The plaster was smoother than a lie. Ji‑ho pressed his fingers to it. He felt the paint. Then a hollow. Like a thinned place in a voice. He expected a joke. A smudge of a janitor's cheek. A prank against the old saints.
It was not a joke. It was a wound.
"Master," he said. The syllable came out like a pebble breaking water. Small rings. Then silence.
MasterSeon did not look surprised. Old men learn to keep a weathered face. He turned. Robe folding like a shadow. He watched the blank plaster. When he spoke, his voice was dry. Like paper handled too often.
"You tell me you opened a closed book."
Ji‑ho swallowed. The memory of the ladder felt like a bruise. "I didn't mean—"
"Meaning does not unmake meaning." MasterSeon slid a finger along the missing patch. "Did you move the lower archive? Did you take anything else?"
Ji‑ho's hands answered. Hands once clever with knots. Now they felt like someone else's. He brought out the folded cloth. The book felt warm. Heavy. Like basalt sunk into his ribs.
MasterSeon did not snatch it. He considered the cloth. Nodded faintly. "Come," he said. "Let us not spread this like smoke."
They walked to the main hall. Suyu sat on the steps. A novice. Young. Confident. She looked up. Boy and monk cast a triangle of shadow.
"You found the lower archive?" she asked.
Ji‑ho's fingers flexed. "I did."
Suyu tilted her head. "Was your face painted there?"
It should have been a silly question. It was not. It felt like a stone thrown into a still pool.
"No," Ji‑ho said. He remembered cleaning the panel. "It was there." He wanted to say more. Explain how the world unstitched itself. But his voice thinned.
Suyu looked at MasterSeon. "I don't remember him being painted."
MasterSeon closed his eyes. The temple's rhythm stretched tight. "That is the trouble," he said. "Memory is not always faithful. Books can make history hiccup."
"So it did this to me," Ji‑ho said. The accusation was soft.
MasterSeon folded his hands. "I do not know. Sometimes a book suggests. Sometimes the world adjusts first." He looked at Ji‑ho. Measuring him. "Tell me everything. From the seam."
Ji‑ho did. The seam. The ladder. The basalt pedestal. The blank pages. The rain. The missing coin. The mural missing a face.
MasterSeon's lips pressed into a line. "There must be witnesses. A rewrite alarms its neighbors." He pinched his nose. "We must be careful. We cannot speak of this yet."
Ji‑ho felt relief. MasterSeon had not scolded. He treated the danger like a wound.
"Will you inspect?" Ji‑ho asked. A childish daring. He wanted to hand over the hot coal.
MasterSeon shook his head. "No." He put a hand on Ji‑ho's shoulder. The touch was heavy. "If I take it, you learn nothing. If you keep it, you become reckless. We will test. Together. Under rules."
Monks knew rules. Scaffolding for the soul. MasterSeon spoke them like a prayer.
"One attempt. In the open. State your intent. Then close it. We will record everything. We will see the cost."
Ji‑ho's hands shook. The cloth rustled. He wanted to hide the book. Learn its secrets alone. He thought of the bell. The pot. MasterSeon's smile. He felt power like heat. His fingers wanted to warm things.
He nodded.
The test was small. Restore the temple's broken ledger. A thin book of names. A page was torn out long ago. Like a missing tooth. Important only for habit. Safe to risk.
They sat in a ring. Ledger on a low table. Suyu held a lamp. Air smelled of dust and tea. Ji‑ho placed the cloth on the ledger. He spoke his intent. Clear. Small. "Bring back the ledger's page. Restore what the page recorded."
He closed the book.
The world held its breath. Nothing happened. The flame trembled. Then, a page slid into the ledger. Ink bled. Letters formed a name. One the village had forgotten.
They cheered softly. Suyu laughed. Clapped. Ji‑ho's chest filled with pride.
The page was restored. The world stitched itself. It looked neat.
Then Suyu's face shifted. Laughter died. Silence filled the room.
"What is it?" MasterSeon asked.
Suyu touched her hand. "I can't remember the child's name," she said. Voice thin. "He used to run with a red ribbon. I see the ribbon. But not his face."
Laughter turned cold. The stitch arrived. But memory paid for it.
MasterSeon closed his eyes. "This is not repair," he said. "It is exchange. The book takes to sew." He looked at Ji‑ho. "A book will not return what it does not own. It trades in being."
Ji‑ho's knees felt weak. The world tilted. He thought of the vanished coin. The book gave a page. It took a face.
"We stop," MasterSeon said. "We stop now."
They put the cloth back in Ji‑ho's robe. Whispered arguments. The temple held its breath.
Outside, a cart wheel shuddered. Someone cried out. A small sound. MasterSeon flinched.
"Go," MasterSeon ordered Suyu. "See what that is."
She left. Returned minutes later. Cheeks ashen.
"An old man's cart," she said. "Wheel spun backwards. Threw a boy in the mud. The driver forgot his wife's name."
The air went thin. Details blurred. The ledger cost a face. The wheel cost a name. The world was trading pieces.
MasterSeon looked at Ji‑ho. Pity in his eyes. "You found a weapon."
"Learn its grammar. Or it will learn you. We need counsel. Other archives. Other masters. But first, we must decide to speak."
Ji‑ho folded his hands. Felt the book. Warm. Patient.
He thought of the mural. The empty plaster. He felt the cost of curiosity. He stood. Not a boy with a secret. But someone who lit a fire and smelled smoke.
"We tell no one yet," he said. "We learn. We limit."
MasterSeon closed his eyes. Let the temple decide. "We will study," he said. "Quietly. Search the archive. Watch the town. If blanks appear, we act."
Outside, the book felt like it was listening. Content? Or patient? Ji‑ho folded the cloth. He wished he had left the seam alone.
Suyu hesitated. "What if it takes more than memories next?"
Ji‑ho's reply was small. "Then we owe the world an answer."
They did not know how to pay.
The lamp guttered. The temple breathed. Pines leaned to listen. In the archive, something moved. A tremor. Like a sentence deciding to end.
Ji‑ho touched his palm. The soot dot lay there. A map pointing two ways.
Saving a face. Or losing himself.
—
End of Chapter Two