused. No one stared too long. Like seeing him again—like this—wasn’t unexpected. Like the last however-many-days hadn’t happened. Like he’d never disappeared at all.
He didn’t know who unsettled him more: the ones who clearly knew him, or the ones who only pretended to.
They passed a hardware store near the end of the block, its single cracked window half-covered by a sheet of curling plastic. Buckets were stacked just outside the door in a haphazard pyramid, stained with rust around the rims. And beside them, a man stood rocking lightly on his heels while his eyes tracked them like a stray dog spotting a familiar face. His fingers worked at something invisible, picking, twisting, restless.
Jong‑woo slowed. There was something off in the way the man held himself — too alert and too distracted all at once, like a wire pulled tight just shy of snapping. Familiar, somehow. Not as a memory. Just…a feeling. Like the shape of a shadow he couldn’t place.
“Don’t remember me?” the man called, too loud for the space between them. His voice hitched upward, half-laughing. “Didn’t last time either. So dumb.”
Moon-jo said nothing. His eyes flicked over.
The man’s laugh came in bursts, sharp and uneven. “Got messed up real good, didn’t you? Boom!” He punched the air. “Bam!” Another hit, fast and loose. “And then nothing.”
Jong-woo stopped walking.
The man grinned at him. His fingers never stopped moving, tapping against his wrist now, then the seam of his jeans. His eyes darted between Jong-woo and Moon-jo.
“Gone all soft,” he said. “All blank.”
Moon-jo didn’t move. “That’s enough.”
The man rocked back a fraction, as if the words had landed harder than intended. Not quite flinching, but shifting, swallowing down whatever he’d been about to say.
“Aish, hyung,” he muttered, still smiling. “You’re no fun.”
They started to walk on. Jong‑woo didn’t ask who the man was. He didn’t want another name that wouldn’t matter, another story told too smoothly.
But as he glanced back toward the hardware shop, the corner of a flyer caught his eye. It was taped to the inside of the cracked window, grayed with age. Most of it was too far to read, some half‑line about deliveries or repairs, but the handwriting stopped him cold. Narrow letters, cramped between lines, the kind he knew too well. An offer to help with odd jobs.
He didn’t know why it felt so familiar. Only that it left a strange, tight ache in his chest.
Moon-jo touched his arm, light as breath.
“Come on, jagi,” he said. “We should head back before it gets too hot.”
They didn’t speak on the walk back.
The light had shifted, stretching the shadows across the dirt road so they moved with them. Wind threaded itself through the trees, stirring dry needles underfoot. Jong-woo kept his gaze down, hands loose at his sides, feeling the afternoon settle into his skin like dust.
Moon-jo followed just behind, close enough that Jong-woo could hear the soft rhythm of his breathing but never quite matching his pace.
There was a heaviness in the silence. Something like pressure between his ribs, not pain exactly, more an ache that wouldn’t let go. It had been there all morning—in the cafe-owner’s too-bright voice, in the stranger’s sharp laugh, in the easy way everyone here spoke as though they knew him better than he knew himself.
He glanced up toward the treeline, waiting until he was sure they were alone.
“Were we…” The words felt too big as soon as they left him. “Were we...together?”
Moon‑jo didn’t answer right away. The earth gave softly under his steps, quiet and even, as if he could walk this path forever.
“I never wanted to pressure you, jagi,” he said at last, voice low, almost affectionate.
Jong‑woo glanced at him, searching for a crack in that serene mask. Moon‑jo kept his gaze on the path, the faint curve of a smile brushing the edges of his mouth.
“You were going through a lot,” he went on. “It didn’t seem right to ask for more than you could give. So we didn’t put a name to it.”
A tight, faint ache twisted in Jong‑woo’s chest, something half‑formed and wary. “But people here…they think we’re together.”
“People see what they want to see.”
A breeze stirred between them. Somewhere far off, a bird called and fell silent.
“And what do you see?” Jong‑woo pressed, voice low.
Moon‑jo glanced over then. The smile he offered was soft, serene, but it didn’t touch the sharp, unreadable gleam in his eyes. “Someone I care for.”
Jong‑woo didn’t reply. He looked off toward the house, throat working, the weight of Moon‑jo’s words hanging between them like a shadow.
The house came into view a moment later, half‑shaded by trees, its windows dark and still.
“Care doesn’t sound like the right word,” Jong‑woo said quietly. “Does it?”
Moon‑jo didn’t break stride, didn’t flinch. The faint smile remained, impossibly composed, impossibly certain.
“Maybe it doesn’t,” he said. “But you cared for me too, jagi. Even if you don’t remember saying it… that hasn’t changed.”
Jong‑woo felt his hands curl slowly into loose fists. “You keep saying things like that.”
Moon‑jo paused at the gate, fingers resting on the latch. “Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for me to agree.”
Moon‑jo held the gate open, a faint smile brushing the edge of his mouth. The light was going, bleeding out of the sky.
“I’m not waiting.”
The calm in those words chilled him in a way the wind hadn’t, too sure and too quiet to argue with. Jong‑woo stepped past him without looking back.
By the time they reached the house, the light had gone. Inside was colder than it had been that morning, as if the walls had pulled closer. Moon‑jo crossed the kitchen in silence, turning on the lights, hands steady as he began to fill a pot. The sound of water rising was the only thing breaking the silence. Jong‑woo stood just inside the door, listening, feeling the house settle deeper around him.
After a long moment, he stepped away from the door and sank into the nearest chair.
His legs ached, the kind of ache that settled deep in the joints and flared when he stayed still too long. His head buzzed faintly...not pain exactly, just static that wouldn’t clear. He tried to keep still, but his fingers wouldn’t listen. They tapped once against the table’s edge before curling in on themselves, folding into a fist in his lap.
The scent of garlic and sesame oil drifted through the air, rich and familiar. It filled the quiet like a memory he hadn’t asked for.
“What are you making?” he asked quietly.
“Stir-fry,” Moon-jo said from the stove. “With tofu and chives. You used to like it.”
Jong-woo exhaled, just short of a laugh. “You said it again.”
Moon-jo didn’t look back. “Because it’s true.”
He moved carefully, portioning the food like it mattered, plating it with the kind of attention people reserved for guests they wanted to impress. Not too much sauce. A neat bowl of soup placed beside it, steam curling up like breath. He carried it to the table and set it in front of Jong-woo as if the motion had always belonged between them.
But he didn’t sit. He leaned against the counter instead, arms loosely crossed, eyes fixed on Jong‑woo as if he were the only thing worth looking at.
Jong‑woo picked up his chopsticks, held them for a moment, then set them down with a sharp click. “Why don’t you ever eat with me?”
“I do.”
“No.” The word came out harder than he intended. “You make the food. You watch me eat. You sit in the dark until I fall asleep. That’s not the same.”
Moon‑jo watched him, faintly amused, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “I didn’t think you wanted company.”
Jong‑woo pushed to his feet, and the room tilted for a moment as the legs of the chair scraped faintly across the floor. He pressed a hand to the table until the wave of dizziness passed.
“You think a lot of things I didn’t say. You answer half my questions and smile through the rest, like I should be grateful you didn’t lie to my face.”
Moon‑jo didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t drop that same knowing smile. He just watched, silent and still, as if waiting to see which way the knife would land.
“You’re tired,” Moon‑jo said quietly. “We’ll talk later.”
Jong‑woo drew a breath that felt too sharp, too shallow. Anger rose like a flame in the back of his throat, unbidden and unstoppable.
“I don’t know who you are,” he snapped. “I don’t know why I’m here. And every time I try to ask, you make it feel like I should already know.”
The chair rocked behind him as he stepped forward, planting both feet solidly on the wood. “Just tell me the fucking truth.”
Moon‑jo looked at him for a long moment, serene and unreadable. Then he stepped closer and set both hands flat on the table between them, leaning just enough to make the air feel charged.
“You’re here because it wasn’t safe out there,” he said. “Because I never left you.”
He spoke without rising to match the anger, voice soft, almost warm. An apology buried in it, the kind that wrapped itself around a room until it felt too quiet to argue with.
“Whether you remember or not doesn’t change the fact.”
Jong‑woo stood shaking, fists clenched, every instinct in him urging a shout, a crash, some sharp sound to cut through the silence.
But instead, he sank back down, legs suddenly too tired to hold him.
He didn’t touch the food.
The house was still, almost reverent in its quiet. As if it were holding its breath, waiting to see what he would do next.
Jong-woo woke to the sound of water.
It took a moment to place it — a faint, steady rush from the bathroom, muffled by the door. The room was dark, the air cooler than when he’d fallen asleep, and his shirt was damp where it stuck to the small of his back. The blankets had twisted around his legs, clammy against his skin. He shifted on the mattress, not fully sitting up, and glanced toward the corner.
The chair was empty.
He watched it longer than he meant to. Same shape, same deep shadows, but it didn’t look like it had been used. No faint imprint of a body. No book left resting on its arm. Just a piece of furniture holding its place in the dark — and that unsettled him more than he expected.
He glanced toward the bathroom door. A faint band of light glowed along the floor. The sound of water hadn’t changed.
He pushed himself upright, the ache in his ribs a faint, stubborn reminder as he dragged the blanket aside and shifted his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cool under his feet, the air faintly damp and carrying a trace of soap, as if the steam had already drifted out from the bathroom.
He stepped past it, brushing the doorframe with a hand before making for the hallway. The space was darker, but he knew it well enough to move quietly, the faint slant of light from the main room guiding him forward. The sound of the shower softened as he went, swallowed by the walls, until the only sound was the whisper of his own breath and the quiet creak of floorboards underfoot. The house felt still…not abandoned, but wary.
Halfway down the hall, he stopped before a closed door. He hadn’t thought much about it before — it was like every other door in the house, plain wood with no light spilling out from beneath — but tonight it felt different. It caught his eye, quiet and dark, like a space meant for someone who didn’t want company.
He wrapped a hand around the knob and tried to turn it. It gave a fraction, then refused to move. Locked. He tightened his grip and tried again, a faint click sounding deep within the mechanism, but it refused to yield. He stood there a moment longer, palm resting on the metal, listening to the silence that pressed in from the other side. What was in there? What needed to be kept shut? The thought came sharp and unwelcome, and he pulled his hand back slowly, brushing it down the leg of his pants as if to wipe it clean.
The main room was already cooling for the night. No lamps were lit, but the shapes of the furniture emerged easily from the dark. The table was cleared. The counters wiped down. The faint, savory trace of sesame oil still lingered in the air, faint enough to feel like a memory of dinner, already fading.
He crossed to the sideboard along the back wall. It didn’t look like it was used often. The surface was bare, no scuff marks near the drawers, and when he brushed his fingers across it, the wood felt almost too smooth, too clean. He sank down and tried the top drawer. Locked. Tried the second one. Locked too. He stayed like that for a moment, resting back on his heels, listening to the silence of the house and the faint sound of water still running down the hall.
Then he glanced up. The top shelf was narrow, mostly empty except for a small ceramic vase. He rose slowly, brushing a finger along the shelf until it bumped the vase. When he shifted it aside, the light caught on a faint gleam. Two keys lay tucked just behind it. Partially hidden, either set down and left, like someone had put them there in a hurry, or assumed no one would think to look.
He picked them up, resting the cool metal in the palm of his hand. They felt too light, too ordinary, but somehow too familiar, and for a moment he just stood there, unable to shake the sense that he was holding a piece of a story he hadn’t yet remembered.
He stayed there, keys resting in the palm of his hand, until the sound of the shower stopped. The silence that followed felt too sharp.
A beat later, the floorboards shifted behind him — soft, even steps.
He spun, a sting of panic brushing down the back of his neck.
“You’re not supposed to be up.”
Moon‑jo stood at the edge of the hallway, hair damp and pushed back from his face, a towel hanging loosely around his neck. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Water still caught in the low light, beaded across the line of his collarbone, the slope of his shoulder, the faint scar tracing the side of his ribs.
For a moment, Jong‑woo forgot how to breathe. He hadn’t meant to be standing here, hadn’t meant to be caught looking at the bare, quiet lines of Moon‑jo’s skin framed by the faint glow from the window. It felt like stepping across a line, like brushing a hand down a surface that didn’t belong to him.
And then it twisted. Not just alarm, but a sharp, electric pulse of want.
Moon‑jo didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. But the tilt of his head, the faint narrowing of dark eyes, said he’d noticed — that he knew. The silence stretched between them, thrumming, until it felt like it was pressing down on both of them at once.
"I couldn’t sleep," Jong‑woo said eventually, voice low.
Moon‑jo glanced down at the keys resting in his palm, then met his eyes. “Put those back.”
The words pulled the air tight, like a move too sudden might tilt the room off balance.
“You’ll hurt yourself digging into things that aren’t yours.”
Jong‑woo didn’t move right away. His fingers tightened around the keys before he forced himself to uncurl them. He glanced toward the locked sideboard, then back at Moon‑jo. A bead of water traced the path of a faint scar across the center of his chest and disappeared where it met the waistband of his pants.
Moon‑jo stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of him brushed across Jong‑woo’s skin.
“Please,” he said quietly, voice soft as a warning. “I’m doing everything I can to make this easier for you.”
Jong‑woo didn’t know if it was meant to comfort or to caution. He looked down at the keys, then set them slowly behind the vase.
Moon‑jo reached past him, brushing his arm as he collected the keys and slipped them into his pocket. The motion was smooth, unhurried, and he didn’t say another word before turning to walk down the hall, leaving Jong‑woo rooted to the spot, breath lodged somewhere between danger and desire.
He went back to the bedroom. The bathroom door was closed, no light spilling from its edges. The air felt cooler, carrying only the faint, fading trace of soap. The chair in the corner was still empty.
He sank down on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely in his lap. The house was quiet except for the gentle sound of its settling weight. Then, very softly, came the click of another door closing somewhere down the hall.
The one he hadn’t been able to open.
He lay back slowly. The sheets were cold where he’d left them, and refused to warm under the weight of him. Somewhere beyond that door, Moon‑jo had taken the keys and stepped into a space he wasn’t meant to see. Somewhere beyond that door, a secret was waiting.
Jong‑woo stared up at the ceiling. Even with the door shut, it felt like the room was listening — like the house itself was leaning closer, making sure he didn’t forget.