Minjae didn't sleep that night.
He couldn't.
Every creak in the hallway, every gust against the window—it all sounded like her.
He sat by the edge of his bed, knees drawn to his chest, the photo still in his hand.
His image stared back at him from behind the glossy paper—eyes closed, body exposed to whoever stood near the window.
He had checked the latch a dozen times since. It had been unlocked. He hadn't noticed.
He was starting to question everything.
Had she been watching for days? Weeks?
Why him?
⸻
The next morning, Kang Mirae called. Again.
He didn't answer.
She sent a message, then another.
📲💬 Mirae: Minjae, what's going on? I checked your dorm yesterday. You weren't there.
📲💬 Mirae: You're scaring me. Call me back.
📲💬 Mirae: Minjae, please. 💬
Minjae glanced at the mirror. The one he had reattached carefully after hiding the photo back in the hollow behind it.
He wanted to scream. To run.
But a part of him didn't want to expose her.
Not yet.
He needed answers first.
If she had left one message… she'd leave another.
⸻
He left for campus without his phone. It didn't feel like his anymore. It had been touched.
He kept his head down, walked a different route, passed different people. He observed his surroundings—eyes scanning every sign, every wall, every reflection.
Nothing.
Until lunch.
He had ordered the cheapest option at the cafeteria—rice, egg, soup.
And when he picked up his tray and turned to sit, he noticed it.
A folded slip tucked beneath the edge of the napkin.
He looked around.
No one suspicious.
No one watching him.
He palmed the note and sat down at a corner table.
Slowly, he opened it.
It was typed this time—plain white paper, mechanical font. No handwriting. No lipstick stain.
Just a quote.
"Not everything buried is dead. Some things wait."
Beneath it, another cryptic message:
"When you sat alone under the willow, I learned your silence.
You moved the leaves. I remembered.
You left the bag. I borrowed.
Have you found it yet?"
Minjae froze.
His bag.
He dropped his chopsticks and yanked open his backpack under the table.
Rifled through it—books, notebook, pencil case—
Then he saw it.
Folded flat against the bottom liner, taped beneath his sketchbook: another note.
This one was different.
It was handwritten in the same ink as the mirror message. The same elegant loop, the same meticulous slant.
There was a single quote:
"Even the moon waits to be chased."
Below it:
"One word. Five letters.
You've seen it, heard it, felt it.
You just haven't said it."
And nothing else.
Minjae clutched the note in his palm, staring at it like it would burn a hole in his skin.
Five letters. One word.
He thought back: the notes, the riddles, the gaps, the missing time, the mirror, the carved word, the photo, the messages.
What word had she been circling this whole time?
"Chase"? No—too direct.
"Death"? Too grim.
"Silence"? Seven letters.
He needed to calm down. Think clearly.
He scribbled the letters on his notebook:
• Voice – from the mirror
• Time – from the note behind it
• Wait – from the cafeteria message
• Leave – from "You left the bag"
• Word – from "One word. Five letters."
And then it struck him.
"Chase."
No—
"Alone."
He had been alone when it all started.
The library.
The willow tree.
The mirror.
The bag.
Always alone.
Was that the word?
Or was it her message to him?
Was she trying to tell him—he wasn't really alone?
Minjae's heart pounded as he folded the note and slid it back into the secret pocket of his bag.
He wasn't going to the police. Not yet.
He needed more.
More pieces.
More her.
And a plan.
⸻
That night, Minjae set a trap.
He left the window open. Just slightly.
He placed a voice recorder inside his alarm clock. Hidden. Quiet.
And he pretended to sleep.
Hours passed.
Nothing.
But at exactly 3:27 a.m., he heard it.
The faint click of the latch.
Then—
The whisper of the curtain shifting.
Minjae didn't move. He counted every breath.
Then came the voice. Soft. Barely audible.
But unmistakably hers.
A woman's breathy whisper, less than two feet from his head:
💭 "You're not ready yet." 💭
Then silence.
Then—
Click.
Gone.
⸻
Minjae opened his eyes. Reached for the clock.
He played back the audio with trembling hands.
The whisper was real.
But there was more.
Just before the click of the window, a second whisper—one she hadn't meant to say out loud.
💭 "You're not the only one I've chosen." 💭
⸻
[End of chapter 8]
⸻
A/N:
The web grows deeper—Minjae now knows she's not just observing… she's testing. And the cryptic messages may be more than personal riddles; they might be connected to something wider. Who else has she chosen? And what happens when Minjae finally solves her puzzle?