Yoorin stayed the night.
Not because she trusted him entirely—but because the house held a gravity she couldn't explain. Like every breath inside its walls made her more real.
They spoke little.
He gave her a room with a window overlooking the sea, though they were nowhere near the coast.
Time moved strangely in the house.
The clocks ticked backward.
Candles flickered without fire.
And every hour or so, a hum of static would rise from the walls, like the air itself was trying to speak.
That night, she woke to whispers.
At first, she thought it was the sea. But when she leaned close to the window, she realized it was the sky. Clouds moving in unnatural patterns, echoing voices in a language she almost understood.
She stepped outside.
Seon was already there, eyes closed, palms turned toward the sky.
"It's them," he whispered.
"Who?"
"The ones who didn't make it through."
She felt it then.
Each whisper in the clouds was a version of her. A version of him. Speaking in desperation, in warning, in longing.
One voice broke through clearly:
Don't open the door.
Her breath hitched.
"The locked room?" she asked.
Seon's eyes stayed on the clouds.
"They say it's where everything ends. Or begins again."