The air hung heavy, thick with a strange, unfamiliar scent that clung to the back of his throat. Ji-ho stood in a house he didn't recognise, the wooden floors stretching beneath him, polished and cold. The walls were painted in soft pastels – greens, yellows, faded pinks – colours that should've felt comforting but didn't. Instead, they felt like a forgotten memory, a faded photograph of a life he couldn't quite grasp.
He blinked slowly, his feet rooted to the spot, his breath shallow. The hallway stretched before him, long and oppressive, with doors on either side, each one closed, each one concealing a secret he couldn't fathom. The air was still, heavy with a silence that felt almost tangible, as if it were pressing down on him, suffocating him.
A child's laugh echoed in the distance, not a mischievous or joyous laugh, but a haunting echo, as if it had traveled through time to reach him. It wasn't just heard, it was felt, vibrating along the inside of his skull, a phantom melody that resonated with a deep, unsettling familiarity.
Ji-ho's hands trembled. He turned towards the sound, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel a strange pull, an invisible force drawing him deeper into the house, into the heart of this unsettling dream. He didn't know why he followed the sound, why his feet moved despite the fear that gripped him. Something primal, something buried deep within him, urged him forward, a force that his mind couldn't yet comprehend.
Each step sounded too loud, echoing through the silent house. The floor didn't creak; it sighed, as if exhaling beneath his weight, a sound that mirrored the growing anxiety within him. The house itself seemed to breathe, or perhaps it was against him, he couldn't tell. The walls seemed to close in, the air thickening, suffocating him with a sense of impending dread.
As he reached the corner, he heard it. The song. Not sung clearly, but hummed, softly, repeatedly.
Kkogkkog sumeora meolikarag boila.
His breath caught. The same melody from the dreams. From the bus stop. From the mirror. From nowhere and everywhere. The song, a haunting refrain, clung to him like a shroud, a reminder of a past he couldn't remember, a past that seemed to be bleeding into his present.
He turned the corner, and there she was. A little girl, her back to him, standing in the middle of the hallway. Her hair was tied in low pigtails, and a white dress with lace trim hung to her knees, stained faintly with something like juice or dust or age. She held a worn, familiar large stuffed teddy bear in one hand, a ghostly reminder of a childhood he couldn't recall.
She turned, her face illuminated by the flickering light, and smiled.
"Soo-min-ah!" she called out.
The name shattered the quiet like glass, echoing down the corridor, bouncing off the walls, a sound that seemed to reverberate within him, a name that felt both familiar and utterly alien.
Ji-ho staggered backwards, his hand clutching the wall for support. Everything in him screamed that something was wrong. That wasn't his name. That wasn't his name. But the name echoed down the corridor as if it belonged to him, as if the walls themselves had been whispering it for years, waiting for him to finally hear it.
The light flickered, casting long, distorted shadows that danced on the walls. The girl didn't blink, her eyes fixed on him, unmoving, unwavering. She was still smiling, still waiting, her eyes looking right through him, as if she recognised something he couldn't remember. She tilted her head, as if expecting him to play, to join her in this strange, unsettling game.
He blinked, and she was gone.
The hallway stretched endlessly before him, the doors humming with a low, unsettling vibration. The air thickened, becoming heavy and oppressive, pressing down on him with a suffocating weight. He turned around, and the house changed.
The colours had darkened, the pastels now a faded, sickly hue. The walls were stained, the light flickering erratically, casting grotesque shadows that danced and twisted like phantoms. Somewhere, someone was humming the same song, but it was different now, slower, like a broken music box winding down.
Kkogkkog sumeora... meolikarag... boila...
He stumbled forward, his heart thudding violently against his ribs. The doors began to creak open, revealing rooms filled with people, sitting, sleeping, staring blankly at the walls. Adults, children, even the elderly, all unmoving, all silent, all strangely familiar in a way he couldn't explain. Their faces blurred and flickered, like candlelight, their expressions vacant, their eyes devoid of life.
One of them turned their head towards him, slow and deliberate, their gaze piercing through him, their voice a chilling whisper.
"You're not supposed to remember," the man said.
Ji-ho gasped, his breath catching in his throat, and bolted. He ran through the hallway, past more doors, past faces that turned too slowly, past smiles that looked pasted on, like masks concealing something sinister. He reached a staircase, stumbled down it, fell, rolled, landed hard, his body jarring to a halt.
Everything blurred, everything bent. He landed in front of a large mirror, his reflection staring back at him. But it wasn't the same. His reflection didn't blink. It smiled, a smile that didn't reach its eyes, a smile that felt both unsettling and familiar.
"Soo-min," the reflection whispered, the name echoing in the silent room, a name that felt like a betrayal, a reminder of a life he couldn't claim.
He screamed, a primal scream that tore from his throat, a scream of terror and confusion.
And woke up.
Gasping for breath, clutching the blanket, soaked in sweat. The sunlight slanted across his room, but it felt wrong, as if the light was reaching in from the wrong side of reality, a light that felt cold and alien.
He sat up slowly, his heart still racing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Just a dream. Just a dream. But it wasn't. The song still played softly in the back of his mind, the girl's voice, the man's whisper, the name. Soo-min.
His jaw clenched. "That's not my name," he muttered aloud, but his voice trembled, betraying his fear.
He stood and walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, staring into the mirror. His reflection stared back, but for the briefest second, it smiled, a smile that mirrored the girl's unsettling grin. He turned away, unable to bear the sight of his reflection, a reflection that seemed to hold a secret he couldn't face.
Later that day, he returned to the bookstore, trying to act normal. The morning shift, the usual routines, but nothing felt the same. A man came in asking for a book about memory loss, and his hands shook when he handed it to her. During his lunch break, he sat alone in the back room, staring at the table. The grain in the wood twisted like hallways, and he tapped his fingers, one, two, three, the rhythm of the song. He stopped, feeling like he was watching himself from outside his body, an observer of a life that no longer felt his own.
The city didn't feel real anymore. The people, the buildings, everything seemed too clean, too structured, like it had been rebuilt from memory, but whose memory? He walked home after his shift, every sound amplified, distorted. A dog barked, and he flinched. A child laughed, and he froze. A woman hummed as she passed him by, and he almost threw up. He took a longer route, hoping it would help, but it didn't.
He kept thinking about the girl, her smile, her voice, the way she said his name like she'd always said it, like he'd always responded to it. Soo-min. No. Not him. He passed a reflective window and caught his own eyes. "I'm Ji-ho," he whispered to himself, "Yoon Ji-ho," but the reflection didn't seem convinced.
That night, he didn't sleep. He sat on the floor of his room, knees pulled to his chest, listening, waiting, daring his mind to let it all in. But it didn't. It hovered just outside of reach, the house in his dream, the girl, the other faces, and one more thing. The man. The protestor. The one who kept visiting the store, who always looked at him like he wanted to say something, who always left before he could.
Ji-ho closed his eyes. Hyun-seok. Why did that name always make him feel safe and sick at the same time? He pressed his palms against his temples. No more. No more thinking. No more dreams. No more questions.
The dream clung to him, a persistent shadow, a haunting reminder of a past he couldn't remember but desperately needed to understand. The song, the name, the unsettling feeling of disconnection, all pointed to a truth he couldn't face. He was trapped in a liminal space between reality and memory, a prisoner of a past he couldn't recall but desperately wanted to ignore. The city, once familiar and comforting, now felt alien, a meticulously crafted stage set for a play he didn't understand. He felt like an actor in a poorly remembered script, his lines faltering, his movements clumsy and uncertain. The laughter of children, the humming of strangers, even the mundane sounds of daily life—all of it felt amplified, distorted, imbued with a sinister undercurrent.
He was lost in a labyrinth of his own making, a labyrinth of forgotten memories and unsettling truths. The house, the girl, the song, the name, the man—all fragments of a puzzle he didn't want to solve.
No more.
No more thinking. No more dreams. No more questions.
He needed to forget. Whatever it was, it didn't matter.
He was Ji-ho.
He had always been Ji-ho.
He would always be Ji-ho.
Wouldn't he?