Archive of Our Own

When Areum was born, in the narrow chamber beside the town’s church, through the bloodied hands of young novices, Hanbin thought he had never felt such joy.

He waited outside with the pastor, the smell of wax and iron drifting from the door, his small hands twisting in expectation of his mother, his father, and the sister he had not yet seen.

The pastor leaned down and said, “Hanbin, we must pray for your sister’s wellbeing.” He took the boy’s hands in his own, rough against soft skin, and went on, “From this day you must protect her. One day you will stand as the head of your family. God commands it.”

They prayed until his father came at last and asked if he wished to see her. When his fingers brushed against her fragile face, tears slid down his flushed cheeks, and their mother held both children into her arms. His father asked for a prayer to the pastor and the novices who had brought his sister into the world, wishing heaven for Areum, for grace, and for the endurance of her life.

With their heads bowed, the pastor began, “Almighty God, we bring this child to You.” Hanbin’s small fingers curled into his father’s grasp, while his mother’s touch rested warm against his body. “Keep her safe from shadow and sorrow. Let her grow in strength and grace, and bind this family to Your will”, Hanbin clung tighter to his mother, trembling, as more tears slid down his cheeks, “Watch over her, guide her steps, and let Your mercy never leave her.”

They all murmured a faint amen and his mother still didn’t let go of him. The candlelight trembled, then went out, leaving the room in darkness for a few seconds. One of the young girls lit another flame, its glow spilling across their faces. The pastor turned to his parents, a rather serene look on his face, “You must baptize her as soon as you can,” he warned. “Evil lingers even when unseen. You must not allow its vile hand to touch your daughter.”

Hanbin had been too young to understand what he meant by that, but by the look on his parents’ faces, he thought it must have been serious. It didn’t even take a week for the townsfolk to gather in the church, where his sister was lifted before God. He remembers crying there too. He was a sensitive child, his mother always told him, too easily moved.

From then on, their lives stayed completely dedicated to faith. He grew up helping his father carrying wood for the repairs and small constructions the village demanded from time to time. With only a hundred people, they never needed much.

Each evening, when the bell rang at five p.m, they went to service, prayed until his knees burned and bruised against the stone floor, and then again at night in the cramped room he shared with his sister before they went to sleep.

Areum grew up to be a calm child, since they rarely had sleepless nights where she wouldn’t stop crying. When it happened, his mother would get up and feed her, or take her outside their small wooden house to let his father rest, so he could wake before the sun. She was always quiet.

Then when he reached thirteen years, he started dedicating more of his time to the church. He took classes with the novices, who also served as teachers, alongside Gyuvin and Matthew, the only people he could call friends in town. After his lessons, he stayed behind to help, scrubbing the wooden floors, arranging the daily service, picking up the trash the pastor left outside his small cabin, trimming the grass, and repairing whatever needed to be fixed. At mass, he and Matthew helped the pastor with his garments, poured the wine into a golden chalice, and carried a rosary before him as he walked down the aisle. The sound of Matthew’s father on the church piano echoed through the beams of the old ceiling, while the congregation turned their eyes toward them with pride, smiling at their devotion.

When service ended, his parents embraced him with warmth, and his little sister jumped around him, saying she wished she could serve the church too. They would walk home along the dirt road, under the light the moon gifted them, the forest lying beyond the stretch of fields that stood between it and the town, quiet as it usually was, the only sounds alive were the chirping of crickets and his shoes pressing into the dirt.

If a wolf howled in the distance, Areum would grip his arm tightly, laughing out of nervousness. Hanbin grinned, amused by her reaction. “It’s only a wolf far far away”, she smiled, and he knew she trusted him with her life.

After walking a few miles he could see their house, a candle faintly glowing on the porch.

They had dinner together every night after mass and the walk home. The small wooden house smelled faintly of smoke and earth, the walls darkened by years of fire. The chimney burned quietly, its glow spreading over the table where they sat, food prepared by his mother with help from his sister. Before they ate, they clasped each other’s hands and bowed their heads. His father’s voice moved softly through the dim room, “Bless this food, Lord, and keep our family safe.” Hanbin felt the warmth of the moment as Areum squeezed his hand with her small fingers, her face lit by the flicker of the fire

After saying the last of his many prayers, he looked out the small window beside his bed. The forest was dark and close, trees tangled together, their branches like knots against the sky, a small stag at the edge of the field, its shape swallowed by the darkness of the night.

⛧

When Hanbin turned five and ten, his father told him it was time to learn how to hunt, so he wouldn’t always have to buy meat from the butchers in town. Hanbin hated killing animals, hated the way he could feel the heat emanating from their skin and the blood sticking to his skin. He wasn’t strong enough, but he had no choice.

His mother had looked at his father as if he’d grown a second head, disapproval written plain on her face. “He needs to learn,” was all his father said.

The next morning, as the first rays of light slipped through his window, Hanbin reluctantly got up from bed and changed into the clothes he had picked the night before to walk in the grass. When he went downstairs, his father was already waiting, carrying an old rifle, its wood worn smooth by years of use, the metal darkened by rust.

Out in the green field, the air grew colder with every step. Hanbin shivered, goosebumps rising at the bite of the wind.

“I told you to bring warmer clothes,” his father said, a few steps ahead.

“I’m sorry, Father.”They walked closer and closer to the tall trees, so high Hanbin couldn’t see past them.

“You stay close to me at all times, understood?” His father stopped, the rifle balanced on his shoulder. “If you fall behind, you can get lost.”

Hanbin nodded, following as close as he could, until at last they stepped foot inside the forest.

Hanbin had, of course, always wondered why his mother never allowed him and Areum to wander near the edge of the fields that divided their home from the endless green of the trees. She would sit on the small bench by the porch, her eyes never leaving them as they played. If Hanbin drifted too far toward the middle of the field, her voice would cut through the stillness, “Hanbin.” He’d turn to see her rising from her seat. “You know you can’t go too far away,” she would say, and he would run back at once.

Hanbin never got an answer, thinking he would never come this close, and yet here he was, rushing to keep up with his father, staring into the immensity of it.

It was greener than he had imagined, darker too, the branches thick and heavy, twisting together until they blocked the sky. The ground was damp beneath his shoes, covered in fallen leaves that muffled each step. The air smelled of earth and moss, colder the deeper they went. Birds did not sing here, only the faint crack of branches somewhere far off, as quiet as night was before he fell asleep.

They walked a few more meters, branches scratching his hands and the back of his neck, and he tripped over a small trunk he hadn’t seen, his father’s rough hands catching him by the collar of his shirt, steadying him before his face hit the muddy ground.

“There,” his father signaled with his head. Hanbin turned to the right, seeing a small stag slowly moving between the greenery. It hadn’t noticed them, its movements completely serene. “Take the rifle, Hanbin. Don’t rush it.” his father said, taking the gun off his shoulder and carefully handing it to him, his movements slow so as not to startle the animal.

Hanbin gripped it awkwardly, the weight heavier than he expected.

“Lower your head,” his father whispered, nudging his shoulder so the stock rested firmly against it. “Keep your eye on the sight.”

Hanbin swallowed hard, his breath loud in his ears, trying not to shake like he was the one getting hunted instead.

“When it’s still, that’s your moment,” his father went on quietly, one hand pressing lightly against Hanbin’s back to steady him. “You have to squeeze the trigger like you’re just closing your hand.”

The stag bent its head toward the grass, still unaware.

Hanbin’s fingers trembled on the cold metal. His father leaned close, his voice barely more than the wind between the trees.

Then he shot.

⛧

Hanbin felt more at ease when he was at church.

He felt easiness while listening to the old nuns, who had taught him how to read and write, opening a new world before him. He spent his days with his nose buried in old passages, dusty and fragile, pages threatening to tear if he turned them too forcefully. The strange handwriting sometimes made understanding difficult, but he never gave up, asking for help whenever he encountered words he didn’t know.

Gyuvin, Matthew, and he were the only boys attending lessons; the others from town were either too young or too occupied with the work their families devoted their lives to, uninterested in studies unrelated to the Bible. Naturally, the three became close, spending long days together under the burning sun or inside the small classroom when heavy rains kept them waiting for hours before mass.

On days when Hanbin didn’t feel like talking, or if the nuns had nothing to give him to work, he found solace in the small library the pastor maintained, tucked into a corner with a single couch beneath windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Sunlight spilled over him, warm against his skin, and more than once he drifted off there, the novices’ voices singing hymns next door lulling him into quiet rest.

It didn’t take Hanbin long to make his way through all the books the library held now that he could read more quickly.

The pastor laughed when Hanbin asked if there were any more books for him. “You’re an intelligent boy, Hanbin, but do not forget that your main priority should always be God.”

Still, the next day he accompanied Hanbin to the library and unlocked a door that had always remained closed, slightly closing it afterward so Hanbin wouldn’t peek inside. It took him no longer than a minute to return, locking the door with a key. “This you shall enjoy as much as your other readings.”

The book was heavy, its brown leather cover partially detached from the pages, giving off an old, musty smell, the paper yellowed with age. It was quite a large volume, and Hanbin guessed the pastor had given it to him so he wouldn’t bother him again for a while.

It was written in a language he still couldn’t grasp well, one that had him turning to the nuns for help with the words that escaped him. Some of them guided him gently, while others grew sharp when he asked too much. “It’s called Latin, Hanbin. If you paid more attention in lessons, you’d know it’s important for you to learn it,” one of the nuns who had first taught him to read and write told him once, reproach on her tone. Hanbin tried to pronounce the words, foreign on his tongue.

Whenever he came across books filled with Latin, it always slowed him down, forcing him to move through the pages with more care. Most of them were about God, the Testament, or the long history of how the Bible came to be written. Still, he never let it defeat him. In his hands he carried a small dictionary, handwritten by the pastor himself—a gift given to him on one of his birthdays. The notebook was worn and thin, its pages covered in the pastor’s neat script.

Hanbin attempted to read the title aloud, his voice cracking on strange syllables that refused to sound like anything familiar, and beside him the pastor laughed openly, ruffling his black hair.

The pastor left the room with a soft creak of the wooden floor, his footsteps echoing until they disappeared into the silence of the church.

Hanbin dropped into the worn couch by the window, its fabric rough against his palms, the dust rising from the book cover making him sneeze as he opened it. He began to read at once. Outside, the day slipped away without him noticing, until the last rays of sunlight stretched across the floor and vanished, no longer touching his skin. By the time it was almost dark he realized he had to get ready for mass, lighting the few candles that were in the room, the smell of wax filling his nose.

Hanbin creased the corner of the page he was reading, marking the spot so he would find his way to it the next day. He reluctantly got up the couch, thinking about the stain his church robe had he had forgotten to clean up, too immersed in the book, and he knew his mom was going to reprimand him for it. He left the book on the old desk in the middle of the room, trying not to put it too close to the candle so it wouldn’t accidentally start a fire and the whole church would crumble down.

He glanced toward the window, the moon already casting its light on the floor, and the darkness outside didn’t allow him to see past a few meters of the field, the trees still as a rock. The time had been gentle to them, there hadn’t been rain or wind for days. He could alredy hear some of the townsfolk talking outside.

He stretched his fingers, then his arms and neck, strained from being in the same position for long. He closed his eyes briefly, letting himself listen to the quietness the night made just right outside.

His bones cracked as he stretched, the sound loud in his ears.

Then—a soft tap on the window. So quick he almost thought he had imagined it, but sharp enough to make him flinch, eyes snapping open, head half-turned toward the glass. Probably just the branches moving in the wind, he told himself, though the silence that followed pressed heavier against his ears.

He turned to the candles and blew them out, one by one, the room shrinking with every breath, the corners darker with each flicker gone. Before he could blow out the last one—the candle on the desk where the book still lay—he heard it again.

The same tap, but this time twice, like someone knocking on the glass with their knuckles. Hanbin froze, every hair on his arms standing up. He stepped back a little, eyes wide, leaning away from the window but not tearing his gaze from it, trying to see if anyone—or anything—was there.

Outside, the glass reflected only black. No shapes, no light, nothing but darkness, so complete he couldn’t even see the moonlight, only the faint reflection of the single candle still burning. The silence pressed in around him.

Nothing came. Not even the voices of the people at church, or the nuns readying for service. No sound, no movement, just the night waiting outside.

Minutes passed—or maybe only seconds—and still nothing.

He let out a quiet breath, leaning toward the candle on the desk. His hand shook slightly as he blew it out, the flame vanishing in a thin thread of smoke. The room fell into darkness, and with it, Hanbin’s eyes slowly left the window. He walked toward the door, closing it behind him with a loud thud.

The next day, Hanbin found himself in the same room again, a little hesitant after what had happened. He decided he would leave the library before the sun sank behind the mountains, just beyond the forest, not wanting to repeat the same experience. The night before he had barely slept, lying in bed waiting for the sound at his small window. After a while, he convinced himself it must have been small rocks striking the glass, or maybe the dry autumn leaves already fallen.

He plopped down on the couch, the book heavy on his thighs, and looked out the window without fear now. Matthew and Gyuvin were playing on the field, laughing out loud when Gyuvin tripped and landed face-first in the grass. “You’re stupid,” Matthew said, a big smile on his face.

From the edge of the forest, Hanbin noticed a figure moving behind Gyuvin’s tall frame. As the figure stepped into the open, he could make out the outline of a boy, tall and lean, moving with the sure-footedness of someone used to the woods. Sunlight caught on the edges of his hair and shoulders, glinting faintly as he came closer. Hanbin’s stomach sank; he couldn’t tell who it was at first, or why he was coming from between the trees.

“Taerae!” Matthew yelled, waving his hand to call him closer.

Ah, it’s Taerae, Hanbin thought, letting out a sigh.

Taerae was the son of the butcher who mainly distributed meat in town, sometimes knocking on doors to convince people to sell it, with a big, charming smile on his face. Hanbin had seen him more often walking toward the forest than around town, since Taerae’s father made him and his brother hunt for all the meat they sold. Naturally, that meant Taerae spent most of his time in the woods. Matthew and Gyuvin were friends with him as they lived nearby his house, a place stacked with dead animals and the stains of blood all over the wood.

Hanbin turned his gaze back to the book, tracing a line with his finger, though his focus wavered. Outside the window, Matthew’s laughter rose again, carried by the breeze, Gyuvin shouting something in reply. The sound made him smile faintly, but soon his eyes slipped from the page, seeing how the sunlight shifted across the desk, catching on the scattered dust and the edges of old papers. He leaned back for a moment, stretching his shoulders, then let his eyes wander toward the shelves.

Something small glinted there, tucked between two uneven stacks of books. He frowned lightly, leaning forward. A key. Plain, iron, its surface dulled except for the edge where the light struck it.

For a while he just looked at it, getting up from the couch and walking slowly towards it, clutching it between his fingers.

It was the same key the pastor had opened the door with, when he closed it enough so Hanbin wouldn’t dare to see inside.

Why is it here? he thought. The pastor had seemed reluctant to let him even get close to it, and it had always been part of the large keychain the pastor carried inside his robe, the one he used for every locked door in the church.

He knew it wasn’t right to take what wasn’t his. His stomach twisted at the thought, a small voice in his head reminding him of all the times the nuns had warned him and his friends about respecting what belonged to others. He should return it if he found it, that much was certain. And yet, the weight of the key in his hand felt heavy and insistent, glancing at the door as if it were calling him, and he couldn’t bring himself to put it back.

Hanbin was naturally a curious kid, so it didn’t really cross his mind twice not to open the door. The pastor was away visiting families with sick relatives, and all the nuns were out giving food at the town’s market. The only one who remained was the nun who gave them lessons, and Hanbin knew she usually liked to nap in her quarters. So truly, no one was going to know.

Inside, it wasn’t much different from the library, just smaller. A few candles were scattered around, their wax dripping down the holders, and the room had no windows to let in daylight. Against one wall, a single bookshelf was packed with thick, heavy volumes, some leaning sideways as if they had been hastily placed. The air smelled faintly of old paper and wax, quiet except for the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his shoes, the loud voice of Matthew disappearing in the background.

He got closer to the books, running his fingers through them, as old as the one he’d been given. He reached for one of them, holding it in his hands.

The cover was a deep, dull black, its surface worn smooth, without a single word or marking—blank on the front, blank on the spine. When he opened it, the first page revealed only a pair of initials in the bottom corner: S. Q., so small and faint he had to tilt the book toward the light the open door let through to be sure they were really there. The strokes of the letters curved in a style he hadn’t seen before, thin and fragile. The ink itself had faded by age.

He turns the page and finds the title —Liber Obscurus. The black ink spreads across the yellowed paper, bold and heavy. He didn’t need the small dictionary anymore, his Latin had gotten better, enough to know right away what it meant: The Dark Book.

The next page was crowded with notes, line after line, the letters so small and messy they almost tangled together. It didn’t look like a book made to be read, but something written in a hurry, or by a hand that didn’t care about order. Most of it Hanbin couldn’t make sense of, words half in Latin and half in something else he didn’t know. Still, here and there he could pick out a few: daemonium. ritus. ignis. He recognized some of them except he couldn’t quite sort them into full sentences, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

He started to read the words out loud, but stopped, realizing he didn’t actually know what the book was about. It probably wasn’t the best idea to mutter phrases whose meaning he didn’t understand.

As he turned the pages, he found drawings of animals he knew lived deep in the forest, some he had himself killed, and some others he had never seen in his life, not even when he went hunting with his father. A big owl stared at him from one page, its round eyes dark and almost alive, wings spread wide with rough feathers. Its hooked beak looked sharp, and its claws gripped a branch. Around the image, notes were scribbled in small letters, one sentence he could barely make out: quod vigilat in tenebris ne dormiat.

The room felt heavier as he leaned over the page, the faint light from the open door barely reaching him, swallowed by the shadows between the shelves. Each line of text seemed to pull at his attention, almost whispering, though he knew it was only the silence around him. He shifted slightly, the weight of the book pressing against his sweaty palms. He really shouldn't have been reading this.

Hanbin glanced toward the door again, the sunlight spilling in weakly, not enough to reach the far corners. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the page, heart thudding in the quiet room.

In it, something he had never seen before, an image of a sheep’s head on a human-like body—just like him—stared straight at him, sitting cross-legged. Its horns were long and curved, reaching high, with a five-pointed star resting atop its head. As with the other drawings, small notes were scribbled all around it, almost tangled with the lines of the figure, difficult to read but still demanding his attention, forcing his eyes to read.

Hanbin froze for a moment. He couldn’t tell if it was the star or the way the figure stared at him, but something about it made him feel weird. He leaned closer, tracing the lines with his finger, careful not to smudge the ink. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Part of him was curious, part of him uneasy, he knew he was peeking into something he shouldn’t.

He leaned closer, squinting at the page, and he read: omnia audient noct… sanguis docet viam.

A chill ran through him. A sound so faint he wasn’t even sure he had really heard it, like a whisper brushing against his ear. Then a subtle pressure on his shoulder, the feeling of a hand resting there for a moment.

He jerked his head around, heart hammering, expecting the room to be empty. Instead, Gyuvin stood behind him, eyebrows raised.

“Hanbin! We’ve been calling for you, I yelled your name like five times. The pastor and the sisters are back.”

Hanbin closed his eyes in frustration, thinking he must be imagining things. He glanced toward the hallway, half-expecting someone to catch him in a place he definitely shouldn’t be.

“Sorry… I got distracted,” he muttered, pressing his hands to his chest, feeling his heart pound. “Can you watch the door while I lock this?” He snapped the book shut and hurriedly returned it to its place, straightening the others that had fallen, trying to erase any sign he had been there.

Gyuvin gave him a skeptical look but nodded, stepping toward the hallway.

Hanbin slipped out, closing the door as quietly as possible, locking it with the small metallic key.

“What were you doing in there?” Gyuvin inquired, indicating the door with his head.

“Nothing,” he shrugged, picking up the book he was supposed to be studying and setting it back on the desk. “Just reading another book.”

“Right” Gyuvin rolled his eyes, nudging him to follow. “Didn’t take you for a gossiper.”

“I’m not.” Hanbin protested, shooting Gyuvin an offended look. “ I was just curious.” He slipped the small key into one of the desk drawers, muttering a quick prayer that no one would find it. If they did, he was sure the novices would beat the daylights out of him.

Gyuvin only snorted, bumping his shoulder as they walked down the hallway. Matthew was waiting for them, no Taerae in sight.

“Do you know what Taerae told us?” Matthew blurted, voice too loud until one of the nuns shushed him. He leaned in, whispering with a grin, “He and his brother found a lake during one of their hunts. He said we could go with them tomorrow.”

“We’re not going, Matthew. If my father finds out, he’ll hang me in front of the whole town. He’s promised enough times already,” Gyuvin muttered with a shudder.

“We’re not supposed to go into the woods, Matt,” Hanbin agreed. There was no need for further explanation; everyone grew up knowing the forest was forbidden, dangerous, and easy to get lost in.

Matthew sighed dramatically, grumbling about how boring they were until the novices called them to lessons again. The three of them hurried into the classroom.

But as the day dragged on, Hanbin couldn’t stop thinking about the book. The words, darker than anything he had ever read, curled around his mind like smoke. He kept wondering what it was the townsfolk feared so much about the forest, why his father grew so tense whenever they hunted near its edge, and why the warnings against it were so absolute.

The image of the strange sheep-headed figure burned itself into his memory. It followed him when he closed his eyes that night, when he ate breakfast with his family the next morning, when he walked to church, and when he mouthed more Latin phrases in class.

And when at last he had the chance to sneak back into the library, his pulse quick with anticipation, he went straight to the drawer. He pulled it open to see the key was gone.

⛧

Hanbin remembers once, seeing Areum stood frozen on the porch, her eyes locked on the stag that sometimes lingered near the sheepfold, only steps away from the house. It was her ninth birthday. The air smelled of smoke from their chimney, the sky a dull grey, the soft rustle of the grass swaying in the wind filled the space.

“What are you doing, Areum?” Hanbin asked, grasping her shoulders, and followed her gaze to the animal.

“He asked if I wanted to go for a walk with him in the woods,” she said softly, tilting her head upwards, her voice as calm as always.

“What nonsense are you talking about?” Hanbin chuckled, ruffling her black hair. When he glanced back, the stag was already gone, swallowed by the trees.

Hanbin never gave much thought to things that seemed out of place.

⛧

On Hanbin´s twentieth spring, it´s a day that marks the whole town, the day he finally realizes why everyone is so afraid of the woods.

It starts as a normal day, truly, his mother prepares his favorite food and lets him invite Gyuvin and Matthew so they can have a picnic together. The sun shines in all its glory, the sky a perfect blue, without a single cloud in sight.

The laughter of his sister and Matthew’s sister fills his ears as they gossip about something he can’t catch. “Areum, stop being annoying,” Hanbin says, a small smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head at her. Areum sticks out her tongue at him, giggling, while Matthew and Gyuvin settle the blanket on the grass, arranging the picnic with playful fussing over who gets the first bite of bread. Hanbin pours a little soup into small bowls, the steam curling up and warming his fingers.

The wind drifts softly through the trees at the edge of the field, making the grass sway, carrying the faint scent of flowers and fresh earth. Birds chirp lazily somewhere above, and he feels lighter than he ever has.

They spend the day lazily, as they never have the chance to do. They sing a few songs they know from church, laughs until his stomach hurts, and his face is red from the small bottle of alcohol his father gifted him.

Matthew´s sister, Yaebin, taps him on his shoulder and asks him to have a dance with her, moving along the strings of the guitar Gyuvin is playing.

Before the sun starts to drop, they begin to gather their things, the bit of soup he saved for his mother and father cold in his hands.

As they start walking through the field toward the house, Hanbin hears the thud of hooves in the distance sharp and uneven, striking the dirt road with a hurried rhythm. The sound grows clearer, carrying it across the open field until it feels almost too close.

“Someone’s coming,” Gyuvin mutters.

Hanbin immediately gets Areum behind him, his eyes narrowing toward the road. His parents must have heard it too; he sees them stepping out onto the porch, their shapes framed by the fading light.

“It’s too late,” Hanbin murmurs, squinting against the horizon.

A dark shape flickers into view. A man on horseback, riding fast, far too fast for this hour of the day, or for this part of town, where only a few houses break the line of the fields. Dust trails behind him, catching in the last gold light before the sun slips down.

By the time the man reaches the front of the house, the man yanks at the reins, the leather creaking as he forces the animal to stop. Hanbin recognizes him. He´s one of Taerae’s father's helpers.

They start walking faster, stopping just a few steps away, while Hanbin’s father approaches the man, who still hasn’t dismounted. “I’m sorry for the disruption, sir,” the man says, his breath ragged, as if he’s been running for miles. “It’s— it's Kim's youngest boy. He’s gone. They last saw him at dusk, when he was leaving with his brother for the forest.”

“Taerae?” Matthew gasps. The basket slips from his hands, landing on the dry ground.

“Yes,” the man continues, nodding quickly. “They both left as usual in the morning. Time passed and they didn’t come back.”

“And his brother? He did come back?” Hanbin asks, his voice caught in disbelief. The Kims knew the forest better than anyone, for them to get lost was almost impossible.

“He did,” the man answers, his tone shaking. “Just as we were about to go look for them. He came stumbling, trembling, and fell to his knees in front of his father. Begged for forgiveness.”

Hanbin gulps, feeling the air grow colder against the back of his neck.

“He said they’d caught a few rabbits before heading deeper into the forest,” the man goes on. “Taerae was walking behind him. Then a few steps later he turned back, and he wasn’t there anymore. He looked for him, shouted his name, but if he’d gone any further, he wouldn’t have made it out either.”

“And what do you need from us?” his father asks, his hands tightening around his wife’s shoulders.

Areum immediately moves to their mother’s side, taking her hands in hers, her eyes wide and shining under the last bit of sunlight. The fear on her face makes Hanbin’s stomach twist.

“Kim is asking the men to help him look for the boy,” the rider says. His voice carries that edge of urgency that makes everyone hold their breath. “He’s desperate. The more hands, the better. The boy’s mother can’t stop crying.”

Hanbin exchanges a look with Gyuvin and Matthew. None of them say anything, but the thought sits heavy between them, unspoken and waiting.

His father hesitates, glancing at his wife. Her face is pale in the dying light, and her eyes search for him, pleading quietly.

“It’s too late, dear,” she says, laying a trembling hand against his chest. “The sun’s almost gone. I don’t want you to vanish too.”

“If it were our children, we’d ask for help too,” Hanbin’s father says softly. Hanbin remembers, and he can almost see it—his mother waiting at the porch, her hands twisting the hem of her apron, her eyes searching the field whenever he and Areum went too close to the woods.

“We know it’s dangerous to wander the forest, especially at this hour,” the man says from the horse, his tone firm though exhaustion drips from every word. He straightens in the saddle, already turning toward the road. “But the longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to find the boy.”

The horse snorts, stamping the ground. Behind them, the sky folds into darker shades of blue, clouds gathering like bruises at the horizon. The line of trees at the edge of the forest looks thicker now, almost shifting with the wind. A shiver runs down Hanbin’s spine at the thought of Taerae, somewhere in there, all alone.

“Fine,” his father says at last. “Hanbin is coming with me.”

Matthew steps forward before he can think. “We want to help too,” he blurts, glancing at Gyuvin beside him, who nods without hesitation.

The man on the horse turns toward them, eyes sharp, “Your father said he and his son won’t help,” he says, motioning at Gyuvin with a faint tilt of his head. It isn’t a surprise, everyone knows Gyuvin’s family keeps to themselves, never meddling with anyone unless it’s during Sunday mass.

Gyuvin’s jaw tightens, the words pressing at the edge of his tongue, but before he can speak, the man cuts him off. “I’m not taking responsibility for anyone, kid. And you’d better get home before it’s dark.”

Hanbin’s father disappears inside the house, the door creaking open. Hanbin knows he’s gathering the big gun they carry whenever they hunt, and before Hanbin gets inside too to put something warmer, he turns to his friends, catching the worry in their faces the way Gyuvin’s eyes dart toward the trees, how Matthew’s hands tremble while he’s picking the food from the fallen basket.

“It’s okay,” Hanbin says, trying to sound steady. “We’re not going alone. Leave before the moon is fully up. We’ll see each other tomorrow.”

Matthew nods, though he doesn’t look convinced.

Yaebin steps closer, tugging Matthew gently by the sleeve. “Be careful, Hanbin. We don’t know what’s out there.” She looks away, guiding her brother down the road.

“My son”, his mother caresses his cheeks as soon as he’s inside. “Be careful. Don’t separate from your father even for a moment, understand?” He nods, a pit forming in his stomach. She kisses him on the forehead, then Areum clings to him for a moment, arms tight around his waist, whispering a small “come back brother” before he follows his father out.

The night is completely up when they mount their horses, and they ride beside the man who brought the news.Hanbin keeps his eyes fixed ahead, where the moon is starting to be visible behind the hills.

When they reach Taerae’s house, several men are already gathered outside, holding torches, mounting their horses. He recognizes almost all of them, people who he has shared bread and prayers his whole life. He sees Taerae’s father standing at the front, his face unmoving, eyes fixed on the forest beyond the fields. He doesn’t say a word.

They walk in silence for a long time, the only sound being the soft crunch of leaves under their boots and the horses breathing somewhere behind them, not staying still. The light from their torches stretches thin through the trunks, dying before it can reach far, so that every step feels like entering a place that keeps growing darker, even though the sky outside isn’t completely night yet. Hanbin keeps close to his father, his eyes trying to adjust, but the forest looks endless, the trees all too close, all too tall, their shapes blending into one another until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the next begins, and the air is filled with the faint hum of insects that seem louder than they should.

Rough voices start calling Taerae’s name, startling him before he does too. They keep walking, and Hanbin keeps thinking about how Taerae must have walked this same way in daylight, how he probably thought he knew the path, and how maybe that didn’t matter at all once he crossed some invisible line. The man leading them says they should split, just for a few meters, to cover more ground, and Hanbin feels his throat tighten at the idea, but he nods, holding the small torch tighter, his fingers slick with sweat.

He and his father move to the right, stepping over roots under the dirt, the smell of wet moss heavy around them, and at some point, Hanbin thinks he hears running water, maybe a small stream, but when he listens harder there’s nothing, just the echo of their steps and the distant calls of the others fading further away. His father stops suddenly, raising a hand to make him stay quiet, and Hanbin does, holding his breath, the forest around them stilling as if it too were waiting for something to happen. The sound of a wolf howling is what fills his ears, and his father takes a step forward. The sound doesn’t come again.

As they walk, the trees feel like they’re closing in, shadows stretching and twisting around him, the ground uneven and full of roots he keeps tripping over. Hanbin’s almost running just to keep up, but no matter how fast he goes his father’s torch seems to get smaller and smaller, farther away.

“Father!” he shouts, voice cracking, and then the wind takes it, throws it into the branches, and all he hears is an echo, weird and distant, “Hanbin… Hanbin!” and he runs toward it, but the voice only seems farther, the forest pressing around him, branches scratching his arms, leaves catching in his hair. He stumbles, falls, scrambles up, yells again, but the torchlight is almost gone, swallowed by the trees, leaving him alone, just him and the dark.

Hanbin stops in his tracks, chest heaving, breath turning white in the air. The cold hits him, sharper than anything he’s ever felt, it seeps through his clothes, down to his bones, his nose burning with every inhale. The small torch he dropped while running lies dead on the ground, a thin curl of smoke still rising from it. Somewhere far off, his father is calling his name, voice echoing between the trees. Hanbin starts moving again, following the sound, “Father!” he yells, his voice trembling as he pushes through the branches.

He walks and walks, can’t tell for how long, everything looks the same, just trees, dirt and the shadow of the moonlight. Then, faintly, he hears it again, that same sound he heard earlier when they first entered the forest, the soft rush of running water, closer now. He thinks maybe there he’ll see something, maybe the trees will open up. He keeps calling, until the ground under his boots turns damp, and the smell changes—wet grass, mud. He takes a few more steps, and finally, the forest parts. A small river glimmers under the moonlight, the surface so clear it looks like glass.

He bends forward, trying to steady his breathing, in and out, slow, like his mother taught him when he was a kid. Somewhere nearby, an owl hoots. He finds it, perched high on a branch, head tilted, eyes glowing faint and round, staring right at him.

Then a crack. Not from the bird. From behind him. Like a footstep.

“Father?” he whispers, barely moving his lips. Nothing. Just the soft hiss of the river and the whisper of the grass in the wind. Another sound follows, another branch snapping; this time ahead of him. He turns, breath caught in his throat.

And he sees him.

“Taerae?” Hanbin squints, taking a cautious step forward, one foot landing on a slick rock. His stomach tightens the moment he recognizes him. His brown hair, the curve of his jaw, the way his face looks so calm it’s eerie.

But Taerae doesn’t look at him. His eyes are fixed on the moon, face pale and blank.

“Taerae!” Hanbin calls again, louder this time, his voice cracking. The boy doesn’t move. The light from the moon catches his figure, and Hanbin freezes —Taerae’s wearing only a thin, white shirt, the knot at his chest undone, collarbones jutting out, skin covered in bruises, dark, uneven marks spreading down his neck and across his chest. The shirt is barely long enough to cover his intimacy, hanging loose around his thighs, the hem fluttering with the breeze. His legs are bare, thin and trembling, raw in places like something had clawed or bitten him.

“Taerae… what happened?” Hanbin’s voice comes out low, shaking. He circles around the river, trying to get closer, mud sucking at his boots. The boy doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. He’s standing still as stone.

“Taerae?” Hanbin stops, head tilting a little, waiting for him to do something. He realizes he’s still standing on the other side of the river, as if all the walking he did hadn’t brought him any closer at all.

Taerae turns his head then, slowly, looking toward the forest blooming past the river. Hanbin can only see the back of his head now, the pale outline of his neck under the thin fabric of his shirt.

And then, quietly, Taerae starts walking. His steps are steady, almost calm, the light blouse he’s wearing moving gently with the wind. His bare feet sink in the mud, leaving small, dark prints behind.

“Taerae!” Hanbin shouts, voice cracking as he starts running along the riverbank, trying to keep him in sight. But Taerae doesn’t stop. He keeps walking forward, as if Hanbin wasn’t even there. “Stop!” Hanbin hears himself sob, feels a tear running down his cheek.

Before Taerae disappears into the darkness, he turns his head over his shoulder, eyes finding Hanbin’s across the distance. He’s still walking, still leaving. And then he smiles—wide and familiar, the same smile Hanbin had seen his whole life, only now it feels wrong, something in it twisting his stomach. He stops running, frozen, because he knows that no matter what he does, he’ll never reach him.

Taerae turns back and walks into the trees, swallowed by them completely. It reminds Hanbin of all those times he’d seen him do the same when Taerae went hunting, walking side by side with his brother, both laughing and shoving each other by the shoulders, their voices fading as they disappeared between the trees. Except this time, Hanbin knows he’s not coming back.

And that’s the last time he ever sees Taerae.

“Hanbin!” a voice breaks through, a hand grabbing his shoulder and twisting him around. His father’s face is furious, eyes wild. “I told you to stay close to me!”

“He was here, father,” Hanbin cries, words shaking. “I saw him, Taerae. I kept calling him, and he didn’t answer. He went in there again.”

His father’s hand tightens on his shoulder, worry flashing behind the anger. “There’s no helping him, Hanbin.” He grips his arm and pulls him away from the river. The sound of the water fades as they walk. “He’s gone. Don’t tell anyone you saw him, you understand?”

“But—”

“I said, do you understand?!” His father’s voice is sharp, his fingers digging harder into Hanbin’s arm. He knows it’ll leave marks. “And you will never set foot in this forest again. You or your sister. Ever.”

Hanbin looks back at the forest once they’ve reached the edge and set foot in the field again. It’s as calm as it’s ever been, even quieter, like nothing had happened inside.

When they finally reach home, the sun starts shining weakly in the distance, and Hanbin feels as if they were barely gone for an hour. His mother kisses him all over his face, muttering prayers of thanks, trembling hands tracing the outline of his shoulders, his hair, his cheeks. She keeps repeating that God had mercy on them, that they came back whole. But Hanbin doesn’t feel whole. There’s a strange weight in his chest, and a coldness that no blanket or fire could take away.

Areum hugs him tight before they go to sleep, her small arms wrapping around his waist. “I was so scared you and father weren’t coming back,” she whispers, eyes red and wide. Hanbin brushes her cheek gently, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, voice breaking. “Promise me you’re never going back there again.”

Hanbin exhales, the flash of a smile and bruised collarbones burning in his mind.

“I promise.”

When he lies down, he realizes it’s the first time he’s gone to bed with the sun still up, light spilling faintly through the window.

The next few days are chaos in town. No one steps outside once the sky starts to dim, doors are locked, candles left unlit, windows completely shuttered. Mass starts earlier now, and Hanbin spends long hours in the church, whispering prayers to God, begging Him to take away the image that haunts his mind. The pastor prays for Taerae every day, even when his family isn’t there.

“Lord, grant us strength, guide our hearts, and forgive our trespasses. Keep us humble, keep us faithful, and let Your will be done in all things,” he stands in front of the congregation, hands extended. “Help us walk the path of righteousness, and teach us to bear the burdens You place upon us with courage and grace. Amen.”

The whole congregation follows, heads bowed. Hanbin sits quietly, hands folded in his lap, trying to whisper the words under his breath.

When Matthew and Gyuvin ask him if someone saw anything in the forest, Hanbin just shakes his head.

Days go by, and he hears the Kims are still searching, walking through the woods during the few hours of daylight. Sometimes Hanbin sees Taerae’s mother sitting outside their stall, hands idle on her lap, eyes fixed in the distance, like she’s waiting for her son to suddenly appear and walk through the field. Other times she’s crying quietly, her face hidden behind the curtain of her hair.

He learns Taerae’s brother goes to see the pastor every day. From the library window, Hanbin sees him entering the pastor’s cabin, shoulders hunched, and leaving only when the sun is almost gone. He doesn’t appear at mass.

“I heard he hasn’t slept since that day,” Matthew says one afternoon, the three of them sitting cross legged on the grass outside the church. “Some say he runs to the forest at night, screaming Taerae’s name, and his father has to drag him back every time.”

“It’s so scary,” Gyuvin murmurs, head down, pulling at the grass between his fingers. “I can’t even imagine what happened to him.”
Hanbin doesn’t say anything.

He tries to forget that night, but he can’t. He catches glimpses of Taerae’s face lit by the moonlight every time he closes his eyes, the hollow expression and his pretty smile. It’s the first thing he sees when he wakes, and the last before he falls asleep. Even there he finds him, turning away from Hanbin.

He tries to get into the small room in the library, untouched since the day he went in. Maybe that strange book still waits there, holding an answer he doesn’t want to know. But when he searches for the key or tries to force the door, it doesn’t open.

He keeps thinking of Taerae, alive and breathing the last time he saw him. He tells himself maybe it was a ghost, but then remembers the muddy footprints. He can’t stop wondering what could’ve happened to him, how someone could walk so calmly into the woods like that, as if he was home.

Now, when he looks at the tall trees beyond the fields, he understands why the townsfolk never let their children near them.

At night, he no longer sleeps facing the window.

When the leaves start to fall and the wind turns colder, the Kims stop searching. It’s been too long. Even if they tried again, no one could cover the entire forest, it’s too large, too dense. And Hanbin knows they can’t survive losing another one of them.

The few men who still hunt avoid the forest entirely, killing the animals that come closer to the edge. Meat becomes scarce. His father goes alone now, quiet and stubborn, keeping his promise that Hanbin and Areum would never step there again.

People start to forget, returning to the quiet rhythm they lived, like nothing ever happened.

Hanbin tells no one what he saw. He feels almost relieved, but a small voice in his chest pricks at him, whispering about sin, about lying, about keeping knowledge from others. He remembers the passages he had read since he was a kid about honesty, about bearing witness to the truth. But he doubts anyone would have believed him, and even less, that they would’ve wanted to. He doesn’t even think his father believed him that night too. And if they did, he didn’t want to give false hope to no one, because deep down, he knew what he saw wasn’t a boy lost in the forest, but someone who chose to be there.

As the town settles into normality again, the sun rises and falls, over and over, and before he knows it, white snow has covered almost the whole town. The novices and nuns prepare for a long winter, and Hanbin’s family joins them, gathering supplies for days filled with nothing but cold and stillness, when hunting or cultivating food is nearly impossible.

Hanbin helps alongside the congregation to get the church ready for Christmas Eve, the only day it fills to capacity. He assists his mom and Areum with cooking the usual soup, the steam curling into the cold air of the hall, ready to be given to the townsfolk.

“Have you been alright, Hanbin?” The pastor asks, coming up behind him as he drapes the robe over his shoulders, the fabric stiff and slightly rough. “Sister Maria mentioned you’ve been struggling with Latin lessons again. You must be able to understand it fully by now.”

“I’ve just been distracted, pastor. I’m sorry for causing trouble,” Hanbin replies softly. Across the room, Matthew gives him a sharp look, tilting the golden cup of wine slightly, the red liquid catching the candlelight.

“I know you two were close to that boy,” the pastor says, and Hanbin almost protests—he wasn’t, when he saw him at the river it was probably the second time he ever talked to him. “But if we dwell on them too much, we’ll never find peace ourselves. He’s not suffering anymore. That’s what matters. The Lord has mercy on all His children.”

He talks about him like he’s dead. But Hanbin can’t even deny it. Maybe he already was when he last saw him.

The service is nothing less than beautiful—the first time in a while the congregation truly feels like a community again. They sing and share prayers for one another, for health and for mercy.

When it ends and everyone gathers in one of the church’s largest rooms, where long wooden tables have been set so the whole congregation can eat together, Hanbin sits close to the stone chimney, letting the warmth reach his skin.

“I don’t know if it’s true,” Yaebin starts, voice low from the corner of the table, “but I heard a story the other day.”

“All your stories are made up, Yaebin,” Matthew laughs, a piece of bread half in his mouth.

“Have some manners, Matthew,” she huffs, pulling a face at her brother before leaning closer. “The other day, at the market, one of the young novices told me something.”

“You’re friends with novices now?” Gyuvin teases.

“She’s not my friend, she just… talks to me sometimes,” she murmurs, stirring her soup. “They’re lonely people. But that’s not the point.”

Hanbin glances toward the table where his parents are sitting, laughing softly at something Matthew’s father just said.

“She says the nuns whisper all kinds of things—that they’re not as innocent as they seem,” Gyuvin snorts, and Hanbin widens his eyes. Weren’t they all under God’s commandment? Gossiping was a sin.

“Apparently,” Yaebin continues, lowering her voice, “there was another boy, when the town was much smaller, who disappeared too. Jiwoong, I think his name was. Many winters ago.”
Hanbin frowns. He’s never heard the name.

“He came with his family after being cast out from their old town because his younger brother, Yujin, was rebellious and disobedient at church. It got so bad they had to leave, and they arrived here,” she goes on, her words almost a whisper now, “Pastor Song—the one before ours—changed Yujin completely. He became devoted to church. But Jiwoong started acting strange, stopped attending mass, kind of like Yujin had back in their town.”

Hanbin knows of Pastor Song Youngsoo, the man who had built their church into a larger community. But that was many years ago, even before his parents were born.

“Their parents thought they carried a curse, because both their children had problems. One night, Jiwoong fought with his mother and ran off. She thought he was just going to the field, but when she saw him near the forest, it was already too late. He’d gone in.”

Hanbin looks at Areum, she’s listening carefully, nervously fidgeting with her hands.

“They didn’t look for him,” she adds, almost trembling now, “they just prayed and prayed so their son would return. Yujin began losing his mind. He said his brother called him at night, asked him to join him in the woods.”

“How do you know it’s true and not just another story?” Matthew mutters. “I remember sister Elizabeth telling us when we were kids that there was a witch in the forest so we wouldn’t go near it, and she laughed at us when we believed her.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s true,” Yaebin admits, “but I asked another sister about it, and she told me never to mention Jiwoong’s name again.”

Gyuvin sits up straighter. “Then what happened?”

“Yujin lost his mind completely,” she whispers. “A little bit like Taerae’s brother, just worse. He’d run toward the forest screaming his brother’s name, saying he wanted to join him. It got so bad Pastor Song tried to exorcise him, but she says it didn’t work. He only got injured, so they locked him away in one of the church rooms.”

“And one day, Jiwoong came back. He walked across the field, stumbling, like he was drunk. He fainted before reaching the church. Some men carried him to the nurse’s home—he was trembling and burning with fever, muttering strange words. Maria says the nuns were horrified when they undressed him to clean him. He had cuts all over his body, strange shapes no one could understand. The blood was dry, like he’d been wounded days before. He had bite marks on his neck, and bruises everywhere.”

Hanbin swallows. He remembers something awfully similar.

“They tried to touch him,” she murmurs, “but his skin burned to the touch. So they left him there through the night, while his parents begged the pastor to do something. But he said Jiwoong had no chance. That he was possessed. The next morning both of them were gone. No one saw them again.”

“And his parents?” his sister asks.

Yaebin shrugs her shoulders. “They left town. Everyone started believing they carried a curse too, and Pastor Song didn’t want to help them anymore.”

“Isn’t that… wrong?” Gyuvin asks quietly. “I can’t think of our pastor doing the same to anyone. He’s good.”

“Sometimes not even the faithful can fight what they don’t understand,” Yaebin says softly. “There are things prayers can’t reach, no matter how loud.” She finally picks up her spoon, stirring the soup before taking a small sip. “We know that now.”

“God’s strength is greater than any darkness,” Hanbin murmurs, though the words feel more like something he’s trying to believe.

“This sounds like another story to scare us into behaving,” Matthew mutters, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

They don’t speak for the rest of the night, instead they just listen to their parents talk, the nuns hurriedly giving a bread they baked to everyone. Hanbin doesn’t feel the warmth of the fire again, his limbs cold as the wind blows outside.

“Areum,” he hears his mother calling for his sister after a while. “Let’s clean up.”

Both his sister and Matthew take the plates on the table, walking towards the small kitchen the room has.

His father gets up from where he’s sitting and starts picking up the chairs, and the other men follow him.

Before they leave, the pastor calls them for a last prayer. They gather in a circle, hands brushing together as they take each other’s, heads bowed, eyes closed.

“Lord,” the pastor begins, his voice calm yet carrying through the quiet, candle-lit room, “on this holy night, we gather to celebrate the birth of your Son, grateful for the warmth of our homes, the love of our families, and the joy that even the coldest winter cannot take from us. Guide us through the shadows of doubt and fear, protect us from what we cannot see, and help us to hold faith in our hearts, even when the world seems uncertain.”

He pauses, only the faint crackle of the fire and the soft wind tapping the windows accompanying him.

“Grant us peace this night, Lord, and let your mercy reach those who suffer, those whose hearts are troubled, whose paths we cannot understand. Watch over the children, guide the lost, and remind us that your light, though it may be hidden in darkness, never abandons those who seek it.”

Everyone whispers amen, his mother pats him on the back, and Areum hugs their father tightly.

The soft chatter around him feels distant, and even amidst the warm glow of Christmas, the story that Yaebin told them of boys who vanished into nothing presses painfully against his chest, his heart pounding so hard it’s all he can hear.

⛧

When the leaves start to fall, Hanbin always remembers one night — the only one that refuses to fade no matter how many seasons go by. He’s managed to keep it buried most of the time, filling his mind with anything that keeps him from thinking, trying to find a wife, praying in the holy place of the town, reading until his eyes sting and blur.

It has been four springs since the one when he last saw Taerae. Four springs he’s managed to keep himself from wandering too far in thought. Four springs since he hasn’t stepped a single foot past the wide field, holding on to his father’s warning like scripture.

His knees have bled, his eyes have filled with tears, and his elbows bruised from kneeling too long, begging God to grant him the grace to understand what his eyes had witnessed that night, but his prayers remain unanswered.

After Christmas, when he first learned about Jiwoong’s story, nothing unusual followed. The town seemed to settle into a still, quiet peace. Taerae’s disappearance had caused a momentous chaos, yet the people were as united, as devout, as ever.

Hanbin began looking for a wife among the young women who were neither novices nor bound to their families, as custom demanded. He was old enough now to find someone to share his years with, to build his own family in the same town that had seen him grow into the man he was.

Matthew had already married not long before, a kind, gentle girl, all faith and soft words, devoted to her husband and to God. When Hanbin watched his friend speak his vows beneath the eyes of the Lord, he felt his parents’ glances on him, their quiet questions pressing without words — why hadn’t he found a good girl yet?

The truth was he hadn’t thought about it. He lived too deep inside himself, too consumed by reading or praying, to imagine giving his heart to anyone. But he understood. There were duties expected of him, and he would fulfill them, even if his heart wasn’t ready to.

At times, he had found himself wondering if maybe his path was meant to lead to the church — everyone loved him, after all. He was the perfect son, the perfect brother. Obedient, humble, fearful of God’s fury, always eager to please his parents and follow their will. Even if he hadn’t made many friends growing up, people still found a way to reach him, to ask for help, because he was good like that, kind, reliable, almost saint-like in the eyes of the elders. The old women would ruffle his hair and tell him how they wished their grandchildren would grow to be just like him. He still sometimes helped his father chop wood, the men praising his strength, saying he’d make a fine builder for the town. He wonders if they would think the same about him if they knew what he did. So maybe, if he learned under the pastor’s guidance, he could one day take his place, to serve the Lord as he was meant to.

But that was not the case at all. Hanbin had always been curious about the world, too restless to be completely and fully devoted to the church. He loved God with all his heart, but the church was more like a place to hide his fears and doubts than a home.

So that’s how he began to find himself in small gatherings more often than not; at the houses of townsfolk kind enough to share their food and wine, to tell stories and sing songs that spoke of the Lord. He had never been particularly invested in other people’s lives, but lately, he felt a quiet pressure to be.

Matthew often hosted small dinners since he’d gotten married, inviting his sister and her husband, Gyuvin, Hanbin, Gunwook —a young boy who had started helping at church now that the older ones didn’t anymore— and a few others from town. Sometimes it’d be inside his small wooden house if the night was cold, and others, like tonight, they’d build a big bonfire under the stars.

“How have you been, Hanbin?” Yaebin asked softly, sitting beside him on the log. “We don’t see you as often anymore.”

“You two have your own families now, Yaebin,” he said, smiling at her. “That’s why we haven’t seen each other much.”

“That’s true,” she laughed quietly, glancing toward the man she’d married —Dongho, Hanbin thought his name was. “But even before that, you seemed distant. You, Matthew, and Gyuvin used to be inseparable.”

“Well,” he chuckled faintly, “we’ve gotten older. I didn’t think I’d live to see the day Matthew got married.”

“I know,” she said, grinning, “it’s strange seeing him like that. But it’s been good for him, I think. It’ll be good for you too, when you do.”

She stays there for a while before getting up, drifting toward the other side of the fire.

He stays behind, alone for a moment, staring into the flames. The autumn wind had grown sharper, curling through his hair and nipping at his hands. Across the orange glow, he caught a glimpse of a girl watching him, just for a second, before she turned her head away. He chuckled quietly, taking another sip of the red wine in his hand. The cup swayed between his fingers as he looked up again, searching for her face. This time, she was already looking straight at him.

Hanbin smiled sincerely. He was sure he’d seen her before, maybe at Mass, or somewhere around town. When she started walking toward him, he stood up too quickly, almost startled by his own movement. He might have been looking for someone, but tonight, he didn’t feel patient enough to let anyone find him.

He poured the rest of the wine onto the ground and let the small cup fall into the grass, then almost jogged toward Matthew to say goodbye.

“I’m leaving,” he announces, smiling as he glances over his shoulder to see if the girl is still near. “Thank you for the food, Soonja.”

“Why are you leaving so early? We’ve just started drinking.” Matthew shook his cup, and Gunwook, sitting beside him, laughs.

“You’re not supposed to be here, are you, Gunwook?” Hanbin frowns, ignoring his friend’s question. It was true; it was far too early to leave. The sun had only just disappeared behind the trees.

“Don’t scare him off,” Matthew says, hitting him lightly in the chest. “Gunwook is a very responsible acolyte. You should rest as well.”

Hanbin rolls his eyes, annoyed. He had never thought of his duties at church as a burden or some kind of job to endure.

He waves at Gyuvin from the distance, where he’s talking to someone he doesn’t recognize.

The road stretches quietly ahead, covered in dirt that softens under his boots. Hanbin closes his eyes for a moment and lets the air sink deep into his lungs until it stings. He hadn’t realized how heavy the noise of the gathering had been until now, how tired he felt sitting there, pretending to listen. He passes by the Kims’ house. Through the small window he catches the faint movement of their heads bowing in prayer, the flicker of a candle bending with the wind that seeps through the cracks. He lowers his gaze, murmurs a small prayer under his breath, and keeps walking before he can start thinking of anything else.

The moonlight spills over the road, pale and sharp.

He keeps walking, faster now. The road feels longer than he remembers, every house too far apart, every sound too near. He glances back, something twisting in his stomach, a quiet unease he can’t explain. For a moment he’s certain someone’s behind him, but all he sees are the closed doors and shuttered windows, the town already asleep. It must have been the image of Taerae’s family, three instead of four as it has been for quite some time now. He runs his hands over his face. He must be tired. He’d spent the whole day chopping wood, cleaning the sheep stable, doing more than his body could take. That has to be it.

Until he starts hearing a tremor behind him, faint at first, then to his right, close enough to make him halt mid-step. He stays there, still, trying to calm himself down, the air leaving his mouth in shaky clouds. He presses a hand against his chest, feeling his heart knocking against his ribs, too loud for the silence around him. His fingers are trembling. He must be imagining things, he tells himself. It’s just the night playing tricks on him again. When he turns his head to the left, toward the open field, he notices a small rabbit sitting right in the middle of it, still as a stone, its eyes fixed on him, and the hairs on his arms stand on end.

A sudden weight brushes against his side, almost brushing the small of his back. His chest tightens, his bones frozen as ice.

He feels it first as a brush, then as a hand. A feel in his waist, a sudden, cold pressure that makes him freeze, subtle but unmistakable. His body stiffens, his muscles tightening as though they’ve forgotten how to move. A shiver coils up his spine and into his arms. The touch clings to him, pressing against him in a way he can’t shrug off, and for a moment he feels trapped between moving forward and wanting to escape. His chest tightens, his pulse jumps, and though he wants to twist away, the weight holds him, lingering. He lets out a broken sound, something caught between a gasp and a sob, trying to twist away from the grip that holds him still. It’s hard, unrelenting, pressed against him like iron. Then something—someone—leans close, so close he can feel a faint brush at his neck, the ghost of a touch that feels almost like a kiss. His breath catches, trembling. Another hand traces the edge of his jaw, slow, almost tender.

Warm air grazes his ear, and a voice seeps through the noise of his heartbeat, so soft it barely exists.

“Come to me.”

Heat floods his skin. The hold tightens until it hurts, until he can barely breathe. Panic spills out of Hanbin in shudders, his tears hot against the cold night. There’s something burning through his clothes, through his chest, a fire he can’t escape. He’s burning all over, yet the chill of the wind cuts through him, sharper than before. It whips around him wildly, bending the grass in the field, shaking the trees that stand in the distance. The air feels alive, like it’s moving with purpose, like it knows what’s happening.

And then, as suddenly as it came, the grip is gone.

The weight on his body vanishes, the air turns still, and Hanbin stumbles forward, his knees almost giving in. He gasps for air, lungs burning. Maybe it’s the terror running through his veins, or the rush of something cold and unseen still clinging to his skin, but his body reacts before his mind does—he runs. His legs feel impossibly heavy, dragging through the dirt, yet he keeps going, faster, as if something could still be reaching for him.

Hanbin runs and runs, never daring to look at anything that isn’t in front of him. He doesn’t even realize he’s almost home until the faint light of the lantern glows on the porch.

He falls right on his knees, and all the food and alcohol he had consumed just before start to roll in his stomach, making him nauseous. He pukes outside the sheep stable, grabbing the wood penn and using it to impulse himself to stand up and stumbles all the way to the house, almost falling face down to the ground. He barely opens the door when his mother is right by him.

“Hanbin,” she hurriedly gets up from the table they’re eating at. “What happened?”

Hanbin leans his back against the wall, his breath unsteady, the acid taste of vomit burning in his mouth.

“Hanbin?” he hears Areum call, her voice quivering when she reaches him.

“You’re burning,” his mother says, pressing her hand to his face. Her touch moves frantically across his skin, searching for an answer she can’t find. Hanbin can barely focus on her eyes, too dizzy to grasp the fear written on her expression.

“Carry him upstairs.”

His father hesitates, frozen for a moment, then quickly helps lift him by the shoulders. Hanbin barely feels his feet on the ground as they climb the stairs. When he’s laid on his bed, the sheets stick to his back, his clothes are soaked through with sweat.

He shivers violently, every muscle twitching beneath his burning skin. The fever runs through him like fire, yet he feels colder than a night in midwinter.

“Hanbin, what happened?” his mother asks, placing a damp cloth on his forehead. “Did you get sick at Matthew’s house?”

He can’t speak. His lips part, but no words come out. He wants to scream, to tell them everything, to shake off the thing that clings to him, but his body feels carved from stone.

“He’s probably caught a flu,” Areum says quietly, helping to remove his soaked garments.

From the corner of the room, their father watches in silence, candlelight catching the deep lines of worry across his face.

“I’ll make you some tea, dear,” their mother says, disappearing toward the kitchen. His father follows soon after.

Areum stays behind, sitting close. She doesn’t speak, only stares, her brother, always strong, always steady, now shaking uncontrollably, as if something inside him is trying to break free.

“Areum,” Hanbin murmurs, barely moving his lips. “It was something… outside.”

“What?” she asks, frowning.

“Something touched me, Areum. I don’t know what it was, but I felt it.”

A tear slips from the corner of his eye. “It made me sick. It spoke to my ear.”

“You’re just delirious, Hanbin. It’s the fever making you say things like this.”

“No, that’s not it.” He shakes his head desperately, the ghost of a tender touch still lingering on his skin. “I didn’t even feel sick. It was that—something, someone.”

“What is he saying?” His mother comes back with a hot tea, setting it on the bedside table.

“He’s speaking nonsense, mother. I told him it’s just his sickness.”

“Drink this, and by morning you’ll feel better.” His mother brushes the tears from his cheeks, helping him sit up in bed.

He doesn’t try to tell her what he felt, simply joins her in prayer when she begins.

The night drags on with him quivering without rest, and each time sleep starts to take him, he’s startled awake by the faint weight pressing against his waist. Areum stays beside him through the night, watching with worry whenever Hanbin’s uncontrollable shivering grows worse. By the time light filters through the window, the fever finally grants him mercy. Still, he spends the whole day in bed, weak and heavy, recovering from whatever took hold of him.

At night, his father comes for the first time, not even asking how he feels.

“You’re helping me tomorrow.”

Hanbin only nods. He doesn’t particularly feel strong enough to chop and carry wood, but he knows it’s better not to say anything against his father.

By the morning, he somewhat feels better and starts getting ready for the day. He shakes his head each time the voice from that night creeps into his thoughts — just another thing he won’t ever find an explanation for.

When the day is over, his hands are bleeding, calluses beginning to form on his fingers, and his shoulders ache from the constant weight. His father hasn’t said a word all day. It doesn’t bother him, they’ve never been the kind to talk much anyway.

When they reach home, his mother and sister have already left for mass. Hanbin immediately heads outside, washing himself with a bucket of cold water that stings against his skin but clears his head.

“I don’t feel like going to service, father,” he says when he sees him getting ready to leave. “I think I need to rest a bit more.”

His father hesitates, then only sighs and nods before walking out, the door closing with a dull thud.

Hanbin lies down on his bed, closing his eyes. Exhaustion takes over quickly, and before he knows it, he’s asleep.

In his dreams, he’s standing in the middle of the forest. The trees are tall and still, their tops hidden in darkness. A large brown stag stands just a few steps away, staring at him — blood spilling from its eye, a bullet lodged deep into its head. Hanbin’s frozen, the same way he had been that night. The stag begins to move toward him, slowly. Hanbin tries to step back, looks down and realizes he’s holding a rifle. He lets out a small, strangled sound before throwing it to the ground. The stag suddenly lunges forward, hooves drumming against the forest floor, fast and unrelenting. Just as he embraces himself for the antlers to pierce him, he jolts awake, gasping, sweat clinging to his skin.

He barely catches his breath when he realizes someone is knocking the door, a loud thud echoing through the house. Then another. And another. They’re pounding so hard he believes they’re going to break the door down.

“I’m coming,” Hanbin almost screams, though he doubts whoever’s knocking can even hear him over the noise. The pounding keeps going, fast and violent. He walks slowly to the entrance, notices how the door rattles under each hit.

Before unlocking it, he hesitates. His hand hovers over the latch but doesn’t move. It can’t be his family, they have a key to open the lock. Maybe they forgot it, but still, they’d never knock like that.

“I’m going crazy,” he mutters under his breath, shutting his eyes for a second.

When he finally opens the door, the sound stops. There’s no one there.

Hanbin frowns, confused. They had been knocking seconds ago — not just once or twice, but over and over. He steps closer to the doorway, peeking out. The field stretches quiet in front of him, the road empty, not a shadow moving anywhere. At a distance, the other houses look abandoned; everyone still at mass.

He takes a careful step forward, the cold air of the night hitting his body — and something cracks under his shoe.

He looks down. A wooden box sits at his feet, not small but not too big either, painted a deep, matte black. Its surface is smooth, sealed tight.

Hanbin glances around once more, but everything’s still, dead quiet. He picks the box up and brings it inside, setting it on the dining table. It has no initials, no carvings, nothing that says who left it.

He tries pulling the lid open, but it doesn’t move at all. He grabs a kitchen knife, pushes the tip into the corner, and leans his weight forward, forcing it open.

The lid gives way with a sharp creak, and immediately, a stench floods the air. Rotten, heavy, wet. It’s so strong that it burns the back of his throat. Hanbin recoils, covering his nose, his stomach turning.

He looks inside.

A heart.

It sits there, dark and glistening, veins still clinging to it like something recently torn out.

Hanbin stumbles back, falling hard onto the floor. The knife slips from his hand and hits the wood beside him. He can’t scream, the sound’s stuck somewhere in his chest. The box stays open on the table, that thing inside it pulsing faintly in the dim light, as if it’s still alive.

Hanbin breathes in and out, trying to steady the rapid thump of his chest. He stays on the ground for a long moment, staring at the black box, the weight of it and what it contains pressing into his thoughts. What in God’s name is happening? First the other night, that impossible touch, the fever that left him shivering as if his bones were ice, and now this—this thing, this… box. Has he stumbled into something he shouldn’t have? Something that won’t let him go?

But he won’t get defeated. He’s tired of feeling scared and confused.

His legs shake violently as he drags himself upright, forces himself to grab the edges of the box. The smell hits again, more intense now, making him gag. He bites down on his lip, tasting blood.

He looks at the thing again, forcing himself to reason that it’s from an animal. Not big enough to be a stag, not small enough for a rabbit—maybe a wolf, or a fox. He doesn’t even know if foxes live in the forest. He’s never seen one. He grabs the lid and slams it shut, trying to seal the smell inside. Flies swarm around the box as soon as he steps out, buzzing madly, their wings brushing against his hands and neck.

He moves quickly across the field, holding the box as far from his body as he can. When he reaches the edge of the forest, he hurls it with everything he’s got, and it disappears among the trees with a sickening thud.

He wipes his hands on his trousers, trying to shake off the smell, and he feels a brush of a touch against his shoulder. He whirls around, but there’s nothing, just his house, the door hanging open. When he turns towards the woods one last time—it’s there again. The same warmth that had brushed against him that night, the same voice that had crawled under his skin. A hand traces his waist, another the back of his neck, holding him still. And the same voice whispers against his ear, “Come to me.”

He manages to scream this time, forcing himself out of whatever invisible grasp holds him. He stumbles back, steps turning into a jog, then into a run across the field. He trips, crashing face-first into the grass, but fear —or maybe adrenaline, he can’t tell— pushes him up again. The voice drills inside his head like it’s trying to carve a hole through his skull.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Hanbin feels it behind him, too close, almost touching, chasing him. The air thickens around his legs; then it grabs him — unseen claws digging into his ankles, dragging him back toward the forest.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Come to…

“No!” he screams, panic breaking through his throat. “Let go of me!” He kicks, thrashes, fingers clawing at the dirt. Rocks and roots scrape his skin; the burn of it makes him cry harder. “Help! Somebody, please!” His voice echoes into the empty fields, desperate, useless. The pull on his legs grows stronger, heavier, feels long, pointed nails sink deep into his ankles, tearing through his skin.

He’s dragged past the tall grass, into the edge of the forest. His hands flail wildly until one catches a tree trunk, rough bark cutting into his palms. He holds on like his life depends on it—because it does. The thing pulls harder, a violent, invisible tug that makes his bones feel like they’ll snap. Panic tears through him, and in a voice breaking with fear and tremors, he blurts out the prayers he barely remembers. “Lord, protect me. Deliver me from evil. He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High shall rest in the shadow of the Almighty… I will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day. Keep me safe, Father, from the darkness, from this thing—please, Lord, hear me!”

His words stumble over each other, hands gripping the bark so tight it hurts. A sudden emptiness, a releasing pressure. The claws withdraw, as if burned by the fervor of his plea. Hanbin collapses against the tree, shivering, chest heaving, and with every ounce of strength left, he scrambles to his feet and runs, tearing across the field, the edge of the forest behind him, never daring to look back.

When he’s on the house porch, he bolts inside, slamming the door with a heavy thud. But the moment it shuts, the banging starts again, relentless, echoing through the walls, and the voice drills into his ears, insistent and cruel.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Hanbin collapses to his knees, the pain in his ankles sharp and raw, blood forming a dark puddle beneath him. He clutches his head, pressing his hands over his ears, screaming prayers that spill from his lips in broken bursts, desperate. “Lord, save me… protect me… Father, I am yours… banish this evil… deliver me from the darkness…” His voice catches, shaking, almost drowned by the pounding. Every fiber of his body quivers, his tears mixing with the blood at his feet, his heartbeat hammering like a drum, and still the door doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, rocking back and forth on the floor, until a voice cuts through the haze.

“Hanbin! Hanbin!”

He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to open his eyes and face whatever is haunting him.

“Hanbin!” Someone shakes his shoulders, and he recognizes the voice. It’s his mother. “What’s wrong with you?! What happened?!”

“M-mother,” Hanbin clings to her, burying his face in her neck, fingers digging into her arms as he cries like a child. “It’s haunting me. It… it speaks to me, and… it tried to take me. I don’t know what it is.”

“What? What are you talking about?” She rubs his back, trying to soothe him.

“What is it, Hanbin?” His father asks.

“Something is after me. Ever since the night I got the fever… it’s calling me.” Hanbin shudders, tears streaking down his face. “It clawed its nails into me. Look.”

He sits on the floor, showing his legs where the thing should have cut him. But there’s nothing. No blood, no scratches. His skin is smooth, as if nothing ever happened.

He watches his mother glance at his father, confusion and doubt clear on her face—she probably thinks he’s lost his mind. Hanbin would have believed it too, if he weren’t still trembling from the memory of what just happened.

“I think you’re still sick, my son. Let’s get you to bed, okay?” His mother lifts him carefully, guiding him upstairs.

“No! I told Areum the other night too. I’m not sick, and I’m not lying. Something is chasing me, mother.”

“I think you’re just exhausted, Hanbin. Your father makes you work nonstop, it’s normal to feel worn out. But I don’t like this… this strange behavior. It scares us.” Her voice scolds gently, but he can feel the worry beneath it. This isn’t his fault.

“But I’m not tired. I’m not stressed. I told you.” he sobs.

“Shhh…” she brushes his hair back from his face. Areum enters the room quietly, hesitant. He’s pushed her away these past few days, and guilt curls in his chest like a snake. “Matthew’s wife told me he’s sick too. Probably something you both ate that day. I’ll tell your father to let you rest a few more days.”

“But—”

“I told you, Hanbin. Please rest. It’s the remnants of the fever making you act like this.”

Hanbin doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night. He’s too afraid to close his eyes, the pounding at the door still echoes in his ears, and he swears he can feel the hot breath on his skin, the voice whispering, calling him again and again.

And the worst part is, it only gets worse after that day.

When the sun rises, his fever is back. When Areum realizes he’s shaking uncontrollably, she touches his forehead and immediately flinches at the heat. He doesn’t speak anymore, he just lets the sickness run through him like a punishment.

His mother calls one of the nuns to bring medicine, something from one of the modern cities outside their small town.

“You’re going to feel better with this, Hanbin,” the nun tells him with unwavering certainty, handing him a strange liquid that tastes more bitter than burnt herbs. She does a small prayer for him before she leaves.

His mother brings a basin of warm water to the bedroom, gently cleaning his face and chest, whispering small prayers under her breath, trying to draw the fever out. But nothing works.

When the moon climbs high in the sky and his body finally grants him a few moments of rest, his dreams twist into something darker. He sees a bloody stag, a rifle, antlers aimed right at his heart. The same images play again and again. And he’s always, always in the forest.

Once, he’s walking through the tall trees, the dirt and leaves crunching under his bare feet. He’s naked, the cold air of the night making his skin rise in goosebumps. He walks carefully until he sees smoke rising in the distance, curling up through the trees. When he gets closer, there’s a small cabin half-buried under a mound of earth and roots, swallowed by the weight of the forest. The door is open, and he can’t stop himself from stepping inside.

It’s pitch dark, except for the fire burning in the chimney. In the middle of the room stands a tall table with a dark wooden box — this one engraved with Z.H., in delicate white lettering.

It opens easily. He only has to lift the lid.

Inside, there’s a beating heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Arms curl around his waist, a body pressing close against his back. He doesn’t even flinch.

“It’s all yours, Hanbin,” a low voice breathes against his ear. “Take it.”

His hands move on their own, reaching toward the box. The sound of the heart fills the silence. It pulls him in, hypnotizing, feels the warmth radiating from it, the faint, slick pulse beneath his fingertips.

And just as the heat grazes his skin, he jolts awake, gasping, drenched in sweat. He realizes he’s hard in his trousers, precum leaking from the tip of his throbbing cock. He buries his face in the pillow, begging for forgiveness for fantasizing sin. He doesn’t allow himself to touch his hardness, instead, he cries and cries until it dies down.

The next time the sun is down, he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, the sound breaking out of him without warning, falling off the bed and hitting his head against the nightstand.

“Hanbin!” Areum immediately gets up from her bed. “Mother!”

Hanbin starts convulsing. His body jerks violently on the floor, bones drawn tight like wires. He bites his tongue, the taste of iron flooding his mouth. And the voice it’s there again, it won’t grant him peace. It makes him see black.

Come to me.

Come to me.

Come to…

Come….

When he wakes up, he’s in the same chamber Areum was born in. His head spins, the light from the small candelabrum flickering against the walls. The door is half-closed, and he hears hurried whispers outside the room, loud and tense despite their attempt to stay quiet.

“He’s a man of God. It would be disheartening for him to know his own family thinks of him this way.”

“He’s cursed, Father. I know it— even my wife knows it, though she won’t admit it. Our son’s been touched by something unholy.”

“This is nonsense, Sung. The sisters have informed me that Matthew and Gyuvin have fallen ill as well. This is not an isolated misfortune.” Hanbin can almost see the way the priest must be looking at his father, like a teacher talking to a stubborn child. “I trust you and your wife are praying for his recovery, not feeding superstition.”

Hanbin remembers what Yaebin told them that cold Christmas night—about a pastor who turned his back on those who needed him most. He recalls Gyuvin saying their own pastor wouldn’t do that, that he was different. That he was good.

“But you know what happened to the Kim boy,” Hanbin’s father says, his voice breaking with fear. “He was taken by the devil, we all know it, and our families have always been vulnerable to that. And we’ve done nothing.”

“Evil is real, my son,” the pastor replies softly, but there’s firmness beneath his words. “Yet it does not dwell where faith remains. There is no reason to believe Hanbin has been touched by darkness. He has served faithfully, and his heart has not strayed. What he needs now is rest, nothing more. The Lord’s work is not to feed fear but to grant peace.” He pauses, lowering his voice as if to calm the man. “The other boys are being treated as well, and we have faith they will recover soon. You must not let panic blind your judgment.”

That’s when it sinks in, that Matthew and Gyuvin are sick too. He doesn’t know how long he’s been locked away in the chamber, but it must have been a while. Are they feeling the same as him? Hearing the same voice that calls from the dark? Dreaming of the forest, of torn hearts?

Anxiety climbs through his chest. He wants to run, to see them, to make sure they’re still themselves, but even sitting up makes his muscles cry out. A sharp pain shoots through his lower back, and he lets out a low whimper.

They hear him. The door opens, and his father steps inside.

“Are you all right, son?”

Hanbin stares at the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Yes. I’m feeling better.”

“That’s good, Hanbin,” says the pastor from the doorway. “I’ve spoken with your father. You’ll stay under the care of the sisters for a few more days, and I trust their prayers and medicines will guide your healing.”

Hanbin nods. His father lingers for a moment, but says nothing before leaving. He doesn’t need to, Hanbin already listened to what he’d thought.

“They’re frightened for you,” the pastor says, stepping closer. “That’s what love does, it trembles when it cannot protect. You’ll be well soon, son. And when you are, I hope to see you return to the church as often as you once did.” He places a steady hand over Hanbin’s, his thumb tracing the shape of a cross. “Now, let us pray.”

When the prayer ends, he leaves. The nuns come in quietly, bringing food and the bitter medicine that burns his tongue. He swallows every drop, because strangely, he does feel lighter afterward, as if the fever might truly be fading. Maybe it was all a dream after all.

“Are they both well?” he asks one of the nuns he’s familiar with, as she clears the plates.

“They are stable,” she answers, her tone even. “They suffered the same fever, but it seems to have loosened its hold. The Lord’s mercy is upon them. We believe the meat you all shared was not clean.”

“But what about the others? Everyone ate it.” Hanbin frowns. “Why only us?”

“Not every soul bears the same trial,” the nun replies, still not looking at him. “Some are tested more harshly so that their faith may be proven. Do not dwell on what is not meant to be understood, child. Rest your mind.”

But he can’t. The thought keeps gnawing at him from somewhere deep inside. He doesn’t understand what’s happening and that’s what scares him the most. It feels like the thing he can’t name still has a hand around his throat, keeping him from breathing freely. He’s afraid to close his eyes, because the moment he does, the dreams come back. The forest. The stag. The box.

Every small creak in the wooden room makes him jump. When one of the nuns calls his name without warning, he almost screams, convinced for a second that it’s the same voice whispering again. He wonders if Taerae went through the same thing before he disappeared forever. If that is what’s waiting for him too.

Somehow, the sickness loosens its hold for a while. The church walls make him feel safe enough to breathe again, and he doesn’t step outside for days. His family doesn’t visit and Hanbin doesn’t blame them, he frightened them too much.

It’s his last night in the church when it finally breaks him. Hanbin’s been trying to be strong, to find reasonable explanations for what’s happening to him, but there’s only so much he can take. He’s prayed nonstop his whole life, and he wonders why, out of all people, this is happening to him. He’s been good, he’s been faithful, he’s been obedient. He’s scared down to his bones—but he’s exhausted too.

He’s sleeping. The nuns have left after giving him dinner, and the pastor is gone after their nightly prayers. He told him he was glad to see him better, that it was all thanks to God’s mercy. But Hanbin knows it’s only because the thing has granted him time. That is waiting for him, for the moment it can grasp him with its claws again.

So when he hears the knocks on the door, soft but relentless, one after another, and he tries to get up only to feel his body turn to stone, not even a single finger lifting, his voice dying in his throat, he’s not surprised anymore. Not even scared. Just tired, angry, consumed by a dull rage that has accumulated far too much. He tries to move, to break free, but he can’t. He’s being held down by the invisible force, stronger than him, stronger than medicine, stronger than every desperate plea whispered day and night.

The door opens by itself, and from where he lies on the bed, there’s no one. The only candle lighting the room trembles before dying out, something brushing past it. In the pale light of the moon through the window, he sees the cross hanging on the wall begin to sway, scraping against the wood with a shrill sound until it turns completely upside down. A single tear escapes from his right eye, and he feels it, the wicked, the thing that belongs to nothing but the devil himself.

And it calls to him one last time. “Come to me.”

Hanbin’s released from the grip and stumbles out of bed, breath ragged, chest heaving. But the moment he’s on his feet, something yanks him down again. His knees crash against the floor with brutal force, pain shooting up his legs as if his bones might snap. His body jerks forward like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. He tries to resist, but it’s useless.

He feels the scrape of nails along his back, the cold drag over his shoulders, a breath ghosting past his ear, but he doesn’t dare look.

“What do you want from me?” Hanbin manages to choke out, voice cracking into a sob, sounding more like a plea than a question.

The sound that follows makes his blood run cold. A soft laugh, amused, but mocking all the same.

“P-please…” Hanbin’s eyes fill with tears, gaze fixed on the wooden floor beneath him. “Tell me what I have done to deserve this torment.”

He hears the footsteps move slowly behind him, circling Hanbin as if he were an animal that’s been hunted down. The thing waits, patient, enjoying his desperation.

“Tell me!” He shouts, digging his nails on his thighs, a response to not getting the reasons he wants to hear. Then, when silence it’s the only thing that follows his yelling, he whispers, “The Lord is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”

“He’s not listening to you, Hanbin.”

The voice no longer hides in whispers. It fills the room, deep and human, yet wrong in every possible way. It’s manly, rough at the edges, and electrifies his body like a lightning just struck him.

“Are you the Devil?”

The man chuckles, takes a strand of Hanbin’s black hair and strokes it on his fingers, affectionately.

“Come to me, Hanbin. Come.”

The man caresses the back of his neck before his nails pierce through the skin, sharp and deliberate. Hanbin gasps when the blood starts to run down his spine, warm against the cold sweat on his body. He winces, but when the pain fades, the room is empty. The presence is gone. He turns his head, just to make sure—and there’s no one.

Then, the door swings open. Slowly, quietly. Hanbin doesn’t wait to question it. He knows. He’s supposed to go.

He stumbles through the hallway, his hands dragging against the walls, bare feet slapping the stone floor. He doesn’t stop to grab a coat, doesn’t even think of it. The night should be freezing, but the air doesn’t bite, he feels warm all over.

Outside, the field stretches wide before him, silvered by the moonlight. The air is restless, thrashes around him, tugging at his clothes, twisting the tall grass and bending the trees. Crickets cry somewhere far off, carried on the shifting wind. He glances back once at the pastor’s cabin, then presses forward, each step deliberate, without hesitation.

If this is what life is going to be, he’d rather end it. God isn’t listening. Hanbin feels forgotten.

He walks into the tall grass, not stopping, not thinking. Every part of him buzzes with a strange pull, something deep and uncontrollable. He keeps going, guided by it, the autumn light painting the ground in shades of white and blue. There’s no doubt left in him anymore.

Hanbin confidently crosses the boundary between the field and the forest, mud clinging to his bare feet as he steps over rocks and fallen trunks. He looks straight ahead, not once thinking of turning back.

He doesn’t need directions. The smoke curling above the treetops guides him, the exact same smoke he’s followed in his dreams. In them, he hesitated, unsure of what waited. Now, he’s never felt more certain.

As the trees part and the hidden cabin comes into view, he slows, moving the way he would when stalking prey. The windows are shuttered, but light seeps through the cracks, illuminating the damp earth and fallen leaves under his feet. The crunching of the foliage and the wet, heavy air surrounds him. An owl lands above, its claws gripping a branch right over the cabin’s roof.

When he glances down, he sees him.

Tall, hair streaked with crimson, a black robe flowing around him. The fabric isn’t transparent, but glimpses of fair skin catch the faint moonlight. His face makes Hanbin stumble back. He had expected a terrifying face, a demon. But he stands in the cabin doorway, the most beautiful person Hanbin has laid eyes on. Cherry-red lips, thick brows, a scattering of moles, cheeks lightly tinted, and eyes that seem to consume Hanbin entirely. He’s staring at him like a prey, dangerous and seductive all at once.

“You have come at last,” he says, standing tall, tilting his chin with quiet confidence.

The man walks toward him slowly. Hanbin moves to step back, but a low word passes the man’s lips, something Hanbin cannot understand, and suddenly he cannot move.

“You should know by now there is no use in fleeing,” he murmurs, his voice deep and unhurried, stopping just before him. Under the moonlight, Hanbin sees his face clearly at last, each feature carved with a beauty he’s never seen before. “You kept me waiting for far too long, Hanbin.”

The man raises a hand to his chest, tracing it slowly along his collarbone. The nails that had once torn through his flesh are gone, now it’s only the soft drag of skin against skin, gliding until it rests on his throat. Hanbin’s breath catches.

“Are you going to kill me?”

A low laugh escapes him, tender but empty, echoing in the quiet. There’s no warmth in it, only a dark kind of fondness.

“No,” he replies, almost gently. “I never wished for your death. I want you. Do you still not understand?”

Hanbin’s voice trembles, but he meets his eyes. “But I don’t want this. I never did anything to deserve this madness.”

A faint smile curves the man’s lips, sharp as a blade. “Yet you stand here. You came when I called.”

His hand rises to Hanbin’s cheek, thumb brushing his skin with something that feels too human, too tender for what he is.

“W-Why?” Hanbin breathes. “Why me? Why all this suffering?” The words fall heavy, trembling between them. The man’s breath grazes his lips, they are so close their noses meet with a single motion.

“Your suffering was not without design,” he murmurs. “It was the path that led you here. I have remained with you for so long, even when you believed yourself alone. Love is not a matter governed by reason.”

Hanbin trembles. He does not know love. But he’s sure it’s not like this. “T-the dreams… the heart—” his voice falters, his chest heaving. “You buried your claws in me.” He tries to sound composed, but the tremor in his voice betrays him; he shakes as though he’s in the middle of a winter night.

“You only needed a little push to let it all breathe.”

Hanbin says nothing. There’s nothing left in him that can shape words. He never thought he would come this far, to stand face to face with something so beautiful, so graceful, and yet so utterly wrong. He had come here to die. And he’s been talked like he’s some kind of toy.

“The box,” he finally whispers. “It had initials engraved.” His eyes search his face, desperate for an answer.

“Yes.” A subtle smirk curves his lips as his hands cradle Hanbin’s face. “Zhang Hao.”

The sound of the name sends a chill down Hanbin’s spine. He remembers the Z and the H carved into the wood, the pulse of the heart inside, and the way he had awoken that night, shamed by a desire he couldn’t explain.

“You’re the devil.” Hanbin says with tremor in his voice, scared that his suspicions are true.

Zhang Hao truly laughs this time, throws his head back and the sound fills the forest. “I am not the devil, Hanbin,” he says, almost sweetly. “I make deals with him.”

Hanbin’s eyes widen, and the blood drains from his face.

“Have you ever heard the stories?” Zhang Hao continues, stepping closer, his tone light, conversational, as if discussing a matter of faith. “The ones about this forest. The parents warn their children not to wander too far. The boys who vanish as though they never drew breath. Of wicked witches who swallow souls.” He has heard them his whole life. And then it sinks in. Jiwoong. Yujin. Taerae.

“Y-you, you took them,” he stammers. “Taerae… I saw him.”

“Taerae wasn’t mine to take.” Zhang Hao’s lips curl in a faint, wicked smile. “Jiwoong, on the other hand… he did not resist. Not like you have.”

Hanbin’s throat closes. He feels his knees weaken beneath him. The stories, the whispers, the nights of fear, it had always been him. Zhang Hao.

“You need not understand, Hanbin,” Zhang Hao murmurs, voice smooth and deliberate, like silk drawn across a blade. “All that is required of you is surrender. I have desired nothing else since the first time I laid eyes upon you. The prettiest boy since the day you were born. Even then I knew I was going to have you. ” His hand moves slowly across Hanbin’s face.

Fingertips trace the arch of his brows, the bridge of his nose, the shape of his lips. Hanbin trembles, his breath caught; he almost parts his mouth before Zhang Hao withdraws his touch. Instead, he presses a chaste kiss to his lips, then presses their foreheads together.

The witch takes his hand, and Hanbin follows without protest, his body drained of strength, his mind a blur between fear and spellbound submission.

Inside, the cabin is the same as his dreams. The fire crackles in the chimney, casting shadows that dance over the walls. Shelves line every corner, glass vials filled with thick liquids, jars holding nameless things, tomes so old their spines have turned to dust. A table stands at the center, cluttered with open books, withered flowers, dried herbs. And there, carved into the wooden floor, lies a pentagram of black ash, five candles marking its points.

Hanbin feels Zhang Hao’s gaze burn into his skin before a firm hand presses against his lower back, guiding him forward until he stands within the star.

“You see,” Zhang Hao begins, circling him like a slow-moving shadow, “they all wanted you.” His voice almost purrs, soft yet filled with malice. With a flick of his fingers, the candles ignite one by one, their flames rising with a hiss. “Even Yujin whispered to me once, asking if he could keep you for himself.” He lets out a faint chuckle, low and bitter. “And Quanrui… ah, Quanrui desired two pretty things, said he wished to break them both. But I could not let anyone else have you.”

Zhang Hao laughs quietly, the sound low, pleased, and never lifts his eyes from the open book. Hanbin’s body grows unbearably hot, as if something inside him were waking from a long sleep. Before he tries to walk out, Zhang Hao forces him down again. Hanbin’s knees hit the floor, and the witch kneels before him, just outside the star.

“Do not resist, Hanbin,” he murmurs, slow and steady, like he’s delivering a promise. “You have wished for more than the life they shoved into your hands. Have you not longed for a world that would open itself to your hunger? For a table that never empties? For a life that is not chained to dirt and sermons?”

Hanbin gasps. It feels as though someone is prying his ribs apart, right over his heart, a pressure so deep it steals his breath.

Zhang Hao leans closer, voice lowering to something intimate, coaxing.

“I can give you everything you want. Warm bread, sweet fruit, silk on your skin, nights without fear. All of it laid at your feet if you simply take what is yours. You were not born to starve, Hanbin. Let me satiate your hunger.”

Hanbin closes his eyes, breath catching as he tries to anchor himself in the rising heat under his skin. He knows this feeling—the longing that has followed him since childhood in that cramped town. He has always wanted more. More than the dirt roads, more than the routine that pressed his days into the same dull shape, more than the silent prayers whispered into empty rooms, even when a part of him feared he was betraying God by wanting anything at all. He remembers how he hid in books, chasing lives that never belonged to him, imagining doors that would open if he ever dared to push.

But he never did. How could he, when the world he knew promised nothing beyond the narrow path laid out for him?

And for a time he believed that path would be enough. He told himself he could live with it, that hunger could be quieted if he prayed harder, worked longer, kept his head down. That the tightness in his chest was something he would outgrow.

But it never did. And that’s why he was here, in this exact position.

“I-I don’t know anything anymore.” His voice cracks as he shudders, folding into himself like he’s trying to hold his body together.

“Just say yes, Hanbin. Accept me, and I shall lead you into the wonders the world has to offer you.” Zhang Hao’s voice is soft enough to ruin him.

“B-But… what about the others? Matthew, Gyuvin, my family…” The names scrape out of him.

Zhang Hao smiles, serene and deadly. “It’s just you and me. Forever.”

Hanbin tries to cling to the thought of running, to lighting the room on fire, to fighting for the life he still hopes he has. He tries—because it’s all he has left.

But he’s not blind. He knows there is no escaping Zhang Hao.

So he falls back on the one thing he was raised to do. He obeys. He nods, small and sharp, trying not to choke on it.

Zhang Hao’s smile blooms wider, his plum lips curling into something sweet and wicked in equal measure.

He rises from the ground, takes the book, and begins to recite again—but louder, each word tearing through the room like a command. The air shifts. Books hurl themselves from the shelves, jars burst, the cabin groans under the force. The floor trembles, boards splitting open.

The pain hits Hanbin all at once.

It floods his skin, sharp and climbing, forcing a scream out of him before he even realizes he’s breathing. He looks down at his arms just as blood spills freely, rolling down in heavy drops. His blouse clings to him, soaked through, and he tears it off with shaking hands.

New wounds open as he watches—thin, deliberate lines etching themselves into his flesh. They form shapes he doesn’t recognize, symbols carved with a precision that no human hand holds. The edges of each cut pulse, skin torn apart and raw. His blood pools and drips onto the star beneath him.

Then the pain surges up his spine. He collapses forward, gasping as something sears into his back—a burning path tracing a star that matches the one on the floor.

Zhang Hao doesn’t stop. He keeps chanting, voice rising, eyes fixed on Hanbin with fascination.

His voice climbs to its final cadence, each word cracking through the cabin like a command. The candles flare, stretching their flames higher than they should, bending toward the star. Hanbin hears himself panting.

Then, Zhang Hao stops at once.

Hanbin collapses fully, his arms giving out under him. He hits the floor on his side, body trembling without rhythm, every muscle seizing from the pain. Sweat and blood mix at his temples. His hands twitch uselessly against the wood. Zhang Hao steps inside the circle and kneels before him.

He brushes Hanbin’s damp hair away from his face with gentleness. And Hanbin feels surrender run all through his body.

Outside, the forest sits infinite, silent, watching. The wind has stilled, the leaves hold their breath, and even the distant cries of nocturnal creatures seem swallowed by the weight of night.

Shadows twist along trunks and roots, the forest undeniably alive, yet utterly still.