Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Long before the roads carved through the hills and the cliffs earned names on maps — before the salt air curled through the gullies and the church bell rang out across the valley — there was Harrow’s Cross.

A crooked slip of land caught between the sea and the forest, older than any deed or record could claim. And for as long as stories had breath, people whispered that this place was different. Touched. Marked. A land that refused to forget.

Stories clung to the place like lichen on old stone. The kind of stories only the oldest mouths remembered to speak, and even then, only when the weather turned strange or the tides came in wrong. They spoke of crimson tides, of moons that hung too low and thick in the sky. Of the Seven Seals, though no one could quite say what they were. A curse, a warning, a promise perhaps? Seven faces, seven seals, seven broken things in a place that never truly belonged to the world around it.

Sometimes, the sea would whisper things into the ears of children — lullabies they couldn’t remember upon waking. Sometimes the cliffs split open after rain, and bones surfaced where none had ever been buried.

And it started with the arrival of two families.

Before English took hold of every tongue, others had come. Driven to the world’s far edges, they arrived by sea in narrow boats, carrying their dead, their gods, and the old blood feuds of the land they left behind.

Among them were boatmakers and smiths. Shamans and healers. Men who whispered prayers to the water spirits before their keels kissed the shore, who hung hand-carved tal masks on the bows of their boats to frighten the things beneath the waves.

The Park family spoke to the wind and salted the earth in the old way. They were shamans, charm-binders, readers of bones. Keepers of rites meant to still the restless dead and hold fast the seals that guarded this place. It was said they could hear the earth’s heartbeat, and when the cliffs wept in storm weather, it was the Park blood that quieted them.

And then, there were the Kims.

Many moons ago, the first one set foot on Harrow’s cross.

A man called Ji-Ho.

A survivor. A slave branded by fire, forced to raise stones for a tribe of men who wielded flame like a weapon and scorched the earth beneath their feet. He escaped on a boat built of stolen wood and desperate hands, landing here half-mad and hollowed by what he’d endured.

It was in that hollow place — starving, broken, with the sea’s salt still in his mouth — that Ji-Ho called upon something. Not a god, nor a spirit the Parks had names for. Something older. Something that moved beneath the world like marrow in bone. It answered him, as old things sometimes do when a man’s desperation tastes right.

It gave him a promise: to gather his scattered kin, to make them unyielding and eternal, and to protect them against the return of those who had enslaved him. And in return, his blood would carry a mark. A hunger. A cost that must be paid in years, in flesh, in others.

So began the Kim bloodline.

Blessed with strength. Cursed with thirst. Something in them no longer quite human. They hid it well, carving themselves into the land, binding their loyalty to one another. And though the Parks mistrusted them, uneasy with the strange stillness behind the Kim’s eyes, the families coexisted — bound by old pacts and older fear.

And for a time, the seals held. The old stories slept.

But nothing stays buried.

The sea has begun to churn strange again — not with storms, but with silence. Nets come up empty, or else tangled in bones that don’t match anything in the biology books. Crows have returned to the steeple and refuse to leave, pecking the bell until it tolls without touch. A baby born last week refused to cry until its first breath was taken facing north.

A woman with salt-white hair woke screaming from a dream she couldn’t remember, bleeding from her gums. Her husband tried to hush her and found her teeth lying in the sheets, perfectly whole.

The cliffs have started singing again. A low, bone-deep hum, heard only by those who live closest to the tree line. They call it the thrum, though no one talks about it loud enough to call it real.

And then there are the symbols — surfacing in the bark of old trees, in the frost of early mornings, scratched faintly into cellar doors long nailed shut. Circles and horns. A flame. A crown. A mouth open wide.

No one dares erase them.

It is not a matter of belief anymore. It is a matter of memory. Of inheritance. Of a pact long broken and beginning, now, to bleed through.

The town wore its strangeness like a second skin — unnoticed by those born within it, felt immediately by those who weren’t.

And it was watching.

Waiting.

For the reckoning.

Chapter Text

“You ever heard the story of the drowned boy?”
Jimin’s voice was soft, lilting — like it wasn’t meant for just one person, but the air itself.

“He lived here once. Long time ago. Before the roads. Before the steeple. They say his mother cursed him when he was born — not out of malice, but grief. A stillborn before him, a dead husband before that. She said the world wouldn’t take another thing from her. So she named him something wrong. Something heavy. A name meant to root him to the earth.”

He leaned back on the bench outside Welbing, eyes on the sea.

“But names like that — they don’t just stick. They bind. And the land here don’t like to be bound.”

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his cup, steam curling around his fingers.

“The boy grew. Sickly, silent. Walked in his sleep, they said. Knew things he shouldn’t. Where the seals were buried. What the gulls were saying. Then one night, the tide went still. Dead calm. The cliffs stopped humming. And the boy just… walked into the sea. Didn’t scream. Didn’t flail. Just vanished into black water like he was made for it.”

A pause.

“They found his shoes at the water’s edge. Perfectly dry.”

Jimin sipped his tea, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

“Some stories stick because they’re true. Others stick because they’re needed. Either way, he’s still down there. Walking. Waiting. That name never did loosen.”

He paused a beat, then smiled faintly.

“Grace liked that story. Said it reminded her of the sea here — the kind that doesn’t crash or pull, just waits for you to make a mistake.”

Behind him, the door creaked faintly on its hinges, the breeze catching the beaded curtain that separated the porch from the shadowed interior.

“She wasn’t afraid of it,” Jimin added softly. “Not the sea. Not the dying. Just the being forgotten.”

He glanced toward the urn.

“She was a good woman. Fierce. Stubborn. Said grief wasn’t a wound — it was a weather pattern. Comes in waves. Some people never dry out.”

A moment passed.

“Her granddaughter wasn’t at the funeral.”

He said it softly, not unkindly — a simple fact, brushed with something wistful. His hands slowed as he turned the urn over in his palms, careful not to chip the fragile lip.

“I remember her, though. Y/N.”

A beat passed.

“We went to school together. She wouldn’t remember me now — not really — but she was always running ahead of everyone. Dirt on her knees, hair stuck to her face, yelling about wild horses and climbing trees that didn’t want to be climbed.”

He smiled faintly to himself, more to the memory than to Jungkook.

“She used to leave stones on Grace’s porch. Little ones. Said they were gifts for the house.”

His thumb traced the rim of the urn again.

“Then her mother left. Took her to the city. We all thought she’d be back by summer.”

Another pause. The smile faded, not quite sad — just quiet.

“Funny how far away someone can feel when they’re only a train ride out.”

He ran his thumb along the edge of the urn one last time, then exhaled through his nose and stepped inside the shop.

The scent changed immediately.

Not floral or perfumed like a spa — but earthy. Lived in. A mingling of crushed herbs, salt, sun-warmed wood, and something faintly sweet and medicinal — burning sage, palo santo, clove. A charm bundle hung over the door, wind-strung bones and lavender knots swaying gently in the air. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with jars, dried flowers, bundles of sticks, bottles of resin, and tattered books stacked sideways. A goat skull rested atop a set of scales. Small clay dishes burned steadily on every surface, tendrils of smoke rising like ghostly threads into the rafters.

This was Welbing, but not the kind you find in gentrified towns.

There were no crystal water bottles or yoga mats here. No soft jazz on a speaker. Just wood, smoke, and the sense that something here sees more than it says.

“Someone called this place a healing boutique the other day.” Jungkook laughed.

Jimin made a face. “Jesus.”

“They asked if you do reiki and sound baths.”

“Tell them to drink nettle tea and mind their own business.”

Jungkook grinned, glancing at a shelf stacked with hand-labeled jars. “You’ve got crow feathers in a teacup and a skull on the till. What did you think they’d call you?”

“I don’t know? A sharman?”There was a beat. Then— “ but I hate the word shaman,”
He muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Makes it sound like I sell ayahuasca and overpriced candles.”

“You do sell overpriced candles,” Jungkook called from near the counter, where he was crouched with a small pile of letters, flipping through the stack like he expected one to bite him.

Jimin snorted. “Only to tourists.”

Jungkook glanced up, pushing his hair behind one ear. A faint smudge of ash marked his cheek, probably from brushing past one of the wall bundles without noticing.

“So do you think Grace’s girl is coming back?” he asked after a beat, a little more serious now.

“She will,” Jimin said. “Not yet. But soon. This place has a way of calling back what it’s owed.”

Jungkook nodded, setting the bundle of letters aside and lifting a small cardboard box from under the table. It was water-warped around the edges, the flap sealed with a strip of peeling tape.

“She gets a lot of post,” he said absentmindedly. “Grace, I mean. After she passed, I didn’t want it getting soaked, so I’ve been keeping it here. Letters. A few packages. Some of it’s… older.”

He set the box on the table gently, brushing the dust from the top.

Jimin gave a small nod. “She’ll appreciate it.”

“I don’t think so. Not if she wouldn’t even come to the-,” Jungkook caught himself. “Sorry.”

Jimin didn’t correct him. Just tapped the urn twice — soft and steady — before reaching for one of the bundles on the shelf.

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Comfortable.

“I hope she comes back,” he said, not looking up. “The granddaughter.”

Jimin glanced at him, but didn’t speak.

Jungkook went on, softer now. “I helped Grace out a few times. After her fall, when the hip was bad. She used to talk about her — Y/N. Told stories like she was still five years old, running barefoot through the garden and naming all the beetles.”
He huffed a short laugh, almost embarrassed.
“Grace talked about her like she was always just about to walk through the door. Like… like she was still part of the village. I don’t know.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Feels weird, but… I feel like I know her. Isn’t that strange?”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once, like he didn’t find it strange at all.

“Not particularly, no. People always leave pieces of themselves behind,” he said. “Not just memories. Real things. Energy. Echoes.”
He gestured vaguely toward the doorway, where the wind tugged at the beaded curtain again, making it rattle softly.

“Grace kept her close. That kind of love doesn’t vanish just because someone moves away.”

Jungkook leaned back, resting both hands on the edge of the table.

“…By the way, I think there’s a badger living under your compost bin.”

Jimin looked up slowly. “Why would you say that.”

“I saw it. This morning. Big. Angry. Looked like it pays rent.”

Jimin stared at him. “You sure it wasn’t just a cat?”

“Cats don’t growl at you like they’ve seen war.”

A pause.

“I’m not dealing with that.”

Jungkook shrugged. “Cool. Just figured if it eats your foot one night, I can say I warned you.”

Jimin sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and muttered, “I miss when spirits were the worst of my problems.”

He turned toward the back room, still muttering.
“Swear to god, if it starts paying council tax, I’m moving.”

——

The path curved in from the left, where the cliffs dipped low and the salt wind carried more bite than breeze. It was too quiet — no traffic, no voices, just the soft rustle of tall grass and the creak of wood somewhere out of sight.

Y/n paused near the edge of the clearing, her eyes catching on the white horse tied out front.

It stood still as bone — tethered loosely to an old hitch post by what looked like fraying rope and sheer confidence. The animal was pale enough to glow against the darker shadows of the trees behind it, its coat speckled faintly with the dust of the path. Long-limbed. Sharp-eyed. Like it had been carved from fog.

She slowed, boots crunching against gravel.

It turned its head toward her, slow and deliberate.

Y/n stopped a few feet away, squinting up at it.

“You’re… very horse,” she said under her breath.

The animal blinked.

“I don’t suppose you come with directions.”

No response.

She glanced toward the sagging roofline of the farm shop — ivy-laced, half-eaten by weather — then back to the horse, who still hadn’t moved.

“Of course not. Why would you. That would make my life easier.”

The horse exhaled through its nose — a wet, unimpressed huff — then turned its head away like she’d failed some invisible test.

Y/n huffed back. “Okay. Rude.”

She reached out, a little hesitantly, letting her fingers brush just beneath the jaw. The horse didn’t pull away. It didn’t lean in either. Just stood there, still as a stone, like it had nowhere else to be.

“You’re handsome, at least,” she muttered, rubbing absentmindedly beneath its chin. “That’s more than I can say for most things I’ve dealt with this week.”

Another beat passed.

“You bite?”

Silence.

“Same.”

Y/n sighed, stepping back from the horse and shielding her eyes as she glanced up the path. She wasn’t even sure if this was the right place. The estate agent had circled something called Alvarez’s Grocer on a crudely photocopied map, then promptly told her that everything in town was “technically walkable if you’re blessed with long legs and no sense of urgency.”

She had meant to find the pharmacy.

But after twenty minutes of winding dirt roads, too many locked gates, and a woman who’d offered her a jar of pig fat instead of directions, this had been the only building that didn’t look abandoned or cursed.

And someone, somewhere, had said this shop had decent food. Or any food. At this point, she wasn’t picky.

She turned back to the horse. “You wouldn’t happen to know where they keep the aspirin, would you?”

Still nothing.

Then, from behind her — a voice, low and southern-slick, like molasses over gravel:

“He’s been a damn nuisance all morning. Kickin’, whining, nearly took a chunk outta my thigh.”

Y/n jumped slightly, turning.

A man stood a few feet away, one shoulder leaned lazily against the porch beam. His overalls were sun-faded, patched at the knee, with the straps slung loose over a pale, sweat-stained shirt that had once been white but now sat somewhere between ivory and dust. A leather bracer circled one wrist, the other hand loose at his side, thumb hooked through a loop in his belt. He wore the heat like someone who’d stopped noticing it a long time ago.

His eyes were strange — sharp, heavy-lidded, hard to place. His accent, stranger still. Southern, but not from anywhere she could name. Like a voice pulled from an old phonograph recording.

“But look at him now,” he drawled, nodding toward the horse with a faint smirk. “Calm as a Sunday ghost. Figures he likes the pretty ones.”

Y/n blinked, caught off guard — more by the voice than the words.

“I— Sorry, I didn’t think anyone was out here.”

“Don’t worry. You didn’t summon me,” he said dryly, glancing at the horse again. “Though if you did, I ain’t offended.”

He pushed off the beam with slow ease and stepped forward, boots scuffing against the dry earth.

“You lookin’ for somethin’? Or just flirtin’ with livestock?”

Y/n frowned, unsure whether to be amused or annoyed. “I was actually looking for the pharmacy.”

“Mm,” he hummed, scratching the side of his neck, where a faint bruise bloomed near the collar. “That’d be down the slope, round the old mission bell. If you hit the house with the green roof, you’ve gone too far and insulted the owner by existin’.”

She blinked. “…Right.”

“But the shop’s open,” he added. “Sorta. You after food?”

She glanced toward the dark doorway. “If there’s any worth buying.”

“Ain’t sayin’ it’s good. Just sayin’ it’s there.”

He stepped past her toward the horse, running a hand down its flank in a motion that was both rough and oddly gentle.

“C’mon, Ghost. You’ll scare the girl.”

He said it like it was a joke. But when he looked at Y/n again, the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then he turned to face her properly. “Hoseok,” he said, offering a hand. “Farrier. Among other things.”

She hesitated a beat, then took it.

“Y/n.”

He gave a nod, a flicker of something like recognition crossing his features, though it passed quickly. He looked her over — not in a rude way, just that quietly assessing glance people in small towns seemed to perfect.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you round here.”

“Just arrived,” she said, letting go of his hand. “Staying up at the old stone house on the cliffs. Grace’s place.”

Another pause.

“Ah,” he said, slower this time. “Hell of a view. Cold as a witch’s tit come winter, though.”

Y/n gave a half-shrug. “I’m just staying up in a house near the cliffs. Old one — stone walls, garden’s mostly weeds now.”

Hoseok tilted his head, the brim of his hat shifting slightly with the motion.

“You mean Grace’s place?”

Y/n blinked.

He gave a soft chuckle, like he didn’t mean to startle her. “Sorry. You’ve got her eyes. Didn’t mean to pry.”

There was something about the way he said it — not nosy, not gossipy. Just matter-of-fact, like the connection had already been made and he was catching up to it aloud.

“She used to come by here,” Hoseok added, glancing past Y/n toward the shop door. “Always left with more than she needed. Talked a lot about her granddaughter, though I figured she’d made half of it up.”

Y/n looked down briefly, her fingers brushing the hem of her shirt.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “That was me.”

“Well,” he said, voice lighter again, “guess she wasn’t lyin’.”

Y/n didn’t respond right away. Something about it sat strangely in her chest — the way he’d spoken about her grandmother so plainly, like she was a known thing, like Y/n should be too. As if she wasn’t a stranger here at all.

She shifted her weight, glancing back toward the road.

“Well,” she said, lifting the paper bag under her arm a little, “I should get moving. Got a few more places to find before things close up.”

Hoseok smiled — slow and a little crooked, like he didn’t quite buy the excuse but wasn’t about to press.

“Sure. But take your time. Town ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

She gave a nod, the polite kind, and stepped back. “Thanks… for the horse advice.”

At that, Hoseok tipped his hat. “Anytime, darlin’.”

As she turned and made her way down the path, she heard him mutter behind her, voice pitched low but amused.

“Goddamn nuisance,” he said to the horse, swatting at its nose as it tried to nip at his sleeve again. “Now you wanna be sweet? She ain’t even your type.”

The horse snorted.

Hoseok grumbled something else under his breath, probably aimed at both of them, then tugged the brim of his hat back down and went right on fussing with the reins.
——-

The shop smelled like rust and old rope.

Y/n stepped inside cautiously, letting the crooked door thud shut behind her. The air was stale but dense, the kind that clung to your skin — a mix of mothballs, leather, and something faintly sweet and rotting beneath it all. Light slanted through the grimy windows in narrow beams, catching the floating dust like ash suspended in still water.

No chimes. No music. Just the low creak of ancient floorboards and the slow, rhythmic tick of a ceiling fan too tired to be useful.

She edged forward.

That’s when the crash came.

CLANG.

A pair of farrier’s nippers slammed to the floor beside her boot. Y/n flinched hard, nearly knocking her shoulder into a crooked shelf of rusted bolts.

“What the—”

But before she could finish, a man brushed past her.

Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Overalls streaked with sweat and something darker — like oil, or dried blood. His boots thudded hard against the warped planks, and a chain swung faintly at his collarbone as he moved.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t say a word.

He dropped a second tool onto the counter with a clang, then leaned one arm across it, weight settling like it belonged there — like he owned the dust in this place.

“That big bastard you sold them’s a headcase,” he muttered, voice low and dry, like he’d been smoking through his molars. There was a Southern lilt in it — not the warm kind, but something old, clipped and sardonic. “Tried to plant me in the dirt three times. Either he’s soft in the head or you are.”

Behind the counter, the shopkeeper didn’t flinch. He was older — wiry frame, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a look that said he’d seen worse.

“You break him in?”

“Tried. He’s got that dumb behind the eyes that don’t quit. Might be easier just to date him.”

The shopkeeper snorted.

“You used the nippers?”

“I used them,” he drawled. “I also watched them bend like boiled taffy.”

The older man finally gave a tired sigh, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. Then, noticing Y/n lingering awkwardly near the end of the aisle, he lifted a brow.

But didn’t say anything.

Because before he could, the younger man went off again.

“You gave me that box of bent nails like you were doing me a favour,” he said, voice rising just a notch — not loud, but sharper now. “Half of them were rusted, the other half too damn short. I’m out there wrestling a beast with hooves like frying pans and you hand me a child’s starter kit?”

The shopkeeper shot him a look. “Taehyung.”

It was firm. A warning.

But he didn’t stop.

“Should’ve trained the thing before you sold him, or at least warned me. You want him shoed, you bring him in after he learns not to try and kill the bloke touching his feet.”

“You said you could handle it.”

Taehyung let out a low scoff — a bitter, humourless sound.

“I can handle it. Doesn’t mean I want to die doing it.”

He gestured toward the tools like they were physical proof of the shopkeeper’s betrayal.

“You want me to work miracles, you gotta give me something better than what you fished out the bottom of the bay.”

Y/n stayed still at the aisle’s edge, pretending to study a crate of dusty jam jars — half-torn labels and lids crusted with age — but her eyes flicked to the man behind the counter, watching his jaw tighten.

Finally, the shopkeeper exhaled through his nose.

“You got the job done?”

Taehyung shrugged, wiping his palms again on the rag — slow, lazy, like he’d already lost interest.

“He’s got four shoes. Whether he keeps ‘em is on you.”

The old man looked like he wanted to argue but didn’t. Instead, he reached under the counter and pulled out a few folded notes, sliding them across the wood.

“You’ll get better tools next time,” he muttered. “Assuming you survive ‘til next time.”

“Generous,” Taehyung said dryly, scooping up the cash and tucking it into the chest pocket of his overalls.

He turned then — not to Y/n, but toward the shelves, like he hadn’t noticed her standing there the whole time.

But she knew he had.

That same measuring glance swept over her again, not lingering — but not dismissive either.

Like he’d clocked her already, and was just waiting to decide if she was worth speaking to.

Or not.

The old man grunted something about checking stock and disappeared through the back, letting the door creak shut behind him.

For a moment, the younger man looked like he might leave too — headed for the door, boots thudding heavy against the old floorboards.

But as he passed her, he paused.

Didn’t look at her right away. Just stood there, one hand adjusting the strap of his bag, the other brushing dust off his sleeve like it offended him.

Then, with the barest glance over his shoulder, he said—

“Y’know, it’s rude to listen in on other people’s business.”

His tone wasn’t angry. Just dry. Flat. The way someone might comment on bad weather or warm beer.

Another beat passed.

He looked at her properly this time. Not curious — just… assessing.

Then he turned and kept walking, shoving the door open with one shoulder.

The bell above it gave a thin, shrill ring — like it was trying to tattle on him.

Y/n blinked after him, jaw slack with a dozen things she didn’t say.

Then, without thinking, she turned and grabbed the nearest thing off the shelf — a pastry wrapped in wax paper, half-squashed and still faintly warm. The kind of thing someone’s grandmother might bake when no one was visiting.

She stepped up to the counter, the floorboards creaking under her weight, and pressed the little brass bell.

It gave a sharp, embarrassed ding.

Too loud in the stillness. Like it hadn’t been rung in weeks.

She glanced toward the back room where the shopkeeper had vanished, then back at the pastry in her hand. It smelled vaguely of apple and something else — clove, maybe. Or whatever the shelf beside it had been steeping in since the 1940s.

The silence stretched.

She shifted her weight.

Ding.

She pressed the bell again.

Still nothing.

Her gaze wandered across the counter, then past it, drifting toward the far shelves behind the glass jars and strings of dried herbs. That’s when she saw it.

Tucked in the corner by the window sat a small, carved goat.

Weathered and hand-hewn, its horns curled tight to its head. One eye was chipped, giving it a slightly lopsided expression — wary, almost. It sat still as stone, but something about it made her pause.

She tilted her head.

The thing didn’t move.

But it looked like it might’ve. A trick of the light. Or maybe not.

Before she could get any closer, the door at the back swung open with a soft groan.

“Oh! Sorry about that,” came a voice, roughened by age but warm around the edges. “Old kettle’s got a vendetta against my hearing.”

The shopkeeper shuffled out — a man well into his sixties, with a long face and eyes like damp wool. He wiped his hands on a dish towel that had once been white, now the color of weak tea.

He squinted at her kindly. “Don’t recognise you. And this is a town where everyone knows everyone.” A grin. “So I’m guessing you’re not from around here.”

Y/n shook her head, offering a polite smile. “No. Just… visiting, I guess.”

“For the Samhain Festival?” he asked, brightening a little. “Most folks come through for that this time of year. Parade, bonfires, bit of pageantry. Gets busier by the day.”

“Samhain,” she echoed softly, unfamiliar with the pronunciation. “No, I’m just here to sort through my grandmother’s house. She passed recently.”

The man’s expression shifted. A gentle hush settled over his face.

“Oh,” he said, slower now. “By chance… you wouldn’t be Grace’s girl, would you?”

Y/n nodded. “Yeah. She was my grandmother.”

He gave a long exhale through his nose, like something had clicked into place.

“Well, that explains it,” he said, folding the towel over one arm. “You’ve got her eyes. Sharp things. Like they see more than they let on.”

Y/n gave a half-smile, unsure what to say. “Feels like everyone’s been expecting me already. I can’t seem to go anywhere without someone knowing who I am.”

The man chuckled, soft and fond. “Everyone knew Grace. Lovely woman. Bit of a loner, sure, but sharp as a blade and twice as useful. We were lucky to have her around.”

He paused, lowering his voice just a little. “Sorry for your loss. Truly.”

Y/n nodded, her fingers brushing the counter’s edge. “Thanks.”

The pastry in her hand had gone warm, the wax paper sticking slightly to her palm. The carved goat still sat by the window, unmoving. Watching.

Or not.

She blinked and looked back toward the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper rang her up without fuss, sliding the pastry into a brown paper bag and handing her the change with a nod.

“You’ll find the place takes some getting used to,” he said gently. “Bit quieter than most folk prefer. But it’s good land. Solid.”

Y/n tucked the bag under her arm and gave a soft thanks, already edging toward the door. She wasn’t sure what she expected from the town, but the quiet warmth in this man’s voice still caught her off guard — like the kind of comfort people only give when they know exactly what grief looks like.

——

The sun had dipped lower by the time Y/n made her way back through the village. Shadows stretched long over the cobblestones, curling around the feet of streetlamps not yet lit. She kept her head down, hands tucked into her sleeves, the paper bag warm against her side.

It wasn’t until she turned the corner by the post office that she heard it.

A voice — high and lilting — drifting from up ahead.

At first, she thought it was a school performance. Something quaint. A reenactment maybe, for the coming festival. But as she approached the old theatre house, the air shifted.

People were gathered outside — not many, just enough to take notice. Most stood still beneath the mossy balcony, heads tilted up. A few leaned against bicycles, arms folded, watching. No one spoke.

Y/n slowed.

The woman on the balcony was barefoot, her dress loose and dark as spilled ink, hair trailing behind her like smoke. She raised one hand skyward, the other gripping the railing, and her voice rang out clear in the still air.

“When the first seal was opened…
I heard, as it were the noise of thunder—
and behold: a white horse.”

The gathered crowd remained silent. Unblinking.

Y/n felt something cold ripple down her spine.

It wasn’t a performance. Or if it was, it wasn’t for show.

The woman on the balcony let her hand fall, the hem of her dress fluttering in the breeze. Her eyes scanned the crowd below, then tilted — just slightly — as if catching something farther off.

Her gaze locked with Y/n’s.

“And Hell followed with it,” the woman said.

Not loud, not shouted — but clear. Too clear.

Y/n didn’t stop walking.

She kept her pace steady, even as the hair on her arms prickled to full attention. The murmurs behind her seemed to dissolve as she passed the theatre house, the sound of the crowd falling away like smoke pulled from a fire.

No one turned to look at her.
But she felt seen.

The path narrowed as she left the main road behind. Houses grew fewer, smaller. Fields opened up — pale grass waving in the wind like the sea come inland. The cliffs loomed near, sharp and uneven, as the sun dipped lower still, bleeding faint gold into the haze.

That’s when she heard it.

A hum.

Low, at first — barely more than a murmur in her ear. Then fuller. Vibrating through her chest like it was coming from inside her bones. It wasn’t music. Not exactly. Not mechanical either.

It felt like… a voice. Or many.
Like the cliffs themselves had something to say.

She stopped. Turned.

Nothing there.

But the hum stayed with her — rising, falling — like a storm circling just beyond the edge of hearing.

And then, from the field across the path, something moved.

Fast. White.

A horse — the same one from earlier, or maybe not. It galloped freely inside a large paddock just beyond the hedgerow, its hooves kicking up dust and light as it moved with a strange, eerie grace. No rope, no rider. Just speed and shadow and blur. Its coat shone almost silver in the falling sun, mane trailing like mist behind it.

Y/n took a slow step toward the fence, blinking.

The humming stopped.

Like a switch had been thrown.

Across from the paddock, nestled just before the drop of the cliffs, stood a house.

Grace’s house.

It looked different in this light — not abandoned, exactly, but out of place. Like it had grown up from the ground on its own. A crooked thing. Watching.

Y/n crossed the narrow path slowly, the paper bag still clutched in one hand.

She reached the front gate — metal, old and cold to the touch — and pushed it open. The latch clicked like a jaw. Grass had grown high through the gravel. A cracked birdbath sat lopsided near the overgrown hedge.

The house was quiet.

No lights.

She stood before the door for a moment, heart tight in her chest, fingers brushing the key in her coat pocket.

Then she slid it into the lock.

It turned with a soft clunk.

Just as she reached for the handle, a voice called out from nearby —

“Oh! You must be one of Grace’s?”

Y/n startled slightly, glancing over her shoulder.

A boy — no, a young man — was standing a few steps down the path to the right, cradling a battered metal watering can in both hands. He had that kind of soft, open face that made people trust him without trying. Dark hair curled over his forehead, cheeks slightly flushed from the evening air. There was something almost comically endearing about the way he blinked at her — as if he hadn’t expected her to exist at all, let alone look like someone his age.

She hesitated. “Uh… yeah. I’m her granddaughter.”

He lit up. Visibly.

“Oh, I thought so!” he beamed, shifting the watering can to one hand. “Sorry — I didn’t mean to be weird. I just… the estate agent mentioned someone might be coming by. Staying for a bit.”

He nodded toward the house, then grinned sheepishly. “Didn’t realise it’d be someone my age.”

Y/n offered a faint smile, still caught between tired and vaguely stunned. “Didn’t realise there’d be neighbors.”

That made him laugh — a short, breathy sound that fizzed at the edges.

“I mean — kinda? Most people out this way are older or ghosts.”

He jogged back toward his porch without waiting for a reply and vanished inside for just a beat. When he returned, he was carrying a basket — clearly assembled in a rush but charming in its own way. A checkered cloth covered the contents, and the handle was wrapped in twine like someone had meant to decorate it and then gotten distracted halfway through.

He held it out with both hands, like it was something fragile.

“I… um. I know it’s silly. But it’s sort of tradition. Around here, I mean.” His voice pitched higher, nervous now. “When someone new arrives, you’re supposed to bring something. Like a welcome offering or whatever. Some say it’s bad luck not to.”

She blinked, surprised.

He added quickly, “Not that I believe in all that — I mean, not really — but I figured it couldn’t hurt. There’s, um, some bread in there. Honey. A jar of plum jam from Mrs. Adley’s garden, though it might be more ferment than fruit by now. And, uh… a candle. Smells like moss and soap, I think.”

He winced, clearly second-guessing every word as it left his mouth.

Y/n reached out and took the basket gently from his hands. “Thank you. That’s… really sweet.”

He smiled, a little lopsided. Then scratched the back of his neck and rocked back on his heels. “Right. Well — I should, um. Get back to my stew. It’s probably scorched the whole pot by now.”

He turned like he was about to retreat again, already halfway through the doorway.

But Y/n tilted her head. “Wait — do you know where the gas meter is?”

He paused. Then looked delighted to be asked.

“Oh! Yeah — yeah, absolutely. It’s in kind of a weird spot.” He stepped back toward her, pointing to the side of the house. “If you follow the stone path there, you’ll find a little hatch in the foundation. You’ll need to kick it once before it opens. Seriously. Kick it. Left side. Otherwise it jams.”

She raised a brow. “That sounds cursed.”

He laughed again. “It probably is.”

They stood there for a beat longer, the air shifting quiet and cool between them.

“I’m Jungkook, by the way,” he added, a little late.

Y/n offered a small nod. “Y/n.”

He blinked. Then stopped, like her name caught somewhere in his throat. His expression softened — almost thoughtful — before he gave a crooked little smile.

“Nice to meet you, Y/n.”
A pause. “If you need help with anything… I’d be glad to.”

She hesitated. Then said, quietly, “Thanks.”

He nodded again, backing toward his door. His hand caught the edge of the frame. “Oh — you should come by for coffee sometime. If you want.”

The offer was casual, but his voice held that telltale nervous note again — hopeful in the way of someone not used to offering things, but wanting to anyway.

Y/n gave a small smile. “That sounds nice.”

And with that, he disappeared back into his house, leaving the sound of clinking dishes and the faint scent of something overcooked drifting through the open window.

She turned back to the door.

Stepped inside.

The cottage swallowed her with a quiet that felt both too big and too small all at once.

It still smelled faintly of dried herbs and lemon oil — like something older than time had been scrubbed into the walls and never quite left. Dust curled in the corners. A faded quilt still lay draped over the old armchair by the fireplace, untouched.

She dropped the welcome basket on the counter and stood there for a long moment, not quite sure what to do with herself.

The truth was, she had needed to get out of the city.

She’d needed space — distance — something to break the constant noise that seemed to live in her bones now. The past few months at college had left her skin too thin, her thoughts too crowded. And when the call came about Grace, it felt less like a choice and more like gravity. Like something pulling her home — even if home had never really been hers.

But this wasn’t relief.

Not exactly.

Just more silence.
And a new kind of lonely.

The kind that whispered through empty rooms and under door frames. The kind that made her feel like she’d shown up too late to everything that mattered.

She hadn’t seen her grandmother since she was 10.

Too many excuses.
Too many texts she forgot to send.
Too many days pretending she had time.

And now Grace was gone.
And this house — this strange, quiet place full of other people’s memories — was all that was left.

Y/n sat down on the edge of the couch and rubbed the heel of her hand over her chest, as if the weight sitting there might shift if she pressed hard enough.

It didn’t.

She let her eyes drift shut. Just for a second.

Outside, the wind creaked softly in the trees.

And somewhere far off, a gull screamed.
—-

Somewhere in Town.

The chairs were already flipped on the tables. Lights dimmed low. A damp rag dragged lazy circles over the bar top, though no one would be coming in now. Not tonight.

Outside, the fog had started to curl in from the cliffs again — not thick, just enough to blur the streetlamps, soften the edges of things. Give the illusion of quiet.

Inside, someone lit a match.

The flame caught quick, flared orange against the curve of his cheek before settling into a slow burn between his fingers. He lit the candle behind the bar anyway, even though he’d be leaving soon. The habit of it felt comforting.

He leaned back against the counter and exhaled, the match smoldering down to his knuckle before he flicked it into the sink.

The glass he picked up was already clean.

Still, he polished it. Slowly. Absently.

The door was locked. The night was still. But something about the air had shifted — faint, electric.

She was back.

Not that he’d seen her yet. But the town had a way of stirring when the right people crossed its borders. And he’d always been good at reading the shift.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Not a happy smile. Not quite.

More like recognition.

Because some things… you feel coming.

Some things you wait for.

And some things — well.

Some things were inevitable.

Chapter Text

The bar looked like it hadn’t changed in fifty years — low-lit, all dark wood and worn brass, with slow jazz dripping from a dusty speaker overhead. It smelled like old cedar and something faintly sweet, like spiced syrup and pipe smoke. Empty, save for one man behind the bar who was drying glasses with the kind of slow rhythm that meant he’d already counted the tips.

Y/n hovered in the doorway for a second too long, unsure if she should leave. She hadn’t realized the place was closing — it was the only light left on this side of the square, and she’d walked toward it on instinct.

The bartender caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow.

“We’re about to close, sweetheart,” he called, not unkindly.

She blinked, shifting her weight. “Oh. Sorry— I didn’t mean to—”

“Let her in,” came a voice from the other end of the bar. “We’re not out of time just yet.”

Y/n turned slightly, catching sight of the second man as he straightened from a low shelf.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscular in a way that wasn’t obvious until he moved — like he carried weight easily, without needing to prove it. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing a sinewy forearm and the soft curve of a dimple that appeared when he smiled.

That smile, aimed in her direction now, was warm — not overly interested, just… open.

“Still got a few minutes,” he said. “Unless you’re planning to order something complicated.”

Y/n gave the faintest shake of her head, stepping closer to the bar. “Just wine.”

The man tilted his head, amused. “That’s not an answer. That’s a genre.”

She exhaled, dry. “Red.”

“Ah,” he said, as if that narrowed it down immensely. “We’ve only got two kinds — both red, both tragic in different ways. One’s sweeter. The other tastes like regret and taxes.”

That made her smile, just a little. “I’ll take the second.”

He poured with ease, sliding the glass toward her like they’d done this before.

“On the house,” he added.

She hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I know. But you look like someone who’s had enough ‘have to’ for one day.”

There was a long beat as she stared at the glass. She wasn’t used to kindness feeling this easy.

The other bartender finished wiping down the far end of the bar, gave Namjoon a look that clearly meant your problem now, and headed toward the back.

Namjoon turned back to her. “You new in town?”

“Kind of,” she said. “Just got in yesterday.”

He didn’t ask the obvious question. Just nodded like that was answer enough.

“Thought so,” he murmured, already reaching for a rag and starting to wipe down the counter. Not dismissive — just quiet. Like he’d seen her kind before, people with tired shoulders and things they didn’t want to talk about. He moved with the kind of ease that said he was happy to let her sit in silence if that’s what she needed.

Y/n took another sip of wine.

The minutes passed slow and soft.

The jazz rolled on, full of trumpet wails and smokey piano, and for a while she just listened. Namjoon had turned half away, working on something under the counter — stacking bottles maybe, or just staying busy — but she caught him glancing at her once, just a flick of the eye to make sure she was alright.

She wasn’t. But it was nice that he looked.

She cleared her throat lightly. “This is good,” she said, tipping the glass.

Namjoon straightened just a bit, resting his elbow on the bar again. “That’s the regret-and-taxes one.”

Y/n smiled faintly. “Figures.”

Her gaze drifted across the shelf behind him, where another bottle sat on a high ledge. Darker glass. A wax seal. Older-looking.

“What about that one?” she asked, nodding toward it.

He glanced over his shoulder, following her eye. Then he chuckled — low and dry.

“That one’s special,” he said. “We don’t open it.”

“Why?”

He set down the rag and leaned on the counter like he was letting her in on something not everyone heard. “It’s for Samhain.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Halloween?”

“Sort of. Older than that. Real name’s pronounced ‘Sow-in.’ Pagan thing. End of harvest, thinning of the veil, all that good stuff. Around here, we keep a few old traditions. Some people say you shouldn’t drink anything fermented after midnight on Samhain unless you want a visit.”

Y/n blinked. “A visit?”

He just smiled, turning slightly like that was as far as he’d go.

“From whom?”

“That,” he said, dimples flashing, “depends what you’ve got coming to you.”

She looked away—too quick.

Not embarrassed exactly, but… something like flustered. She didn’t smile, not outright, but her face shifted in that unguarded way people do when they’ve just realized they’re smiling on the inside. Her next words came a beat too fast, too light, like they tripped out before she could smooth them down.

“That sounds totally normal.”

He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “Perfectly.”

A breath passed between them, warm and off-kilter. She let her gaze settle on him again, this time slower, less cautious.

His shirt was loose but thin enough to hint at the strength beneath — a line of muscle visible at his forearm where his sleeve had bunched slightly. There was a faint scar on one knuckle, pale against his skin, like he’d punched something once and never told the story. His collarbone peeked through the top button, undone. His presence wasn’t loud, but it took up space. Like the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

The front door creaked as the other bartender returned, coat already on. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Namjoon.”

Y/n blinked.

Namjoon lifted a hand in lazy salute. “Only if you’re lucky.”

The guy snorted and pushed out the door, muttering something about getting better tips elsewhere.

Y/n’s fingers curled a little tighter around her glass. She took a longer sip than before — not rushed exactly, but quicker. Like she’d just realized how empty the room was, how late it was, how easy it was to get pulled into this warmth and not know where it ended.

Namjoon noticed. Of course he did.

“There’s no rush,” he said easily, watching her without pressing. “You can stay as long as you want. Not like I’ve got anywhere to be. I live just upstairs.”

He nodded toward the ceiling, then gestured behind him to the far corner of the bar.

“Sometimes I just hang down here after hours, play the piano a bit. Helps me think.”

Y/n followed the motion. There was an old upright tucked into the shadows — half-polished, keys worn at the edges. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now it felt like it had always been there. Like everything else in this place, it didn’t ask for attention. It just waited.

She smiled — barely — the kind that flickered more in the eyes than the mouth. “I used to play when I was a kid.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned back against the bar, arms folding. “Classical?”

“No. Bad pop covers. I think I learned the Twilight soundtrack before I ever learned scales.”

That made him laugh — a full laugh, low and surprised. His head tipped back for a second, and when it came down again, his eyes were crinkled at the corners.

“Well,” he said, “I’m more of a Phantom of the Opera guy myself.”

“Now that,” she said, raising a brow, “is a red flag.”

Namjoon grinned. “You’re not wrong.”

Another beat passed — not empty this time. Just suspended, like the moment between a match striking and the flame catching. The jazz on the speaker slipped into a slower tune, something with a late-night hush to it. She could feel the wine now, warming behind her ribs, loosening something sharp in her chest she hadn’t noticed until it started to dull.

He moved again, slower this time — refilling her glass without asking.

“I’m Namjoon, by the way,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

“Y/n.”

He nodded, repeating it under his breath like he was saving it somewhere secret.

“Well, Y/n,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet hers, “I hope the wine’s doing its job.”

She looked at him a second too long. Then smiled like she didn’t want to.

“It’s getting there.”

Namjoon tilted his head, eyes narrowing — not in a sharp way, more like he was squinting through fog. Trying to see her a little clearer.

“You strike me as someone who’s not just here for the vintage merlot and lively atmosphere.”

She blinked, smile flickering.

“I mean,” he added, lifting his glass in mock toast, “we are the number one bar in town that smells vaguely like motor oil and incense.”

Y/n huffed a soft laugh, eyes dropping to the rim of her glass. “My grandma died.”

The words landed flat but not harsh, like she wasn’t trying to make a moment out of them — just saying what was true.

Namjoon didn’t flinch. Just nodded, easy. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

She nodded too, quiet. “It was a while ago. I just… didn’t come when I should’ve.”

He didn’t fill the silence right away. Didn’t try to rush past the awkwardness of it. Just waited.

“I don’t really want to go home right now anyway,” she added, voice quieter. “So.”

Namjoon took a slow sip from his own glass, then set it down and leaned his forearms on the bar, looking almost pleased — not in a smug way, but like he’d been waiting to hear her say something real.

“Well,” he said, “lucky for you, we have very reasonable long-term haunting rates.”

She smiled — for real this time — then rolled her eyes. “Right.”

He let the silence stretch just a little before glancing sideways at her again.

“So,” he said, lightly, “what happened back home?”

Y/n hesitated, the edge of her thumbnail tracing the glass.

Namjoon caught the pause and raised a brow. “Hey. I pour drinks in a juke joint where the walls are held together by shame and duct tape. I’ve heard some shit. Unless you killed someone, I promise you won’t shock me.”

She smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes again. “No murder. Not yet.”

“Shame,” he said, mock-sighing. “We could’ve used a local mystery.”

She laughed — a quiet, surprised sound — and took another sip before answering.

“I was in a bad relationship,” she said simply. “Didn’t end well.”

Namjoon didn’t speak, just watched her.

She didn’t look at him as she continued. “I don’t really like walking around campus, seeing the same places. Same faces. You know?”

He nodded once, slow. “Yeah. I get that.”

There was a beat. Not quite heavy. Just real.

Then she shook her head like she was brushing off dust. “Anyway. I’m not here to trauma dump on the bartender.”

Namjoon smirked, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Technically, it’s encouraged. Builds character.”

She raised a brow.

“Also,” he added, “I’m not just the bartender. I’m also our in-house wine snob, piano player, and emergency exterminator.”

“Multi-talented.”

“Tragically underpaid.”

That earned a real smile — wide enough to make her eyes crease. Namjoon watched it like he was filing it away somewhere.

Then, casually, he turned and reached under the bar, pulling out another bottle. “Now… you’ve had your sad-girl wine. How about the one we don’t open?”

She blinked. “The one for Samhain?”

He nodded, setting the dark bottle gently on the counter. The label was faded, edges curled like paper left too close to a flame.

“We only pour it once a year. But I could be persuaded.”

“Persuaded?” she echoed, teasing.

Namjoon’s dimples reappeared, slow. “Well, not unless you ask nice.”

Y/n snorted, not quite hiding her smile. “That your way of gatekeeping?”

He leaned in just a little — not enough to crowd, just enough to feel it.

“No,” he said. “It’s my way of seeing how much you actually want it.”

Her lips parted like she might say something back, but the words didn’t quite come. She looked down at her glass instead, swirling the last sip.

“I think I’ve got just enough pride not to beg for wine.”

Namjoon tilted his head, mock serious. “Shame.”

Then he laughed — a warm, low sound that tugged her with it — and the seriousness between them scattered like dust in sunlight. She smiled without meaning to, shaking her head.

“Alright, alright,” he said, reaching up to the shelf behind him. “No pride required.”

He brought down the bottle, fingers careful around the neck like it might bite. Then ran a thumb slowly over the edge of the corked bottle.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping almost conspiratorially, “my brother makes this stuff.”

“What, in a haunted shed somewhere?”

“Close,” he said, with a laugh. “He’s got a winery up past the cliffs. Old family thing.”

She glanced at the label again — worn, hand-stamped. Definitely not something you could find at a corner store.

“Every year, he makes one barrel for Samhain,” Namjoon went on. “Says it’s inspired by an old folk tale from around here. One of those creepy ones nobody tells right anymore.”

She leaned her elbow on the bar, interested despite herself. “Like what?”

Namjoon tilted the bottle so the low light caught the glass. “Ever heard of a Noctenari?”

Y/n shook her head.

“They were said to live between worlds. Only came out when the veil was thin — like Samhain. Not quite dead, not quite alive. Fed on memory more than blood.”

“That’s cheerful.”

Namjoon’s smile tugged deeper. “They had to be invited in, though. Always. Even if it was just a glance.”

She looked at him. “You’re making this up.”

He lifted both hands like he was wounded. “Would I lie to you?”

“You already admitted you’re underpaid.”

“That’s not a lie,” he said, eyes warm. “That’s a cry for help.”

She laughed softly, and the sound made something in his expression go quieter. He didn’t look away, just watched her — and for a second, the air between them felt still in a different way. Like something waiting.

Then he nudged the bottle gently aside.

“Anyway. That one’s not for tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Tradition,” he said simply, voice almost low enough to miss.

Then his eyes cut back to hers, playful again. “But I’ll still let you try some from my personal stash.”

“Oh yeah?”

He reached under the bar, pulling out a different bottle — less ornate, still dark and rich. “Strictly off-menu. For year-round heretics like myself.”

She smiled, relaxing again as he poured a small measure into her glass. The wine caught the light like ink.

“You’re spoiling me.”

“I’m a bartender,” he said with a shrug. “We live to serve.”

He planted the glass in-front of her.

She took a sip — cautious, curious — and let the flavor settle on her tongue. Her brows knit almost instantly.

“Okay…” She pulled the glass back with a skeptical hum. “I see the vampire inspiration. Kinda tastes like I licked a coin.”

Namjoon huffed out a laugh, arms crossed as he leaned back against the bar. “Give it a second.”

She did. And when the aftertaste hit, her face shifted — surprise blooming behind her eyes. The dryness fell away, replaced with something richer, rounder. Dates. Cinnamon. The kind of sweetness that wasn’t sugary — more like memory. Like warmth caught in pastry.

“Oh,” she said, eyes going wide. “Oh, wait.”

“Told you.” His dimples made an appearance.

“It tastes like… like a winter cookie. Or a mince pie, but not the sad kind.”

“Exactly,” he said, mock proud. “Less funeral, more fireplace.”

She laughed, lifting the glass again. This time she drank a little deeper, and a thin drop slipped from the corner of her mouth.

Namjoon pointed, grinning. “You missed a spot.”

She wiped the wrong side.

“Nope—other side.”

She tried again, dabbing just under her cheekbone.

“Not even close.”

Y/n gave a little groan, already flustered. “Great.”

“C’mere.”

He reached across the bar with the edge of a folded napkin, brushing the corner of her mouth — gentle, quick. The contact was brief, but enough to still her for a beat.

“There,” he said, voice warm. “Now you don’t look like one of the bloodsuckers from that story.”

He laughed with his eyes, all dimples and mischief, like the joke wasn’t really at her expense — but an invitation.

Y/n blinked. Her mind blanked just long enough to betray her.

“I—uh.” She let out a breath of a laugh, shifting in her seat. “Right. Thanks.”

Her fingers traced the stem of the glass as she searched for something clever to say — found nothing. So instead, she said the first thing that came.

“This town seems awfully suspicious.”

She looked around — not dramatically, just a subtle sweep of the room like she expected to catch it whispering behind her back. Her eyes landed on a small wooden carving tucked on a shelf above the bar — crude and slightly warped, one antler splintered clean off.

“That’s the third time I’ve seen one of those.” She nodded toward it. “Let me guess. Another superstition?”

Namjoon followed her gaze, then huffed a soft laugh. “You mean the ears of evil?”

“The what?”

“That’s what some folks call ’em,” he said, reaching up to nudge the crooked goat slightly straighter. “Old belief. Said to listen for things that shouldn’t be here — bad thoughts, bad spirits, whatever. The story changes depending who you ask. Sometimes they ward stuff off. Other times they just warn you.”

Y/n tilted her head, squinting at the carving. “Looks like he’s doing a terrible job.”

Namjoon’s mouth curved. “Yeah, well. He’s got half a face and one ear. Cut him some slack.”

She grinned, sipping again. “So what else should I be watching out for, then? Any other town lore I should know? Or do I just get spat out for sitting in the wrong seat or whatever?”

He wiped a glass clean, gave a casual shrug. “Don’t go near the cliffs at dusk.”

Y/n blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

“You asked,” he said, like it was nothing. “There’s a story. Old one. Fishermen used to say if you heard a humming sound — real low, like something big under the water — it meant someone was about to vanish. Could be a week later. Could be a month. But something always followed.”

He said it like a local recounting local nonsense. But there was something in the way he avoided her eyes just then — like he didn’t quite think it was nonsense.

Y/n had gone still, her glass paused halfway to her mouth.

“Of course,” Namjoon added, tone light again, “could’ve just been the wind messing with their heads.”

“Right,” she said slowly. “Just the wind.”

Namjoon tilted his head, one brow raised like he was reading something in her face. “You sure you haven’t heard anything out there?”

She scoffed. “No.”

“Hmm.” He swirled the cloth slowly inside a glass, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a grin. “Not even a little hum? Low and creepy, coming from all directions?”

She shook her head, but her smile was giving her away.

He leaned in slightly. “Not even when you were walking up by the cliffs? Alone? Middle of the night?”

“Absolutely not,” she said, laughing now.

Namjoon gave a mock-disappointed sigh. “Shame. That’s usually when it gets interesting.”

She laughed again — a real one this time — and nudged her glass forward for another pour. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m delightful,” he corrected smoothly, pouring without breaking eye contact. “Ask anyone. Well—” He winked. “Anyone still here to answer.”

She raised a brow, taking another slow sip. “Is that supposed to be charming or vaguely threatening?”

Namjoon’s grin deepened. “Little of both. Keeps people on their toes.”

The wine burned slightly less this time. Sweeter. Familiar. She shifted in her seat, the warmth from the drink crawling up her neck — or maybe it was just him.

“I should warn you,” he said after a beat, wiping his hands on a towel slung low on his hip. “I don’t usually pull out the folklore on the first night. But you—” He gestured toward her glass, her posture, the way she kept watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking. “You’ve got the face of someone who likes a story.”

“And you’ve got the voice of someone who’s used that line before,” she shot back, but her voice was softer now. Less defensive.

Namjoon stepped around the bar — not close, just closer. The kind of shift that changed the air between them. He leaned his hip casually against the edge of a nearby table, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, veins visible along his forearms.

“That wine’s doing a number on you,” he teased.

“Maybe I just like the company.”

His gaze lingered on her then, something flickering in the space between humor and heat.
“I don’t usually say this,” he murmured, eyes dark under the low bar lights, “but you make a good case for staying open late.”

She looked away first, biting back a smile.

“Not many people your age around here,” he said casually, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. His bicep flexed slightly with the motion — unintentional, maybe, but noticeable. “Town’s mostly retirees, weirdos, and the occasional lost soul with a typewriter fetish… Most folks your age that pass through don’t stick. But the ones who do…” He met her eyes. “We tend to stick together.”

She traced a finger around the rim of her glass. “That a warning?”

“A recommendation.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the bar now. “I should introduce you to the others sometime. Then you won’t have to pretend you’re enjoying chats with the local old guard just to avoid dying of boredom.”

She laughed again — a breathy, tipsy sound. “And here I thought you were the local old guard.”

“I’m a relic,” Namjoon agreed, nodding solemnly. “Preserved in red wine and sarcasm.”

Y/n laughed, resting her chin in her hand. “How poetic of you. Is that what it says on your tombstone?”

He widened his eyes. “Not yet. But now that you mention it, I will be updating my will.”

Namjoon stood, circled behind the bar like he was about to leave — then, instead of disappearing upstairs, he grabbed a stool and sat beside her, legs stretched long, ankles crossed. One arm slung across the back of the stool like he was settling in for a story. Or a confession.

“You know,” he said, “when you walked in, I wasn’t sure if you were the type who’d cry into your drink or ask for the aux cord.”

Y/n raised a brow. “And now?”

“Now I think you’re the type to pretend she’s not crying into her drink… until a very specific sad song comes on. Then it’s over for everyone in the building.”

She blinked, then cracked up — too loud. “Oh my God.”

He grinned, dimples cutting in again. “Don’t worry. I’ve got tissues. And noise-cancelling headphones.”

“You’re a real gentleman.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He took a long sip of his own drink, then added, deadpan: “Recently.”

She laughed again, shoulders loosening a little more with each beat. Namjoon tilted his head, watching her. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward now — it was charged. Almost warm.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said quietly.

He turned toward her, chin lifting slightly. “No? What did you expect?”

She shrugged, teasing. “More flannel. Less personality.”

Namjoon clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. “Wow. Coming for the jugular and the wardrobe.”

“Just saying, most men who run bars in small towns are, like…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

“Missing teeth? Married to their cousins?”

“Exactly.”

He leaned closer, voice mock conspiratorial. “I’m only married to one cousin. And it’s legal in at least three provinces.”

Y/n laughed so hard she nearly knocked her wine over. Namjoon caught the glass before it tipped, righted it with a slow grin.

“Careful,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to waste the good stuff.”

“God forbid.”

He reached for another glass, uncorked the same bottle from above the bar, and poured with an easy, practiced wrist. Then, without ceremony, he sat beside her. Close. The kind of close that made the space feel narrower, warmer, more deliberate.

He drank quickly — not like someone trying to get drunk, but someone who knew exactly how much he could take. The kind of man who could put bottles away and still walk straight, still remember everything you said. His throat moved with each swallow, the curve of his Adam’s apple drawing Y/n’s gaze and holding it.

She watched his mouth as the rim of the glass tipped back — lips parted, jaw tight from the chill of the wine. She hadn’t realized how quiet the room had gotten until the sound of his exhale pulled her out of it.

God, his mouth.

She crossed her legs. Then uncrossed them. Then crossed them again.

It wasn’t just him. It wasn’t even the wine — though, fuck, it was strong. No. It was everything.

The ache in her chest that had been there for months. The way the silence in Grace’s house felt heavier than any grief she could name. She didn’t miss college. She didn’t miss the city. But she missed people — the easy kind of company, the warmth of casual conversation, someone asking how your day was and actually sticking around to hear the answer.

And here was Namjoon.

Funny. Sharp. Fucking hot.

And apparently allergic to awkward silences, which helped.

He drank like it was water, lips parted around the rim, throat moving with each swallow like he couldn’t even feel it. Meanwhile, she was three-quarters of the way to wine-drunk and already starting to blush just from the sound of his voice.

Namjoon’s lips parted from the glass. He turned toward her, one arm draped lazy across the back of the barstool. Dimples deepened — not with a smirk, but something quieter. Something knowing.

He didn’t say anything.

Just looked at her.

Like he could see it.

The loneliness. The way she’d come here looking for silence and found herself aching for someone to fill it.

God. What the hell was she doing?

She didn’t know this man. Not really. And yet here she was, cheeks hot, thighs pressed together like some desperate, lonely girl starved for attention. Like someone trying to fill a void with flirtation and wine and dimples that meant nothing.

Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he did this with every girl who wandered into the bar. Or maybe he was flirting — but so what?

She wasn’t here to be liked.

She wasn’t here to be anything, really.

“I should go,” she blurted, too fast.

Namjoon blinked, just once. Then his expression smoothed — that slow, unreadable kind of calm.

“No pressure,” he said, reaching to collect her glass. “Door’s never locked. Come by anytime.”

Y/n nodded. Tried to smile. Failed.

She slid off the stool and gathered her coat. Her fingers fumbled with the sleeves.

Before she could say goodbye, Namjoon was already behind the bar again. He reached low into the cabinet and emerged with a bottle unlike anything else she’d seen in the place — dark glass, heavy in the hand. Its label was pressed with a faded gold emblem she didn’t recognize. The neck and cork were sealed in deep red wax, smooth and marbled like bloodstone.

It looked expensive.

Like Selfridges-in-a-glass-case expensive.

Like this-should-come-with-a-bodyguard expensive.

“I can’t take that,” she said, stepping back slightly, hands half-raised. “That looks like it costs more than my shoes.”

Namjoon’s dimple reappeared — slow, lazy, unfair.

“I’ve got a stake in the vineyard,” he said, slipping it into a paper carrier like it was nothing. “It’s practically free for me.”

He folded the top of the bag once, handed it over like he was offering a secret.

“Besides,” he added, voice low, “it’s a hell of a nightcap.”

Y/n stared at him. Mouth parted. Brain buffering.

He tilted his head and offered her one last smile — not cocky, not sweet. Just devastating.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

And then he turned, already halfway into the storeroom with one hand raised in a lazy wave, like this was just a Tuesday for him.

—

Outside, the cold slapped her straight.

She stood under the awning, bottle in hand, breath fogging in the air.

Holy. Fuck.

Her skin still hummed. Her palms were sweating. Her heart fluttered like a caged thing under her coat.

She looked down at the wine.

What the hell just happened?

The door clicked shut behind her. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second. The silence of the street felt sudden, intrusive — like someone had dropped her into a different life without warning.

Don’t be a stranger.
God. He knew what he was doing.

And she was absolutely going to spend all night thinking about it.

Chapter Text

The wind had that dry, crackling chill that only came after too much sun and not enough rain. It scraped along the windows of Grace’s house like it wanted in.

Y/n barely noticed.

She was sprawled across the couch in her grandmother’s old nightgown — a pale, silken thing she’d thrown over the black lace set she hadn’t meant to fall asleep in. One leg hung off the edge. A half-empty glass of wine balanced on her thigh.

The bottle was on the floor. So were the solicitors’ papers. Opened, scanned, but not really read.

It wasn’t love. Of course it wasn’t.

But something about him stuck.

His smile. His voice. His dimples.
Fuck.

She tipped her head back and took another sip.

The fire in her stomach matched the tight ache behind her ribs — that dumb, wordless grief that hadn’t gone away since Grace died. The kind you drink around. The kind you push into the corners of your head and hope drowns before it spills over.

Then —
A knock.
Sharp. Two beats.

She blinked.

The robe slipped a little lower.

Another knock.

Y/n padded barefoot to the door, the silk brushing her knees, one strap fallen slightly off her shoulder. When she opened it, the night air slapped her — cool and biting.

Jungkook blinked like he’d seen a ghost. His gaze did a quick loop — robe, lace, bare leg, wineglass still in hand — and then snapped politely to the porch light above her head.

He cleared his throat.

“Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to, um. I just… I’ve got something for you.”

He held out a small cardboard box. It had her name scrawled across the top in thick black ink.

Y/n took it with one hand, rubbing at her temple. “Another gift?”

He looked alarmed. “No! No, it’s not—I mean—uh, just letters. People kept dropping them at ours after Grace passed. Thought it was better I held onto them than let the rain get to ’em.”

Inside, she found a thin envelope marked with the seal of a funeral home. Her name. Her address. A date she didn’t want to see.

Jungkook shuffled his feet. “There’s one in there about the paddock, too.”

Her head lifted. “What paddock?”

He nodded past her shoulder. “That one.”

She stepped outside, robe pulled tighter. Wind slid under it like fingers.

Across the road, behind a crooked wire fence, the land dipped into soft, wild earth. Dry grass danced in the moonlight. A lone white horse tore through it — hooves slamming the dirt, breath fogging silver in the cold. It moved like something unleashed. Like something chasing and being chased.

Jungkook spoke without looking at her. “That patch of land came with Grace’s place. My stepbrother tried to buy it off her for years. After she died, he just left the horses. Figured the new owner would say yes.”

Y/n stared, hand gripping her wineglass.

The white horse turned suddenly — head high, chest heaving — and stilled.

It looked at her.

Something about it…

“I’ve seen that horse before,” she murmured. “That patch on its leg…”

It was black. Messy. Like ink spilled across skin.

“I had a My Little Pony that looked like that when I was a kid,” she said faintly. “Same mark.”

Jungkook glanced over, brows tugged. “So… it reminds you of a toy?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean—yeah, a little. But that’s not it.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of how tipsy she still was. “I saw her earlier. At the farm shop.”

“The horse?”

“Yeah. I think it’s the same one. That mark on her leg. Same eyes too.” Her voice dropped a little. “She was staring at me then, too.”

The horse pawed at the ground once. Steam rose from her nostrils, curling into the night.

Jungkook was quiet.

Y/n kept watching. The wind lifted her robe, wrapping it tighter against her bare legs. The hem fluttered like paper against the fence.

“She can stay,” she said again. Firmer this time. “The horse.”

Jungkook gave a half-smile. “I’ll tell him.”

“I’ll sell the paddock,” she added, her voice a bit softer now. She stared down at the patchy grass beneath her feet, then looked up again. “Who does the horse actually belong to?”

“Oh. My stepbrother’s. Kind of.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Not technically. He just… trains them.”

She raised a brow. “Trains them for what?”

“The races. Local ones, sometimes regional. That sort of thing.” He shrugged. “Mostly just keeps them out here till they’re worth something.”

Y/n nodded, digesting that. She turned back toward the house — robe fluttering at the ankles, wine sloshing in the glass — but didn’t move. Her fingers curled tighter around the stem.

“God,” she muttered, staring out across the paddock, “this town is lonely.”

Jungkook looked at her then. Not in the way Namjoon had — not like he already knew. But gently. Almost like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It can be.”

She let out a short breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“You just need to meet some people,” Jungkook added after a pause, voice brighter now — as if optimism could be willed into her like sunlight. “It’ll feel better in no time.”

Y/n didn’t respond right away. Her gaze drifted back to the horse — still standing there, as if waiting for her.

“I’m not so sure,” she said finally.

The words hung there between them. Not a challenge. Not a cry for help. Just a fact.

Jungkook nodded once, like he understood more than he let on.

Y/n blinked, her lashes heavy. Then she shifted the wineglass into one hand and pulled the robe tighter around her body. The silk stuck slightly to the skin at the back of her thighs.

“Well,” she said softly, “thanks again. For the letters.”

Jungkook looked down at his hands, then back up. “Of course.”

She turned. Took a few slow steps toward the house. Her heels clicked softly against the stone. At the doorway, she hesitated just enough to say, without looking back, “It was nice talking to someone, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice warm and a little uncertain. “You too.”

Y/n nodded, more to herself than anyone else. She stepped inside.

The door closed behind her with a gentle click.

Outside, the paddock was quiet. The white horse had stopped running. It stood still now, facing the house, ears flicked forward — like it was waiting for something.

Jungkook stood alone for a while, the box tucked under one arm, watching that strange animal in the dark.

Then he turned and walked home.
——-

The wine sat warm in her stomach, humming through her limbs like a spell.

Y/n didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment, she was curled in the old armchair beneath the window, watching the paddock fade into dusk. The next, the world was different.

Not gone. Just changed.

It began with a sound — a steady pulse like a heartbeat too far beneath the ground. Thud. Thud. Thud. It echoed through soil and stone, ancient and slow, as if the earth itself remembered something it had no words for.

She stood at the edge of a clearing. The trees were not like the ones outside Grace’s house — these were taller, older, with bark blackened as if scorched and leaves the color of rust. The light that filtered through the canopy wasn’t sunlight. It was dimmer. Redder. Like something bled into it.

And in the center of the clearing stood the stones.

They were massive. Crooked. Half-sunk into the earth, arranged in a wide circle that pulled the eye inward. They didn’t hum, not quite — but something in them felt alive. As though they were listening.

And beside them, a boy.

He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, shirtless, skin slick with sweat and soot. His hands were bound in rope and raw at the wrists. Around him stood a ring of others — older men, all cloaked in pale robes with sun-etched talismans strung across their chests.

Taeyang-eul geonneun ja.

The ones who walk the sun.

Y/n didn’t know the name, but in the dream, she did. She felt it like a brand across her memory — familiar and burned-in. She could taste the word.

The sunwalkers were chanting. Low and rhythmic. In a language half-lost to time.

The boy — Ji-ho — stood silent.

Not trembling. Not pleading. Just watching the sky.

Until he moved.

He knelt. Palmed something from the dirt behind the standing stones. And when he rose again, a bow was in his hand — carved from dark, lacquered wood, strung tight. An arrow nocked with a sharp, curved head.

He aimed it straight at the sun.

The chanting broke. The sunwalkers shouted. Too late.

The arrow shot through the sky like a crack of thunder.

And the sun — the too-red, too-large sun — split.

It didn’t shatter like glass. It peeled. It tore.

Light poured out of it like fire. The earth shook. The trees screamed. And the men in white dropped to their knees, clawing at their eyes.

Ji-ho ran.

Y/n followed, though she couldn’t move. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. Just a set of eyes, drifting behind him like smoke as he sprinted through the redwood shadows, hands still bleeding, heart loud in her ears.

And as he fled, she saw it.

The mark.

On his back — painted in ash or blood or both — a circle of thorns ringed around a goat’s head. One horn was snapped.

And the stones behind them burned.

And then — nothing.

Not silence.

Not darkness.

Just nothing.

The kind that stretched wide and heavy, pressing in from all sides like a forgotten memory trying to surface. Like sleep folding back in on itself.

Y/n gasped.

Her eyes flew open.

The armchair beneath her creaked as she jerked upright, the wine glass slipping from her lap and hitting the wooden floor with a soft clink — unbroken, but half-empty. Her breath came fast. Too fast. Her skin was damp with sweat despite the cold still clinging to the windows.

The house was quiet.

Still.

Only the faint tick of the wall clock and the hum of the fridge in the kitchen reminded her she was home.

Not in a forest. Not in firelight. Not watching some boy named Ji-ho run for his life.

Just here.

In Grace’s house.

The paddock outside was black now. The white horse, if it was there, had disappeared into the dark.

Y/n blinked at the empty glass in her hand.

Then leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and let out a shaky exhale.

She glanced at the clock.

6:17 a.m.

Too early for anything, too late to go back to sleep. The glass on the floor caught a streak of dawnlight. She picked it up, turning it in her hands like she didn’t remember how it got there. The dregs at the bottom were dark, almost black in this light.

She set it aside and stood.

Her body felt sore, like she’d run miles. Or maybe it was just the wine. Maybe it was just being here — this house, this town, this weight that never seemed to shift from her chest.

In the kitchen, she poured herself some water and took slow, even sips. The tap groaned. The pipes echoed. This house really was falling apart. Grace had lived here for decades and barely changed a thing. Y/n couldn’t decide if that made her feel comforted or haunted.

She set the glass down and stared out the kitchen window. The paddock stretched long and empty, dew still clinging to the grass. Beyond it, the trees curled into themselves like they knew something she didn’t.

She didn’t feel like staying inside.

The air in the house felt stale, like it hadn’t been breathed in properly for weeks. Her head was still fogged from the dream, and that strange wine had left her guts warm and her mind strangely sharp. Something in her chest buzzed — restless, aimless.

Maybe a walk would help.

She threw on her coat, grabbed a scarf from the hook by the door, and stepped outside. The chill slapped her cheeks awake. The sky had dulled to a flat, mottled grey, like the morning hadn’t quite made up its mind.

She didn’t follow a trail. Just walked.

Toward the hedges, through the field. The paddock on her left. Grass catching on her boots. She barely noticed how far she’d gone until she reached the edge of the property and kept going. One foot in front of the other. Past the fence. Past the old marker stone half-swallowed by ivy. Down where the bramble bushes thinned and the scent of salt started rising from the earth.

She didn’t know what she was looking for.

But she kept walking.

—-

The coastline was quiet.

Y/n had wandered farther than she meant to. Far past the crooked mile marker that looked like it hadn’t been touched since her grandmother’s childhood.

It wasn’t a path, not really. Just damp earth beneath her boots and the smell of salt threading sharp through the air.

She was just approaching the beach when she saw it.

A horse — red as rust — far across the inlet.

It moved like it was made of smoke and muscle, flickering through the mist just beyond the rocks that jutted out toward the sea. A breakwater, someone once called them. Great stones stacked by hand to keep the land from crumbling. She didn’t know why it was there. Why a horse would be on the other side of it, alone. But she wanted to know.

She stepped onto the first rock. Then the next.

The wind curled cold around her ankles.

Halfway across, she paused. The sea looked strange from here. Still, but not calm. Like it was watching. Like it knew.

She moved again.

The moment her foot touched the fifth stone, the world snapped.

Not with sound. Not with light.

Just… nothing.

Then:

Breath caught in her throat. Knees bent, boots on soil.

She blinked.

She was back. Standing where she started — a few meters from the edge of the rocks.

The sea was quiet. The horse was gone.

No birds. No sound at all.

Y/n’s heart thudded once. Then again, harder.

She turned — fast — and looked behind her, half-expecting someone to be watching.

No one.

Only the cliffs. Only the wind.

She stared down at her hands. They were shaking.

Not violently. Just enough to notice.

It was probably the wine.

She hadn’t eaten much the night before. And the sleep — if you could even call it that — had been strange. Too heavy. Too vivid. Her head ached, her stomach swirled, and everything felt like it was one long breath away from tipping sideways.

I’m just tired, she told herself. Hungover. That’s all.

The dream had rattled her, sure, but that’s what dreams did. They didn’t mean anything. Not really. It was just her brain, twisted up from grief and exhaustion and whatever the hell was in that wine. She wasn’t going to spiral over it. She wasn’t.

Y/n rubbed her eyes, fingers pressing hard into the sockets until stars bloomed behind her lids.

When she opened them again, the sea was still there. Still dragging itself across the sand in slow, tired laps, like it had nowhere better to be.

She stood.

Her legs felt unsteady at first, but she ignored it. Brushed the sand from her jeans. Tugged her coat tighter around herself. Her fingers were stiff from the cold.

The rocks stretched out ahead, but she didn’t look at them now.

She turned back toward the footpath. Toward the house.

Toward whatever came next.

One step. Then another.

And behind her, the tide kept moving — like nothing had happened at all.

——

The cellar was cool.

Stone walls, slick with age. A single lightbulb buzzed overhead, casting a dim halo across the workbench. Beneath it, Seokjin turned the cork gently in his hands. The glass bottle in front of him was already full — the liquid inside the color of garnet under the low light.

He didn’t rush. He never did.

Winemaking was a quiet craft. A patient one. And in Seokjin’s hands, it bordered on ritual.

The vineyard wasn’t large. A stretch of land just beyond the ridge, shielded from too much sun. Temperamental soil, stubborn grapes. But that was the point. It had to fight to grow here — and the wine was better for it. More complex. More alive.

He pressed the cork into place with a slow, deliberate motion, then wiped the bottle down with a linen cloth. The label had already been pressed — dark green, embossed lettering curled in copper foil along the edge.

Not many people drank it outside the village. Fewer still understood the name.

He set the bottle beside three others and made a note in a small leather-bound journal. The handwriting was flawless. He tracked it all — batches, temperatures, additives. The seasons. The moon.

Everything mattered.

Behind him, the fermenting vats stood silent in their corners, thick and hulking. The scent of oak and sugar clung to the air, with something sharper beneath it. Metallic, maybe. But faint. The kind of scent that could be chalked up to anything.

He wiped his hands. Turned toward the stone basin built into the far wall. The water there was always cold — pulled from the deep spring below the manor.

He scrubbed his fingers clean, pinkish rivulets curling down the drain. No gloves. Never gloves. You had to touch the skin. That was how you knew when it was ready.

A soft knock echoed from the stairs above. Not loud. Not urgent.

Seokjin didn’t look up.

The door creaked open anyway. Footsteps followed — slow, deliberate. Not trying to sneak, just choosing not to rush.

Namjoon emerged from the gloom of the stairwell, his frame filling the space with something looser than tension but far from ease. He didn’t speak at first, just glanced around at the stone walls, the sealed bottles, the basin where water still trickled faintly.

“Thirsty,” he said finally, almost offhand. “Thought you might be feeling generous.”

Seokjin didn’t turn. He finished rinsing the basin, dried his hands on the cloth, and replied without inflection: “You’ll have to wait. Or find somewhere else to get your fix.”

Namjoon made a face — half grin, half grimace — and moved to lean against the stone counter. He tapped one knuckle against the surface. “Charming as ever.”

Seokjin glanced sideways at him, brow faintly raised.

“How are things?” Namjoon asked after a pause, more habit than concern.

Seokjin returned to his journal. “Quiet.”

Namjoon hummed, then picked up one of the green-labeled bottles. He turned it slowly in his hands, eyeing the wax seal. “You’re still using the copper foil?”

Seokjin didn’t answer. Which, for him, was answer enough.

Namjoon set the bottle down with exaggerated care and tilted his head. “You know, not everyone down at the festival booth can read cursive. That label’s gonna start a few fights.”

“I don’t make it for them,” Seokjin said simply.

Namjoon chuckled under his breath. “Right. You make it for you.”

He let the silence hang before speaking again, tone shifting.

“How’s Taehyung?” Seokjin asked, and this time there was something warmer in his voice. The barest thread of fondness beneath all that quiet.

Namjoon exhaled through his nose. “Same as always. Angry. Doesn’t answer his phone. I saw him the other day arguing with one of the horses — full-on yelling like it owed him money.”

A beat. Then:

“He’s probably off somewhere getting into trouble right now.”

Seokjin’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile, but not quite. “Some things never change.”

Namjoon tilted his head toward the ceiling. “He says the village makes him itch.”

“Everything makes Taehyung itch.”

“True.” Namjoon let the moment sit. “He misses her.”

Seokjin didn’t ask who.

Didn’t have to.

Instead, he lifted a clean bottle and held it to the light. The garnet red inside caught the bulb’s glow and flickered.

“He should come to the festival,” Seokjin said.

Namjoon huffed. “You try dragging a feral cat into a crowd and see how far you get.”

“He might surprise you.”

“No,” Namjoon said, stepping away from the counter. “He won’t.”

Seokjin didn’t argue. He only turned back toward the bottles, fingers moving with the same quiet precision as before.

The silence stretched.

Namjoon lingered for a beat longer than he meant to. Then, without another word, he started up the stone steps, boots echoing faintly against the cellar walls.

At the top, he paused — one hand on the old wood of the door.

“You should come up for air sometime,” he said, not turning around.

Seokjin didn’t respond.

The door creaked open. Then shut.

And the cellar was quiet again — save for the slow drip of water from the stone basin, and the soft scratch of pen on paper as Seokjin resumed his notes.

Namjoon stepped out of the manor’s side gate, the heavy iron creaking as it swung closed behind him.

The cold followed him. Clung to the collar of his coat like something alive.

Though it sat at the heart of the village, the Kim manor never felt central. It loomed behind low, crooked walls and wild hedgerows, built into the slope of the hill as if the land itself tried to bury it. The townspeople still called it the old house, though parts of it were older than the town itself — stone carved by hand, laid before plumbing or paper maps.

But it was the cellar that made it valuable. Not the wine. The way it ran beneath the streets like veins. Long, echoing passageways, carved deep and wide for carts and crates — a transport route, once, for moving goods unseen. It had exits no one remembered anymore.

Except him.

Namjoon followed the gravel path downhill, boots muffled by moss and damp leaves. The main road was quiet this late — only the distant clatter of a pub door swinging open, the blur of music bleeding out before it shut again.

He passed the chapel. The bakery. The old well. Familiar sights, dulled by time.

Then paused.

Up ahead, the village square bent slightly toward the butcher’s, the alley to the right barely lit. A single bulb buzzed above the doorframe of the hardware shop, flickering in intervals like a heartbeat.

And beneath that weak light stood someone.

A man — mid-twenties maybe, pale and hunched over a box of tools, struggling with the latch. One of the new hires from the farm, Namjoon guessed. Someone unfamiliar. Not yet folded into the village the way others were. No rhythm to his days. No pattern.

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Then he moved.

Not quickly. Not loudly. Just… toward.

The coat’s hem whispered against his knees. The air thinned around him.

The man didn’t notice — too focused on the extension ladder propped against the side of the hardware shop. It looked old. Bent slightly at the middle. One of the metal feet wobbled against uneven cobblestone.

Namjoon stopped just shy of the alley mouth. Tilted his head his arms folded loosely, gaze tilted upward now — past the warped metal, past the chipped window frames of the old shopfront — toward the overhead line that stretched thin and taut above the alley like a tripwire stitched into the night.

You wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking. Not in this light. Not at this hour.

The ladder scraped slightly as it moved. A foot caught on loose gravel.

Namjoon didn’t move.

He could’ve said something. Could’ve pointed it out. But instead, he just watched — the way some people watch a kettle boil, or a match burn down to its fingertips. Not eagerly. Just… waiting.

The man hadn’t seen the line. Not by the way he’d tilted the ladder directly beneath it.

Namjoon’s tongue pressed lightly to the inside of his cheek.

“It’s probably off,” he murmured — to himself,

The ladder shifted again. A creak. The faint tick of metal against metal. The guy steadied it with one hand, reaching up now with the other.

Namjoon exhaled through his nose.

He wasn’t smiling. But his face had smoothed into something calm.

The wind picked up — a soft sigh through the alleyway, lifting the edges of Namjoon’s coat. He didn’t seem to notice.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t warn.

The man began to climb.

And Namjoon turned away.

Not quickly. Not guiltily. Just… turned.

Like the moment had passed. Like he’d watched what he needed to watch.

Like whatever happened next wasn’t his concern.

A faint whir broke the stillness.

Not loud. But sharp — like a coil snapping back into place, or a loose wire catching wind.

Then came the thud.

Not a scream. Not even a curse.

Just the blunt, final sound of something hitting the ground hard.

Namjoon paused mid-step.

For a beat, he didn’t turn. He stood with his back to the alley, shoulders still, head angled ever so slightly — listening.

Then slowly, deliberately, he pivoted on one heel.

The man lay crumpled at the base of the ladder. One leg twisted wrong. A smear of something dark near his temple. The ladder, now tipped sideways, rested useless against the bins.

As Namjoon stepped closer, the scent thickened — not sharp like blood anymore, but heavier. Warped.

Burnt.

It hit him low and slow, like something cooked too long over flame. The unmistakable tang of scorched flesh, undercut by the sickly sweetness of fat beginning to melt — like pork left on a spit, caramelizing at the edges.

His jaw twitched.

The man wasn’t moving. His body had crumpled awkwardly beneath the ladder, smoke curling faintly from the edge of his jacket where the current must’ve licked through. The air buzzed faintly still, but the line above had gone silent again.

Namjoon crouched, watching the man’s chest. No rise. No fall.

The smell clung to everything now — his clothes, the wind, the back of his tongue. A smell that turned stomachs. That stuck in your memory.

He reached down, fingers brushing the man’s wrist, then moved beneath the shoulders and knees, lifting him as though he weighed nothing.

As he stood, the full weight settled into his arms — limp, human, still warm.

Namjoon didn’t look back at the wire or the ladder. Just started walking, slow and steady, into the dark.