The glass bottle sat on the wooden surface, its contents clear and unassuming, yet the label felt like a promise: "Lotus in Rain." "And this too," Mr. Shin said, his voice hesitant, almost retreating before the words fully left his lips. "It's a gift."
I looked at him, caught in that awkward, quiet space between us. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at my eyes. "I thought smelling something fragrant might brighten your mood," he muttered, his tone softening into something more vulnerable. "So I ended up buying it..."
He paused, and for a second, the air felt thick.
"...At least because it's your birthday," he added, finally meeting my gaze with a look of quiet intensity. "I hope today, just for today, you can be happy."
The Scent of Memory
I uncapped the bottle, and the world changed.
At first, it was the deep, grounded scent of sandalwood, like old temples and steady earth. But following right behind it, a phantom sensation took hold—the cool air of the night sea lightly passing by. It was sharp, refreshing, and clean.
But what lingered at the very end... it was a strangely sweet floral fragrance. It wasn't overpowering; it was a scent that stirred the heart, pulling on threads of memory I couldn't quite name. It was unique—the kind of aroma that makes you want to keep breathing in until your lungs are full, yet...
I froze. My pulse quickened as a shiver of recognition ran down my spine.
...I've definitely smelled this somewhere before...
A Divine Blessing
Outside the window, the sky was heavy with clouds, a bruised purple-grey that threatened to pour. But inside, unlike the gloomy weather, a clear and beautiful fragrance surrounded me.
It felt like a thin veil, soft yet impenetrable, pushing away the melancholy of the day and the weight of the weather. I looked out at the rain-slicked glass and felt a strange, rare smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"Today's weather..." I whispered to the empty room, "it's not bad."
Right now, in this moment of stillness, I felt as though I had received a divine blessing from Mr. Shin.
The scent sat on the wooden surface, held within a simple glass bottle labeled "Lotus in Rain". Mr. Shin stood before me, his posture awkward as he rubbed the back of his neck, unable to meet my eyes. "And this too, it's a gift," he murmured, his voice carrying a hesitant weight. He explained that he'd bought it thinking a fragrance might brighten my mood. "At least because it's your birthday," he added, his expression softening with a quiet sincerity. "I hope today, just for today, you can be happy".
I opened the bottle and was immediately swept away. First came the scent of sandalwood, deep and grounding. Following closely behind it, I felt a sensation like the cool air of the night sea passing lightly by. What lingered at the end was a strangely sweet floral fragrance—a scent that stirred my heart. It was unique, the kind of aroma that made me want to keep breathing it in.
I froze as a sudden realization hit me. ...I've definitely smelled this somewhere before....
Outside, the sky was heavy with clouds. Yet, unlike the gloomy weather, a clear and beautiful fragrance surrounded me like a thin veil, pushing away the melancholy. Looking out at the rain, I felt a rare sense of peace. "Today's weather... it's not bad," I whispered to myself. In that moment, it felt as though I had received a divine blessing from Mr. Shin.
It was a rare day off, and feeling unusually lighthearted, I decided to walk through the spring streets. The sky was cloudy, shining only with as much light as I could handle. I watched office workers and students passing by with lowered heads, while I walked enveloped in that gift of fragrance. As the wind blew, I breathed in the dust-tinged air that had become so familiar.
I felt free. And yet, a corner of my heart felt ticklish, as if I were expecting something.
My steps naturally led me to the library. It wasn't that there was a book I particularly wanted to read, but the building's unique stillness suited the overcast weather perfectly. Inside, books were classified by type and placed neatly in their assigned spots. I looked at them, wondering how long they had been there, holding those exact spots.
The glass bottle sat on the wooden table, catching the dim light. I traced the letters on the label: "Lotus in Rain." It looked simple, almost fragile, but the way Mr. Shin handed it to me made it feel heavy with intention.
"And this too, it's a gift," he said, his voice dropping an octave as if he were sharing a secret. He wouldn't meet my eyes, instead choosing to rub the back of his neck in that restless way of his. "I thought smelling something fragrant might brighten your mood, so I ended up buying it..."
I stayed silent, watching the way he struggled to find the right words.
"...At least because it's your birthday," he finally added, his tone softening into something raw and hopeful. "I hope today, just for today, you can be happy."
The Unfolding Scent
I reached for the bottle and opened it. Immediately, a complex world of aromas rushed to meet me. First, I was grounded by the scent of sandalwood, deep and woody, like the sturdy pillars of an old library. Following right behind it, a phantom sensation took hold—the cool air of the night sea lightly passing by, sharp and bracing.
But what lingered at the very end... it was a strangely sweet floral fragrance.
It was a scent that stirred my heart, pulling at a memory that remained just out of reach. It was unique, the kind of fragrance that made me want to keep breathing it in, filling my lungs until the world outside disappeared.
Then, I froze.
...I've definitely smelled this somewhere before... The realization hit me like a physical weight. It wasn't just a perfume; it was a ghost from my past, a familiar trail I had lost years ago.
A Change in the Air
I looked toward the window. The sky was heavy with clouds, a oppressive grey that usually made my chest feel tight. But today, it was different. Unlike the gloomy weather outside, this clear and beautiful fragrance surrounded me, wrapping me in a protective cocoon.
It felt like a thin veil, gently but firmly pushing away the melancholy of the weather. For the first time in a long time, the shadows in the room didn't feel so threatening.
"Today's weather..." I whispered, watching the first few drops of rain hit the glass. "It's not bad."
In that moment, I realized I hadn't just received a bottle of perfume. I had received a divine blessing from Mr. Shin—a small, fragrant sanctuary to call my own.
The book was unusually thin, a fragile collection of paper that felt more like a blade of dried grass than a bound volume. It looked as though a single breath might turn it to ash. I traced the title embossed on the dark, mottled cover: Yeonwoo Poetry Collection: Incarnation.
I opened the cover. The inside flap held a brief, clinical biography that contrasted sharply with the haunting physical presence of the book.
Yeonwoo. Graduated from the Department of Korean Language and Literature at S University. Major in modern poetry. Has persistently explored questions of love, destruction, and salvation through poetry.
My eyes skipped to the final sentence of the blurb. "Incarnation records moments where longing toward others burns the self away."
A cold shiver raced down my spine. I turned the page, and my breath hitched. There, in a simple, elegant script, was a dedication that felt like a physical blow to my chest.
"To my beloved SIN, I declare: All flames began from love."
"...Shin," I whispered, the name catching in my throat. The room seemed to blur around me, the shelves of the library receding into a hazy distance until there was only me and the stark white of the page. My finger trembled as it brushed over the name, tracing the letters of the person this poet had loved—or perhaps, the person they had burned for.
I began to flip through the pages, the paper rustling with a sound like dying embers. I stopped at the title poem.
Incarnation
We stood facing each other, blocked by flames.
Not knowing flesh was burning,
not knowing whose shadow the image reflected in our eyes was,
not knowing whether the warmth reaching our hands was you or the raging fire.
Ah, if only it would rain, if only a fierce storm would sweep this demon away.
We believed that if the flames disappeared, if the thing standing between us were gone, then we could finally hold each other tight.
I stared at the last line until the words began to swim. It wasn't just poetry; it was a confession of a love so absolute it couldn't distinguish between the heat of passion and the agony of being consumed. I felt like an intruder stumbling upon a sacred, charred ruin.
I held the poetry collection, a volume so unusually thin and fragile it looked like a blade of grass burned down to ash. I had picked it up almost by habit, a side effect of conversing with poets for too long. The cover was dark and mottled, bearing the simple title: Yeonwoo Poetry Collection: Incarnation.
I turned the page to the author's biography. Yeonwoo had graduated from the Department of Korean Language and Literature at S University, majoring in modern poetry. The text described her work as a persistent exploration of love, destruction, and salvation. My eyes lingered on the final sentence of her profile: "Incarnation records moments where longing toward others burns the self away".
The next page held a dedication that made my heart stutter.
"To my beloved SIN, I declare: All flames began from love."
"...Shin," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sudden, frantic beating in my chest. I stared at the name, my eyes wide with a realization that felt like a physical weight. I began to flip through the pages, the paper rustling like dry leaves until I reached the title poem.
Incarnation
We stood facing each other, blocked by flames.
Not knowing flesh was burning,
not knowing whose shadow the image reflected in our eyes was,
not knowing whether the warmth reaching our hands was you or the raging fire.
Ah, if only it would rain, if only a fierce storm would sweep this demon away.
We believed that if the flames disappeared, if the thing standing between us were gone, then we could finally hold each other tight.
I slammed the book shut and pressed it against my chest, my hands trembling. The fragile bundle of paper felt unbearably tight, as if it were pressing down on my heart itself.
I fled. I ran out into the pouring rain, the cold water washing away the fragrance that had surrounded me, signaling that the blessing was finally gone. I was left with no choice but to run, carrying my sin with me.
When I finally reached the house, I was gasping for air, my breath coming in ragged huffs. The interior was deathly silent. I looked down at the book in my damp hands.
Why did I bring it? I asked myself, before the cold truth settled in: No, I stole it. I stared at the dark cover as if it were a grave secret that must never be revealed to the world. Suddenly, a sharp sound—a crack—rang through the silent hallway. I froze, my eyes wide with terror.
I held the book in my hands, feeling its weight—or lack thereof. It was unusually thin, a fragile thing that felt less like a bound volume and more like a blade of grass burned down to ash. I suppose it's a habit of mine now, a lingering side effect of spending too much time conversing with poets. I whispered a small apology to the empty air, my fingers tracing the dark, textured cover of the collection: Yeonwoo Poetry Collection: Incarnation.
I opened it, the spine creaking softly. On the inner flap, a brief biography stared back at me.
Yeonwoo. Graduated from the Department of Korean Language and Literature at S University. Major in modern poetry. The words described someone who had persistently explored the intersections of love, destruction, and salvation. I felt a chill as I read the final line of the summary: "Incarnation records moments where longing toward others burns the self away."
I turned the page, and the world seemed to tilt. There, in a simple, stark font, was the dedication:
"To my beloved SIN, I declare: All flames began from love."
"...Shin," I breathed. The name left my lips like a secret I wasn't supposed to know. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the sudden trembling of my hands. I stared at the name "SIN," my mind racing to bridge the gap between the poet's longing and the person I knew.
I began to flip through the pages, the paper rustling—pal-rang, pal-rang—like the wings of a trapped bird. I stopped when I reached the title poem. My eyes darted across the stanzas, drinking in the desperate, scorched imagery.
Incarnation
We stood facing each other, blocked by flames.
Not knowing flesh was burning,
not knowing whose shadow the image reflected in our eyes was,
not knowing whether the warmth reaching our hands was you or the raging fire.
Ah, if only it would rain, if only a fierce storm would sweep this demon away.
We believed that if the flames disappeared, if the thing standing between us were gone, then we could finally hold each other tight.
I stood there, the silence of the library suddenly heavy and suffocating. The poem wasn't just art; it was a map of a shared destruction. I closed the book, but the image of the flames—and the name "Shin"—remained burned into the back of my eyelids.
The room was perpetually cold, a sterile chill that no amount of heavy curtains or wooden furniture could ward off. I sat by the bedside, my shadow stretching long and jagged across the floorboards. In the dim light, the only sound was the shallow, rhythmic breathing of the one I loved—and the silent, roaring heat of the flames only I could feel.
I reached out, my fingers trembling as I hovered over their pale hand.
"If the flames disappear," I whispered, the words catching in my throat like ash. "If only this thing separating us disappears..."
I could see the faint glow of the supernatural barrier, a flicker of light that felt like a wall of glass forged in a furnace. It was a cruel irony. I was right here. I could see the pulse in their wrist, the slight flutter of their eyelids, yet I was leagues away, trapped on the other side of a destiny I never asked for.
I felt a hot tear track down my cheek, slipping behind the rim of my glasses. My eyes, usually a dull reflection of the world, burned with a haunting, crimson light.
"...Then we..." I couldn't even finish the thought.
The "we" I envisioned was a ghost. A dream of a life where I wasn't a monster or a guardian, but just a man who could hold someone without the world ending around us.
A sudden floorboard creak shattered my focus. I didn't turn around, but I felt the presence at the door. I knew that look—the wide, blue eyes filled with a mixture of pity and terror. They were watching me crumble, watching the person who was supposed to be strong fall apart over a hand they couldn't even truly touch.
The thunder rumbled outside, a low, guttural growl that matched the vibration in my own chest.
We could hold each other tightly... I thought, closing my eyes against the stinging tears. So we believed.
But as the shadows deepened in the room, I realized that some walls aren't meant to be broken. They are meant to keep the fire from consuming everything left.