The morning sun poured through the classroom windows, but the air inside felt heavy. Gyeon-woo stepped into the room, bag slung over his shoulder, eyes straight ahead as always. But this time, every conversation seemed to hush the moment he crossed the threshold. Dozens of eyes trailed him—curious, judgmental, whispering behind hands.
He frowned slightly, the unwanted attention making the back of his neck prickle. Without a word, he stood up from his seat almost as soon as he sat down and grabbed the classroom dustbin.
Ji-ho walked in at the same moment, raising an eyebrow. "Where are you going?"
"Nothing. Just to throw the bin… and anyway, I have to sweep the road as part of the punishment," Gyeon-woo muttered, brushing past. His voice was calm, but his stride was quicker than usual.
Ji-ho watched him leave, then noticed the way a group of students suddenly leaned together, whispering, their eyes fixed in the direction Gyeon-woo had gone. The corner of Ji-ho's mouth tugged downward. "He's not going… he's getting to go," he murmured under his breath, suspicion sparking.
---
Gyeon-woo's footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor until he reached the store room—a small, dim place at the far end of the school grounds. He pushed the door open, stepping inside. The air smelled faintly of dust and oil.
The moment he entered, the faint sound of the door clicking shut seemed too deliberate. From the shadows, the fire ghost began to stir—its form flickering, ember-like eyes glinting as it drifted closer.
---
Meanwhile, outside…
Seong-ah came running to Ji-ho, slightly breathless. "Where's Gyeon-woo?"
"I don't know—he went to the store room," Ji-ho replied.
The color drained from Seong-ah's face. Without a second thought, she spun on her heel and dashed down the hallway. Her grip tightened around the phone she had picked up from Gyeon-woo's desk earlier. The screen suddenly lit up with an incoming call. The caller ID was just a single letter: "H".
She slowed just enough to swipe and answer. "Hello? Who is this—"
The line went dead before she could finish.
Her pulse quickened. She shoved the phone into her pocket and reached the store room. The heavy door was shut. She rattled the handle, calling out, "Gyeon-woo! Hey! Open the door!"
No answer.
"Gyeon-woo!" she shouted again, pounding on the wood, her voice tinged with urgency. Inside, faintly, she thought she heard something—like the hiss of fire.
Seong-ah's heart pounded as she threw her shoulder against the door, but it didn't budge. She stepped back, breathing hard, then lifted her leg and kicked—once, twice—until the old wood finally groaned and gave way.
The sight that met her eyes made her chest tighten.
Gyeon-woo was on his knees in the middle of the dusty room, his head lowered, his eyes unfocused—almost as if he wasn't seeing the present at all. His breathing was uneven, and he seemed utterly unaware of her presence.
Her gaze darted past him, locking onto the shifting, ember-like form of the fire ghost hovering near the back wall. Its molten eyes flickered hungrily, its smoky tendrils reaching toward Gyeon-woo.
Without hesitation, Seong-ah yanked an amulet from her pocket and began chanting under her breath. She slapped the charm onto the wooden beam beside her, then grabbed the small bottle of blessed water she had brought.
"Not today," she muttered, and flung the water directly at the ghost.
The ghost let out a low, inhuman hiss.
---
Inside Gyeon-woo's mind, something stirred.
Flashes of memory broke through the haze—his arms cradling a girl, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed into his chest. His own voice, choked with emotion, whispering words he couldn't quite recall. A desperate sense of loss.
His vision blurred, his head pounding, until the sound of water sizzling against something unseen dragged him back to the present.
---
The ghost wavered, its form flickering… but then, with a sudden surge, it reappeared—twice as furious.
Just as it lunged forward, the door burst open again. Ji-ho charged inside, gripping a fire extinguisher.
"Move!" he barked, pulling the pin and unleashing a cloud of white foam into the room. The hiss of the extinguisher drowned out the ghost's screech, and its burning form twisted, shimmered, and then—finally—vanished into thin air.
---
For a moment, there was only the sound of Ji-ho's heavy breathing and the faint drip of extinguisher residue hitting the floor.
Gyeon-woo lifted his head slowly, his eyes flicking between Seong-ah and Ji-ho. He had seen it all—the way they had fought, unhesitating, for him.
Seong-ah stepped forward, her expression soft but firm, and extended her hand. "Come on," she said quietly.
For a heartbeat, Gyeon-woo hesitated, his gaze searching hers. But then… he placed his hand in hers.
And for the first time, there was trust in his touch.
The teacher's cabin smelled faintly of chalk and old coffee. Gyeon-woo sat stiffly in the chair opposite the desk, pen moving steadily across the lined paper. His expression was unreadable as he wrote the statement: I was the cause of the fire in the storeroom.
Seong-ah stood to the side, her hands balled into fists. "He's not the one who did it," she said for the third time, her voice sharp with frustration.
The teacher didn't look up from the paperwork. "The student himself is admitting responsibility. Unless you have proof, this is settled."
"But—" Seong-ah began, only to be cut off by Ji-ho stepping forward.
"She's right," Ji-ho said firmly. "We were there. Something's not adding up."
The teacher sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Enough. Both of you, return to class. Gyeon-woo, finish the statement."
---
In the corridor, the tension still hung thick in the air. Students passing by cast curious glances at the trio, whispering behind their hands.
Gyeon-woo turned to Seong-ah and gave a curt nod. "Thanks… for earlier," he said quietly.
But before he could take another step, her hand shot out, stopping him. "Why didn't you say you weren't the one?" she demanded.
His jaw tightened. "It's none of your business."
"I know you didn't start that fire."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Did you see it?"
"Yes."
For a moment, he just stared at her, weighing something in his mind. Then his voice came low and flat. "Then why don't you bring proof? Without that, your words mean nothing. And besides—" he glanced away, his tone turning cold—"do you have any idea how useless it is to fight a rumor once it's spread?"
"But why would you apologize for something you didn't do?" she pressed.
His gaze flicked back to her, unreadable. "Do you have proof I didn't do it?"
Her lips parted, but no words came.
"That's what I thought." He exhaled through his nose, almost a humorless laugh. "You know, you're wrong about one thing. First of all, I'm the kind of person who acts clueless on purpose. Even if a girl says 'pick me,' I'd still pretend I didn't get it. My face? It's just naturally blank."
And with that, he brushed past her, leaving her standing in the corridor—speechless, and more determined than ever.
After classes ended, the hallway was nearly empty. Seong-ah made her way to the storeroom, the faint smell of burnt wood still lingering in the air. Ji-ho was already there, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets.
"So," he began, "he really admitted to it?"
Seong-ah nodded, her expression tight. "Yeah. But I don't believe him for a second." She glanced at the locked door, almost as if the ghost of that day still lingered behind it.
Ji-ho tilted his head. "You think he's hiding something?"
"I know he is." She stepped forward and slid the heavy lock into place with a metallic click. "Whatever happened in here… it's not happening again."
They stood in silence for a moment before Ji-ho finally spoke. "Guess we'll just have to watch him."
---
Later that night
The campus was quiet under the dim glow of streetlights. Gyeon-woo walked alone, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, heading straight for the archery court.
Inside, the faint scent of resin and old wood hung in the cool air. Coach Park Yang Young-seop was adjusting a bowstring when Gyeon-woo stepped in.
"I got a call from Coach Byeong," Gyeon-woo said, his voice steady but laced with something heavier beneath.
Coach Young-seop straightened, studying him carefully.
---
A few days earlier
Coach Young-seop had visited Coach Byeong, the man who had once been Gyeon-woo's mentor—and the one who had removed him from the national team.
"You threw away a talent like that because of rumors?" Young-seop's voice was sharp.
"It wasn't just rumors. He admitted it himself," Byeong replied coldly.
Young-seop frowned. "So you never bothered to ask why he would say such a thing?"
Byeong hesitated, caught off guard.
"That boy's got skill, and if you're too blind to see past gossip, I'll take him. I'll train him myself and let him compete. You'll see."
---
Now
The memory of that conversation flickered in Gyeon-woo's mind as he looked at the coach.
"I'll join," he said finally. "I'll train under you."
Coach Young-seop gave a small smile, firm but approving. "Then be ready, Gyeon-woo. I don't just train athletes—I build champions. And if you want to fight your way back, you'll have to do it with skill… and with truth."
For the first time in weeks, a faint spark of determination lit Gyeon-woo's eyes.
That afternoon, Seong-ah slipped into the shaman's ceremonial robes—the long flowing hanbok with embroidered sleeves, the jangling beads and talismans hanging from her waist. The incense burned faintly in the corner, curling smoke filling the air. Clients came and went, bowing, asking their questions, and leaving with folded charms in their hands.
By the time the last one left, she exhaled in relief and wandered around her home, lazily tidying the ritual table.
KNOCK KNOCK.
She frowned. "Hey! Time's over for today! If you want to meet, come tomorrow!" she yelled toward the door.
The knocking stopped for a moment… then came again, softer this time.
With a huff, she pulled open the door—only to freeze.
"Grandma?"
Gyeon-woo's grandmother stood there, smiling faintly.
"You… you're not my client," Seong-ah said softly, stepping aside. "Come in."
They sat across from each other on the floor, the candlelight flickering between them. The old woman began speaking, her voice gentle but heavy with the weight of years.
"My grandson… he's been through more than anyone knows. People only see the trouble he causes, not the storms he's survived. He's been alone for so long."
Seong-ah listened silently, the words sinking deep.
"When I'm gone…" Grandma's eyes grew distant. "…someone has to be by his side. Promise me you'll look after him."
A strange chill ran down Seong-ah's spine. She blinked, and in that instant, realization hit her—this wasn't just a visit. She wasn't talking to the living.
Her breath caught. "Grandma… are you—"
But the old woman's smile softened, and she faded like mist in the morning sun.
The air inside the funeral hall was thick with the scent of incense and chrysanthemums. Dim lighting cast soft shadows over the rows of white-clad mourners. The steady hum of quiet prayers was interrupted when the doors at the back slid open.
A figure stepped inside—robes hidden under a plain coat, a black mask covering her mouth, her eyes sharp and searching.
It took only seconds for people to notice. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. A few elderly women clutched their hands together and whispered behind their palms. A shaman… here?
Seong-ah didn't flinch. She kept her gaze forward, moving through the narrow aisle without so much as a glance at the murmuring crowd. Her presence felt out of place—an unfamiliar ripple in the solemn, ordered atmosphere.
When she reached the threshold of the memorial room, a hand caught her wrist.
"What are you doing here?" Gyeon-woo's voice was low and controlled, but there was a subtle tremor in it—whether from grief or irritation, she couldn't tell.
Seong-ah looked up at him, her eyes unreadable above the mask. "Do I need your permission to see Grandma?" she replied, her tone sharper than intended.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The faint echo of monks chanting from the next room wrapped around them like a strange, heavy silence.
Then she stepped past him—not into the memorial room, but to stand just beside him, keeping her distance from the framed portrait and burning candles. Her presence was steady, but her eyes flickered toward him more than once, as though checking if he would break.
After a few minutes, she quietly turned and walked out toward the hallway.
---
It wasn't long before the quiet cracked.
The doors slid open again, this time with a sudden burst of loud sobs. A middle-aged man and woman walked in—dressed in black, their hair perfectly styled despite their supposed grief. They were Gyeon-woo's relatives, the late grandmother's son and daughter.
Their voices carried too easily in the hushed space. "Ah… Mother…" the man groaned dramatically, dabbing his eyes with a crisp handkerchief that stayed suspiciously dry. The woman clung to his arm, swaying as though her legs might give way, though her gaze kept darting toward the guests to see who was watching.
Seong-ah stood near the back, her hands folded in front of her. Her eyes followed them with the same calm intensity she might give a troublesome spirit—reading them, weighing them.
Her expression didn't change, but inside she could feel the hollowness of their performance. Their grief wasn't for the woman in the coffin; it was for what they might gain or lose now that she was gone.
In the corner of her vision, she caught Gyeon-woo watching her—not his relatives, her. As though he could sense that she understood something he didn't dare put into words yet.
For the first time that day, she looked away.
The woman—the aunt—finally noticed Seong-ah near the back. Her eyes swept over her outfit, lingering on the faint shimmer of her shaman robes peeking from beneath the coat.
She leaned toward her brother, but her words were loud enough for the nearest guests to hear.
"Oh… so this is the kind of people Grandma surrounded herself with in her final days," she said with a forced laugh. "A fortune-teller at a funeral… how pitiful. No wonder the boy turned out like—"
"Enough."
The word cut through the room like a sharp blade.
Everyone's heads turned toward Gyeon-woo. He stood rigid, his voice calm but carrying a weight that silenced even the aunt's false sobs.
"She's here because Grandma trusted her," he continued, his gaze fixed on them. "That's more than I can say for some people in this room."
The uncle's smile froze. The aunt shifted uncomfortably, adjusting her shawl.
"We didn't mean—"
"You meant exactly what you said," Gyeon-woo interrupted, his voice colder now. "So say it to me instead of hiding it behind her back."
The room was still, the air heavy. Even the incense smoke seemed to hang motionless.
Seong-ah stood quietly, her eyes on him—not out of gratitude, but because she was trying to read the small, almost imperceptible shift in his tone. He wasn't defending her out of kindness. He was defending his grandmother's memory… but still, he had placed himself between her and the insult.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the front of the room.
Seong-ah let her gaze drop, hiding the faint curl of a smile beneath her mask.
---
The uncle's face flushed red with anger. "You insolent—!" he growled, raising his hand as if to strike Gyeon-woo.
But before it could land, Seong-ah's hand shot out, fingers clamping tightly around his wrist.
The room gasped.
Her eyes locked on his, steady and unflinching.
"Don't," she said, her voice low but firm.
The uncle sneered. "Shaman? Do you even know the customs? A shaman has no place at a funeral—"
Before his words could grow sharper, Ji-ho stepped into view from behind the crowd, his expression deceptively calm.
"Then maybe it's time you learned that funerals are about respect, not petty rules," he said, his tone laced with quiet authority. "Lower your hand."
The uncle faltered under Ji-ho's gaze, yanking his arm free from Seong-ah but taking a step back.
It was then a middle-aged young man, someone neither Seong-ah nor Gyeon-woo had seen before, stepped forward. His expression was gentle, but his words carried a weight that made the others pause.
"Gyeon-woo," he said softly, "your father and mother will come to see you soon. Until then… thank you. Thank you for being with Grandma in her last moments."
Gyeon-woo's jaw tightened, his eyes flickering between the man and the photograph of his grandmother at the altar. He didn't reply, but a faint tremor ran through his hands.
Seong-ah glanced at him from behind her mask, reading the tension in his shoulders. She knew that even in a room full of relatives, he had never felt more alone.
Seong-ah stepped out of the crowded funeral hall, pulling her mask down just enough to breathe in the cool night air. She let out a long sigh, her shoulders sinking as the murmurs inside faded into the background.
A moment later, Ji-ho followed, his hands in his pockets, glancing back at the door as if making sure no one else trailed them.
"Do you know what that man said?" Seong-ah asked quietly, her gaze still fixed on the dimly lit courtyard.
"Yeah," Ji-ho replied simply, his voice calm but carrying the same understanding she felt.
Seong-ah's lips curved into a faint smile. "That… was the only time someone really talked to him like that. Nobody else has ever spoken to Gyeon-woo with that kind of kindness."
Ji-ho looked at her for a moment, then gave a small, knowing nod.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of incense from the funeral room. Seong-ah tugged her mask back up, hiding the softness in her expression—but Ji-ho had already caught it.
Ji-ho's footsteps faded into the distance, leaving only the sound of the cold night wind rustling the black funeral drapes. Seong-ah stayed, standing near the wooden steps, her gaze fixed on the room where Gyeon-woo sat. She didn't enter again, but her presence lingered—quiet, almost protective.
When he finally emerged, hours later, his posture was stiff, his eyes red-rimmed but stubbornly dry. He walked past her without a word. She followed him with her eyes until his figure disappeared into the street lamps' pale glow. Only then did she turn away.
---
Meanwhile — Haunted House
Inside the rotting house, the Mother Goddess's voice wove through the darkness like a thread of silver. Every word of the chant was deliberate, her breath steady despite the thick, oppressive atmosphere pressing against her lungs. The altar before her glimmered—bowls of clear water, strings of bells, talismans with ink still wet from her brush.
The floorboards creaked. A shadow slithered along the wall, moving without the shape of a human body.
Then came the sound—a slow, deliberate laugh.
Yoemhwa emerged from the corner, her black shaman's robe frayed and smelling faintly of burnt incense and grave soil. Her eyes were sharp, glistening with a greed that twisted her features.
> "Still trying to summon him?" Yoemhwa's voice was soft but venomous. "You've been guarding the Grim Reaper like a jealous child. What will you do when he answers me instead?"
The Mother Goddess didn't pause her chanting, but her jaw tightened. She tossed a pinch of salt toward Yoemhwa's feet; the granules hissed as if they touched fire.
> "He is not yours to call. If you bring him here with malice, you'll destroy more than you gain."
Yoemhwa smiled faintly, tilting her head.
> "Sometimes… destruction is the only way to gain everything."
The candles' flames bent toward her as though pulled by an invisible wind.
The Mother Goddess raised her voice, her chant growing faster, the bells at the altar shaking violently. The air thickened, the sound of distant footsteps—heavy, deliberate—echoing faintly as if someone approached from another realm.
---
Meanwhile — Gyeon-woo's Room
The small apartment was silent except for the ticking of an old wall clock. Gyeon-woo sat hunched on his bed, staring at the neatly folded blanket his grandmother had washed the day before. He reached out, fingertips brushing the fabric as though it were her hand.
Memories bled into one another—her voice calling him for breakfast, her warm palm resting on his head when he came home tired, the way she always defended him even when the world turned its back.
His chest ached so fiercely it felt like something was physically pressing down on him. He bit his lip, but the tears came anyway, spilling onto his hands. He didn't bother wiping them away.
The apartment felt colder than usual. Somewhere near the window, the air shifted—just a faint disturbance, like someone had stepped into the room. He froze, his sobs halting.
Outside, far away at the haunted house, the Mother Goddess's voice cracked for the first time in the ritual. The Grim Reaper's approach had been interrupted.
And Yoemhwa smiled.
That evening, the air inside the Mother Goddess's chamber was thick with the scent of burning incense, curling in slow, ghostly trails toward the ceiling. Candles lined the low wooden altar, their flames swaying gently as if listening to the conversation yet to come. Seong-ah sat cross-legged on the worn mat, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Her eyes darted to the Mother Goddess, who was calmly arranging talismans, each one placed with a precision that spoke of both power and burden.
"What… what happened to Gyeon-woo?" Seong-ah asked, her voice low but urgent. "Why did his grandmother have to die?"
The Mother Goddess paused, her fingers resting on a strip of yellow paper inscribed with dark ink. Slowly, she looked up, her gaze deep and unwavering. "It was her time," she said, her tone neither cold nor kind, simply certain. "But her soul is not at rest. She remains, tethered here, because she could not bear to leave him alone in his pain."
Seong-ah felt a pang in her chest, the weight of those words sinking into her. She had seen Gyeon-woo's lonely figure at the funeral, the way he stood like a boy lost in a storm. But this… this meant he was not only mourning—he was being haunted by love that refused to let go.
The Mother Goddess leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing. "You must be careful, Seong-ah. The living are not the only ones watching him. When a soul lingers, it draws the attention of other… things. Things that do not come with kindness."
The candles flickered violently, casting long shadows along the walls. For a moment, Seong-ah thought she saw movement in the darkness beyond the door. She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.
"I'll help him," she said firmly, though her voice trembled.
The Mother Goddess studied her for a long moment, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Then be prepared," she warned. "What follows grief is not always sorrow. Sometimes… it is danger."
The night air was sharp against Seong-ah's skin as she made her way to Gyeon-woo's home. The narrow streets were silent except for the occasional rustle of dry leaves skittering along the ground. She pulled her coat tighter, each step feeling heavier as an invisible unease settled over her.
When she reached his house, the first thing she noticed was the stillness—too deep, too unnatural. No light seeped from the windows, only the faint reflection of the moon glinting on the glass.
She slipped through the front gate and paused, her breath clouding in the air. The moment she stepped inside, the temperature dropped sharply, biting at her skin. Her instincts screamed, and her eyes darted around the dim hallway.
It was then she saw it.
By the far wall, just beyond the frame of the living room doorway, a figure hung in midair—feet barely brushing the ground, head tilted unnaturally to the side. The face was hidden by strands of long, wet hair, but Seong-ah didn't need to see its eyes to know. She could feel it—the suffocating sadness, the despair that clung to the room like mold.
A suicide ghost.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Suicide spirits were among the most vengeful—they lingered not because they couldn't move on, but because they refused to. They sought company in their misery, drawing others toward the same fate.
She clenched the talisman in her sleeve, whispering a protective chant under her breath. The air seemed to thicken, pressing in on her chest. The ghost twitched, its head jerking toward her with a slow, unnatural motion.
From somewhere deeper inside the house, she heard the faint sound of movement—Gyeon-woo.
Her grip on the talisman tightened.
If she was even a second too late, the spirit could claim him.
He's deeply grieving his grandmother's death and feels isolated, which makes him emotionally vulnerable. The suicide ghost is both a literal danger in the story and a metaphor for the dark thoughts and despair he might be struggling with.
Seong-ah sensing and confronting this ghost shows her protective role—she's not only shielding him physically but also emotionally, helping prevent him from being consumed by his own grief and potentially dangerous thoughts.