By the time they stepped out of the print shop, the rain had thinned to a drizzle. Seol-ah pulled her cardigan tight, but the chill in her chest wasn't from the night air. Eli walked a step ahead, silent, his hands buried deep in his pockets like he was holding on to something unseen.
She lagged behind, her eyes darting to every shadow, every reflection in the windows they passed. The city was full of dark corners, and in each one she swore she could hear the snap of a shutter.
When they finally stopped, it was in front of a tiny motel with peeling paint and a sign that flickered like it was on its last breath. Eli didn't look at her when he said, "We'll stay here tonight. It's safer than your place."
Safer. The word sounded thin, breakable.
Inside, the room was narrow, the wallpaper curling, the air damp. A single lamp threw tired yellow light across the walls, stretching their shadows wide.
Seol-ah sat on the edge of the bed, her camera resting in her lap. Her fingers traced the grooves of the last Polaroid, the words scratched into its border echoing in her head: The accident was staged.
Her voice came out low. "If everything you've told me is true… then why does it feel like half of it's missing?"
Eli leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes flicked toward her but didn't stay. "Because half of it is."
Her breath caught. "What does that mean?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he crossed the room, took the Polaroid from her hands, and studied it under the lamp. The scratches looked harsher now, like someone had carved them in.
Finally, he said, "He's not just showing you memories. He's rewriting them."
Her throat tightened. "You mean these photos… they're not real?"
"They're real," he said, voice low, steady. "But the stories tied to them? Those aren't. He knows how to twist what you see. How to make you doubt yourself."
Seol-ah shook her head, frustration breaking through. "And you? You expect me to just believe you, when I can't even remember my own life?"
Eli's gaze met hers then, not angry—worse. Hurt.
"I don't want you to just believe me," he said quietly. "I want you to trust me."
The silence between them stretched, heavy, dangerous.
Seol-ah looked away, and that's when she saw it—slipped halfway under the motel door. A Polaroid.
Her breath froze.
Eli bent instantly, snatching it up before she could move. His jaw clenched as his eyes scanned the image.
"What is it?" she whispered.
He hesitated. Too long.
Her stomach dropped. "Show me."
When he finally turned it around, her heart lurched.
It was this room. The same peeling wallpaper. The same yellow lamp. Only in the photo, she was asleep on the bed—while a shadow stood in the corner. A man in a wide-brimmed hat, camera raised, watching.