I found myself in a dark place, wading through water that barely reached my ankles. It wasn't an ocean—there was no vastness to it—but it felt endless all the same. The water was icy, sharp against my skin, as if it existed solely to remind me that I was still here. Each step sent faint ripples outward, though there was no horizon to receive them. No sky. No stars. Just an all-consuming void that swallowed light before it could exist.
The isolation pressed in on me, heavy and intimate, like a hand closing around my chest. The silence was unbearable—too complete, too deliberate. When I turned, desperate for anything to break it, the darkness fractured.
Not into light.
Into reflections.
Towering mirrors rose around me, stretching endlessly upward and outward, their surfaces smooth and merciless. They trapped me in a hollow gallery where every angle reflected the same image back at me. A girl stood in each mirror, wearing a thin white slip that clung to her frame, her dark hair hanging limply around her face. Her eyes were empty, stripped of emotion, staring back at me with a familiarity that made my stomach twist.
Everywhere I looked, it was me.
There was no escape from myself in this place.
A cold settled deep into my bones—not just from the water, but from the realization that I was completely alone. Driven by a desperate need for warmth, for contact, for anything that might ground me, I took a step forward. Then another. The girl in the mirror mirrored every movement perfectly, as if tethered to my will.
I raised my hand, fingers trembling, and reached toward the glass. My reflection did the same. When our fingertips met, the contact was sharp and unforgiving—cold, solid, real. It should have ended there.
But it didn't.
Something inside me refused to stop. I pushed forward, expecting resistance, expecting pain. Instead, the surface gave way. I crossed the threshold as if it had never existed and reached out—not to a reflection, but to a living presence.
I wrapped my arms around her.
Around myself.
I buried my face against her shoulder, clinging tightly, as though letting go would mean dissolving into the void. For a fleeting moment, the cold receded. There was comfort. There was stillness. There was peace.
Then heat bloomed beneath my hands.
It was wrong—too sudden, too intense. The skin I was touching burned, not painfully, but unnaturally, as though something alive and unfamiliar pulsed beneath it. I pulled back instinctively, lifting my head.
The world shattered.
The mirrors didn't simply crack—they exploded. A thousand silver shards tore through the darkness, scattering reflections into nothingness. The icy sea vanished beneath my feet, replaced by solid ground. A sharp, sterile scent flooded my senses, cutting through the remnants of the dream like a blade.
The heat hadn't come from the mirror.
It came from him.
I gasped and looked up, my heart slamming violently against my ribs. The girl in white was gone. In her place stood a man, so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. He wore a crisp white shirt, neatly pressed, a dark tie resting against his chest. Light glinted off the lenses of his glasses.
But it was his eyes that froze me where I stood.
They were crimson—unnatural, piercing, impossibly vivid.
He wasn't startled. He wasn't confused.
He looked at me as though he had been waiting for this moment—waiting for me—to open my eyes.
I woke up abruptly, the dream clinging to me like a second skin.
I sat up in bed, breath unsteady, my fingers curling into the sheets as if they could anchor me to reality. The lingering sensation of heat refused to fade, ghosting along my skin. Morning light filtered faintly through the window, though this house never truly felt touched by the sun.
Surrounded by towering trees, it always seemed wrapped in shadow, like a forest that sheltered countless lives in silence. It was a place that held everything within itself—memories, secrets, stillness.
I slipped out of my room and stepped into the hallway. The quiet was so profound it felt intentional, as if even sound had been asked to leave. My footsteps echoed softly as I moved forward, each one measured, cautious.
Then a voice cut through the stillness.
"You're up early."
I startled violently, my heart leaping into my throat. "…!" I froze before turning toward him. "Yes… well…" The words stumbled out awkwardly as I tried—and failed—to shake the remnants of the dream from my body.
Mr. Shin stood there calmly, as though he hadn't appeared out of nowhere at all. His expression was composed, his gaze steady behind his glasses.
"I was wondering whether I should wake you," he said evenly, adjusting his posture. "So this works out well."
Then, after a brief pause, a slight smile touched his lips.
"Is breakfast okay for you?"
dark place. There was no solid ground beneath me—only a sea that rose to my ankles, its surface smooth and unnatural, like polished stone. The water was obsidian-black and perfectly still, as if frozen in time. Cold seeped into my skin immediately, sharp and invasive, crawling up my legs and settling deep in my bones.
I turned slowly, searching for something—anything—but there was nothing to see. No sky. No horizon. No beginning or end. This place was too lonely, the kind of loneliness that pressed against my chest until breathing felt like an effort. The only sound was my own shallow breaths, uneven and fragile in the vast silence.
Then the darkness moved.
From the depths of the sea, walls began to rise. Smooth. Reflective. Endless. Glass emerged all around me, climbing higher and higher until I was completely surrounded. The space transformed into a labyrinth of mirrors, their surfaces flawless and merciless.
Everywhere I looked, I saw her.
A pale girl in a thin white slip dress stared back at me from every direction. Her hair clung damply to her face, her eyes wide and hollow, brimming with fear she couldn't voice. She looked lost. She looked fragile.
She looked exactly like me.
There was no escape from my own reflection. The mirrors multiplied my solitude, trapping me in a thousand silent confrontations with myself. The cold intensified, and with it, a crushing need rose inside me—a desperate hunger for warmth, for touch, for proof that I was not alone in this frozen place.
I took a step forward.
The girl in the mirror did the same.
I raised my hand, fingers trembling as they reached for the glass. My reflection mirrored the movement perfectly. When my fingertips met the surface, I expected resistance. I expected cold, solid rejection.
Instead, the glass rippled.
It gave way like liquid smoke.
Without thinking, I pushed through. The barrier dissolved around my arm, and suddenly I was no longer reaching for a reflection—I was reaching for someone real. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, holding myself tightly.
I buried my face against her neck, clinging as if letting go would mean disappearing entirely. For a brief, fragile moment, the cold receded. The silence softened. I felt… comfort.
But something was wrong.
The body in my arms wasn't cold like the sea. Heat radiated from her skin—too much heat. Feverish. Unnatural. When I pulled back and looked again, my heart stopped.
The warmth intensified, burning through my senses. Cracks raced across the mirrored walls, spreading rapidly, violently. The world screamed as the glass shattered. A deafening sound tore through the void, and shards of silver reflection exploded outward, flying into nothingness.
The girl in my arms vanished.
I blinked, disoriented, as the darkness dissolved. Harsh light flooded my vision, blinding and unforgiving. The smell of sterile metal and ozone replaced the scentless void. As my eyes adjusted, a cold realization settled over me.
The person standing in front of me was not me.
It was Mr. Shin.
I was no longer in the dark sea. I stood inches away from him, my hands still raised, trembling with the ghost of an embrace that no longer existed. I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his.
Behind his polished glasses, his eyes burned crimson—piercing, vibrant, inhuman. They watched me with calm intensity, predatory and knowing, as though he had been waiting for this moment all along.
He didn't need to speak.
You're awake, his presence seemed to say.
And just like that, the last remnants of my dream were erased.
The morning sun filtered weakly through the kitchen window, catching on dust motes in the air, but it did nothing to dissolve the tension that lingered between us. I sat at the small wooden table, my fingers resting loosely against the edge, watching him move about the kitchen. My shadow stretched long across the floor, distorted by the light, while his remained steady—anchored—no matter where he stood.
He moved with a quiet, practiced grace, each motion deliberate, almost ritualistic. The soft crack of eggs against the pan, the low hiss of bacon cooking, the gentle scrape of a knife against ceramic—everything about the morning felt rehearsed, as though this scene had played out countless times before.
"Is breakfast okay for you?" he asked calmly, glancing over his shoulder.
I looked down at the table. Two identical plates had already been prepared—eggs arranged neatly, bacon placed just so, toast aligned with precision. One plate sat directly in front of me, waiting.
"You even set a place for me already," I said, unable to keep the faint unease from my voice.
He didn't turn around. "It's a habit," he replied after a brief pause. "An old habit…"
There was something heavy in the way he said it, as though the words carried a memory he hadn't meant to expose. For a fleeting second, his posture shifted—not tense, but relieved. As if having someone there, sitting at the table, made the routine finally complete again.
He poured coffee into a white cup, steam curling upward in thin ribbons. I watched the dark liquid fill the porcelain, my thoughts drifting back to the house's oppressive silence.
"I heard breathing," I said quietly. "It sounded like it was coming from one of the rooms…"
The cup slipped from his hand.
The sound of shattering ceramic cut sharply through the room, followed by the wet splash of coffee spreading across the tiles. Steam rose from the mess, thick and unsettling.
"I'm sorry…!" he said quickly, too quickly. "That must have startled you a lot."
But it wasn't me who looked shaken.
"I'm fine, but you—!" I stopped myself as he turned away, his movements abrupt. He faced the sink, gripping its edge as if grounding himself. For a brief moment, I caught sight of his hand.
Dark red bloomed at the tips of his fingers.
It dripped slowly, staining the floor beside the spilled coffee.
Later, the atmosphere shifted entirely.
The university grounds were quiet under the open sky, vacation season leaving the campus strangely hollow. Our footsteps echoed faintly against the paved paths as we walked side by side, the weight of the house finally lifting from my chest.
"The central library is over there," he said, gesturing ahead.
The building stood tall and still, its presence calm, almost watchful.
"Do you like reading books?" he asked.
I considered the question. "I don't really seek them out," I admitted. "Still… libraries are something I like."
"I was the same," he said. "Even though I became a professor of Korean literature, I hadn't read a single book until I was an adult." A faint smile touched his lips. "I used to come here during summer just for the air conditioning and the water."
As we stepped inside, the scent of paper and dust wrapped around us. Rows of shelves stretched endlessly, quiet and intimate.
"Is that where you met my sister?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied softly. "I got to know Bidan there. At that library."
His hand reached out and pulled a book from the shelf—Crime and Punishment. He turned it over slowly, as though weighing more than its pages.
"People can have their entire lives change because of one tiny spark," he murmured. "It's not only water that changes a seed."
I frowned slightly, looking up at him. "Not water, but… fire?"
"Yes." His red eyes reflected something dark, something deep. "Often, life is less about growth and more… closer to shedding skin through burning."
The morning air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of coffee and something unspoken. It clung to the walls, settled between us, heavy enough that I could almost taste it. I sat at the table, my fingers loosely wrapped around the edge, watching him move about the space with a practiced, almost clinical grace.
Every action was precise. Measured. As though breakfast itself were an experiment he had performed countless times before.
He was always like this—composed to the point of seeming untouchable. And yet, no matter how calm his posture, his eyes betrayed him. The vivid red behind his glasses followed every small movement I made, sharp and piercing, making me feel as though I were being examined under a microscope rather than sharing a quiet morning meal.
"Is breakfast okay for you?" he asked.
His voice was low, steady, unassuming.
I glanced down at the tray in front of me. A full plate had already been prepared—eggs, toast, everything arranged with unsettling symmetry.
"You even set a place for me already," I said. It felt almost too domestic. Too normal. An intimacy that didn't belong to someone like him.
He mentioned, casually, that he needed to stop by the lab later. Normally, that wouldn't have meant anything. It was routine. Expected.
But today, the words caught.
"I heard breathing," I said suddenly, the sentence slicing cleanly through the quiet. "It sounded like it was coming from one of the rooms…"
The sound that followed was violent.
Ceramic shattered against the floor, the noise sharp enough to make me flinch. A coffee cup lay broken at his feet, dark liquid spreading outward like an oil slick, steam curling upward in thin, ghostly strands.
"I'm sorry…!" he said quickly, but his voice had lost its usual control. "That must have startled you a lot."
"I'm fine, but you—!"
I stopped myself.
His hand was trembling.
Dark, thick blood bloomed at the tips of his fingers, heavy drops falling into the mess on the floor. It didn't flow like an ordinary wound—it spread, slow and deliberate, as if responding to something unseen. He didn't react to the pain. Not once.
What unsettled him wasn't the injury.
It was me watching.
Later that afternoon, the atmosphere shifted.
The university grounds stretched wide and empty beneath the summer sun, vacation season draining the campus of life. Buildings loomed like abandoned monuments, heat radiating from the pavement as our footsteps echoed too loudly in the open space.
"The central library is over there," he said, pointing ahead with long, elegant fingers. The structure stood tall and severe, stone catching the light. "Do you like reading books?"
I squinted against the glare. "I don't really seek them out," I admitted. "Still… libraries are something I like. They're quiet."
"I was the same," he replied.
For just a moment, something passed over his face—an echo of memory. He told me that even as a professor of Korean literature, he hadn't read a single book until adulthood. That he used to sit in libraries during the hottest summers, not for stories, but for the free air conditioning and cold water.
It was a strangely human detail. One that didn't quite fit a man who seemed to be made entirely of secrets.
"Is that where you met my sister?" I asked.
The air cooled perceptibly.
"Yes," he said after a pause. "I got to know Bidan there. At that library."
Inside, the scent of old paper and dust wrapped around us. The quiet felt different here—deeper, more reverent. He reached for a worn copy of Crime and Punishment, his fingers lingering on the spine.
"People can have their entire lives change because of one tiny spark," he murmured. "It's not only water that changes a seed."
I watched him carefully, my thoughts drifting back to the blood in the kitchen. "Not water, but… fire?"
"Yes." He turned toward me, crimson eyes catching the dim light between the shelves. "Often, life is less about growth and more… closer to shedding skin through burning."
A shiver crawled down my spine.
He wasn't talking about books anymore.
He was talking about me.
Later still, I lay back as the woven fabric of the hammock caught my weight, beginning its slow, rhythmic sway. The conservatory was bathed in sunlight, glass walls and ceiling reflecting the blue sky until it felt as though I were suspended between worlds.
"It feels like floating on the sea," I murmured, my gaze tracing the intricate patterns above me.
Beside me, there was a sharp intake of breath.
I turned my head.
He was looking down at me, and for once, his carefully maintained composure had fractured. Light caught in his eyes, transforming their usual red into something warmer—molten, almost amber behind the thin silver frames of his glasses.
"…Someone said the same thing before," he said quietly.
His voice carried a weight I didn't yet understand.
Then he smiled.
Not the polite curve he offered the world, but something raw and startlingly genuine. Deep dimples appeared in his cheeks, carving boyish craters that transformed his face entirely. For a single heartbeat, he looked truly happy—his expression filled with longing, as though he were gazing not at me, but through me, across years, toward someone long gone.
I stared, caught off guard by the sudden softness of him.
I told myself I would remember those dimples for a long time.
And I did.
Not because of their beauty—but because they became a ghost.
In all the time that followed, through every trial and every changing season, he never smiled that innocent smile in front of me again.