The walls still breathe with echoes.
The memory in front of me shifted .
I, an aged room steeped in spectral memory, remember the month before the annual exams, when tension ran like cracks across the floorboards.
Han ji-a's footsteps had often lingered in library, her notebook resting on the desk where sunlight broke into slanted beams. She would hum softly, scribble, and sigh, dreaming of Seoul.
Yet memory does not keep only the gentle things. It keeps the nights of fear.
I recall the whispers of Han ji-a, the students who carried grudges against me for my past year actions. They wanted revenge against the younger me again and again
They had failed against him before, and so they sought revenge by dragging Han ji-a into a warehouse far from my silent watch.
I was left behind, but I felt the absence—felt the pull of danger staining the air like smoke.
When the younger me heard about this situation, he went blind by rage and anger.
