Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Mockingbird’s Willow”, “Lorewood Forest”, “God’s Sacred Sanctuary”, “Noble Grove”, “Gryph’s Woodland” - many names have been given to it, stretching across centuries of ever-changing generations and eras and alternate worlds alike.

He calls, she calls. He says, she says. He saw, she saw. A forest? A haunted land? An enchanted woodland?

Not bound by the denomination forced upon it by mortal beings, the entity itself has thrived for milleniums, dating back to when Earth was created. The living force pulsating within every leaf flitting in the wind, every root growing in the soil, every flower blooming under the sun, was like a heartbeat. Its harmonious beating rhythm knits every flora and fauna together to weave a breathing soul.

There were those who believed in the mystifying aura of the forest, calling it hypnotic, sorcery, shamanism, enchantment. Deep down in their bones, they truly believed that something special happens within this woodland, entrapping you in its living energy the second you stepped foot inside. Religions were created even, praying to nameless Gods and featureless deities.

Then there were those who think it’s utter bullshit, tutting and shaking their heads at the devotees who passed them, arms laden with offerings on their way to the woods. Scientifically and realistically, there was no way an enchanted forest existed. What would the trees do that was so magical? Do the branches engulf you in a big hug when you’re sad? Does the river flowing through it shower you with fairy water? They’d mock and ridicule, scoffing at anyone who dared protested otherwise.

Regardless, the entity lives - awaiting the worthy beings that would be blessed with its inscrutable magic, in hopes to heal them.

Namjoon gulps with anxiety gnawing at him, but nothing goes down. His dry throat scratches, flesh on flesh, and it only makes him cough. It heaves his body forward as the deep rumble rattles his worn out figure. Trembling fingers settle on the cold silver handle, not emotionally strong enough to open the heavy door. He sucks in his breath, willing the tears to go away.

“Joonie!”

God, he could still hear her giggles echoing in the desolated forest. He stands there in silence, ears listening hard for the beautiful music that always played. But there was nothing. A mum hum, dense and heavy. Whatever happened to the mockingbirds that jabbered away, mimicking her singing? Whatever happened to the crickets crooning whenever she stepped out with her lilting chuckles. Whatever happened to the lightning bugs flitting around her as she dances on the porch barefooted? It seems like the forest was mourning with him.

“Joonie, stop reading! Dance with me!”

Gone was the colourful summer dresses twirling around. Gone was the million-watt smile plastered on her regal features. Gone was the smell of heavenly breakfast wafting in from the open kitchen.

Gone...was the love of his life.

Namjoon chokes back on a sob when he finally cracks the door open, pushing in with a heavy heart. Taking in the sight of their house, shrouded by moonlit shadows, his eyes fly shut. Tears gathered and fell, wetting his lashes and cheeks in steady streams. It felt so wrong to be in here - the house she designed with her own two hands - without her. He shuffles in and could feel the sorrow dripping off the wooden walls of the house.

The taupe panels of wood looked sickly grey, the floor creaked and whined in pain, the air stale and tasted bitter. He couldn’t put a picture of how the house looked just a week ago. Has it always been this dreary? He tries again to remember the better times, when it was sunny and smelled of lavender. But it’s tainted now, his memories. For all he could see is the bleak reality that she was gone, lying motionless six feet under.

“Fuck,” Namjoon sobs out, voice cracking and quivering as he falls to his knees. He braces his arms on the stiff floor, letting his body shake uncontrollably. Thundering his fists down, he screams, “Fuck!”

Life is cruel, God is cruel, Death is cruel.

“Where is he, Abel?” the King’s demand booms in the hallway of the castle.

“I-I don’t know Your Highness. He was s-spose’ to be at tea with the Queen after his studies b-but the tutor said the Prince fled early.”

“I’m not asking where he’s supposed to be Abel,” the King seethes. “I’m asking where the hell he is!”

Hiding in the walls, Jin sniggers in amusement - all he imagines is his pageboy peeing himself from getting yelled at. Unbeknown to his father, he was standing right behind him - just concealed behind a thick wall and not at all eager to show himself. He had gone through desperate measures to extract himself out of the droning lesson - finding his frumpy tutor a bore. All so he could visit his sanctuary hidden away in the depths of the castle that no one bothers to unearth.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” a meek voice squeaks.

Jin could practically hear the page boy bowing a full ninety degrees, on the verge of throwing himself at the King’s feet. Abel has always been the jittery type, too frail to jump the gun and cease the adventures. And the kind that could never keep a tight-lipped mouth in the presence of the King for fear of getting thrown into the dungeons. Jin would roll his eyes and chastise the kid, proclaiming how cowardly he was.

“T-that’s because The Highness is my King! Not my father!” the boy would stammer in protest. “Y-you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh I understand, alright,” Jin would huff out because despite the brave face he puts on, the King still intimidates him all the same. “But I choose not to be frightened by that old man.”

But as much as he would berate and nag at Abel for being a banal weakling, Jin cares for the young one, seeing the boy as a younger brother he never had. It’s just that sometimes, he wishes his pageboy would just keep his mouth shut instead of babbling about every detail of his escapades to his parents.

Deciding not to linger by the walls any longer, he grabs the burning oil lamp and swiftly makes his way down the narrow stone steps. On the other hand, he has his violin case, polished to the bone and made out of ivory. It swings with grace in his tight grip, careful not to scratch it against the rusted iron railing.

The tapping of the heels of his leather boots hauntingly echoes as he scuffles down the steps, making quick work to skip the crumbling grey cobblestone. He’s been through this hidden tunnel so many times that it’s practically innate to him. The musty smell of the old moss, the scampering sound of mice and the dimly lit pathway - they’re all his little secret. It’s something he treasures because being born as the Prince of a Kingdom and living in a castle, grants him no privacy.

Everywhere he goes, there’s Abel scurrying after him with his packed schedule in hand. Your Highness, do this. Your Highness, go there. Your Highness, meet him. Sometimes he feels like Abel’s slave. But that’s not the worst part. It gets even more frustrating when the little maids fret over him on every single thing.

From the first hint of their purple sun rising to their two white moons taking over the sky, the maids are always there. To bathe him, there are at least 4 of the maidens - which equivalents to 4 pairs of hands scrubbing and soaping him. It’s suffocating, to say the least. He couldn’t even bend down to tie the laces of his boot without one of them tutting at him and shooing his hand away.

So when he found the hidden tunnel that led to the desolated part of the old castle, he was elated. Finally, an undiscovered gem he would keep to himself. As the stoned path runs under the castle, the arched ceiling falls lower and lower, forcing him to bend his knees. It slows him down by a second with the awkward positioning but at least his trained leg muscles don’t give way easily. Just a little further, and he could see the ironclad wooden door, the old metal glinting slightly from his lamp.

With full hands, he unbolted the corroded lock. A huge smile already bearing down on him, knowing that his paradise was but a door away. He turns so he could push the heavy door open with his back. The aged hinges whine with a screech while the base of the door groans against the cobblestone ground. A few more grunting shoves and the barrier finally relents, opening like a portal to Elysium.

“Absolutely resplendent,” he breathes in awe as he takes in the picturesque scene splayed out in front of him. His feet taking over, walking him to the middle of it all.

It seems that after the Fall Of King Dalvin - which was led by a thousand wars over a thousand years - his beloved castle was left ravaged and desolated, forgotten by the people. Over the eons of years, Jin’s ancestors, who started the rebellion, built their empire atop of the fallen King. They had a castle erected, ten times bigger and ten times grander than King Dalvin’s, to show how powerful they are.

Now, completely eaten up by the wilderness, King Dalvin’s castle is barely recognised as the magnificent fortress it once used to be. The 200 feet high white marble columns roughed out on the surface, pieces of it chipped away. Its walls covered in moss and algae growing in the cracks. The castle’s ceiling long gone, broken and laying on the ground in big chunks. A phantom of the great King Dalvin.

But instead of dwelling on the forgone flaws, Jin sees the beauty in it - a fantastical jewel, a mystical paradise. He embraced the gargantuan Oak and Willow trees that twine themselves around the broken structure. His heart swells at the sight of the dewy greenery that settled themselves all over the ballroom floor. Stunning rich-coloured flowers bloom in the crevices of shadows, coaxing the darkness away.

And his favourite? The flowing water that gushes down from the steep rocky hill, snaking through the castle’s shattered arched window. Hearing the thundering rush brings about goosebumps, flaring from under his skin. It ties in together like the perfect daydream, when the light of the two suns flood in, bouncing off the shimmering river and the mesmerising flora.

He might’ve found heaven’s Garden of Eden.

The chirping of the sparkling pink mockingbirds pulls him out of the trance, calling out to him for their daily singing lessons. In hurried excited movements, Jin sets his violin case down, unbuckling it with fumbling fingers. He was eager to start strumming his violin and enliven the hushed demolished castle.

Settling the heavy black violin on his shoulder, he licks his lips and watches the flock of mockingbirds already perched around him. “Ready?”

A chorus of unified chirps fill the air in response, all looking forward to mimic his song. Jin raises the bow with a flair, softly chuckling when he catches the birds crane their necks in anticipation. He takes a deep breath and croons out the first few notes to his newly composed song, eyelids fluttering as he feels the melodic tune resonate within him. It had taken him a month to perfect the lilting melody and had decided to play it for the birds as a gift for keeping him company. By his third bar, the pink creatures were already singing along, pitching perfectly to his notes.

As he gets lost in the flow, he strums with more gusto, feet dancing around to the beat. Even the birds decide to put up a show. A couple of them start flying around him, twirling in the air like graceful ballerinas. He closes his eyes to feel the harmonious music bleeding in his bones, a smile tweaking on the corners of his lips.

Is this what freedom feels like?

It’s been 12 days,

288 hours,

17 280 minutes,

1 036 800 seconds.

He stares at the mini calendar standing on his desk sourly, mockingly marking the days that have passed since his wife’s death. “Cats,” he scoffs indignantly, eyeing the printed images of cats with fluffy white fur and big blue eyes. “Such a stupid thing to put on calendars. Cats, of all things.”

Shaking his head, he turns back to face the screen of his laptop, ready to launch himself back into work. But his fingers won’t move, hovering like frozen statues above the keyboard.

“Joonie baby, look what I got!

“Uh...a calendar? Babe, we’ve got a ton of-”

“It’s a cat calendar! Cats! On every page! Look at how cute they are!”

Just hearing her voice echoing in his numb memories gets his fists clenching. He lets out a shaky breath as he peers at the calendar once again, this time with hesitance.

“You are not putting a bloody cat calendar on my desk babe!”

“Why not!”

“Because aesthetics! I’ve meticulously coordinated every inch of this desk to match, and adding that stupid calendar is just going to ruin the feng shui.”

“Don’t call it stupid.”

“I’m sorry. Its not stupid, it’s…”

“Cute, and you’re going to leave it here because that way, while you’re busy typing away in your fantasy land to pay me any attention, this will at least remind you that I exist.”

She had planted the calendar right at that spot and crossed her arms as a show of persistence, daring him to do anything about it. But as always, he relents with a mock of a begrudging sigh. When it comes to her, and her only, he was a goner like an iron gone pliant. He smiles then, fondly, at the calendar.

“I guess this one’s cute,” he murmurs to himself, smirking at the image of an all black kitten with striking blue eyes, poised regally in a pillow of snow.

Jin

“Your Highness, the ladies of the court are vying for your attention. A very pretty bunch I must say,” Abel observed as he tightened the vest, silently advising Jin to wave at the crowd of girls gushing over the Prince.

He sighs, toying with the tip of his needle-like sword. “But I’m not interested.”

“I’m sure the King and Queen would be pleased to see the Prince humour their advances,” his pageboy cryptically says, wary eyes fleeting to the pair of occupied thrones. If he doesn't get the young Prince to obey his parents’ wishes, he knew he was going to end up rotting in a cell. “After all, one of ‘em might be your future wife.”

Jin rolls his eyes at Abel’s attempt to sugarcoat his words. His page boy had a habit of indirectly ordering him around with crafty wordings and flattery. It used to get him running around eagerly completing tasks, but once he figured out about the little tricks Abel’s been playing, he pulls out his own ruses.

“Say, Abel, why do you think girls love to fawn over me?” he wondered out loud, his mouth slyly twisting up.

Distracted by working on the leather lacing of the fencing vest, Abel replies honestly, “Must be your raven black hair and ocean blue eyes, Your Highness. I must’ve heard the maids and ladies alike natter about ‘em.”

At the compliment, he smugly smiles to himself. It was without a doubt that the Crown Prince of the Kingdom was one dashing fella; everyone knew that. Those who have never seen his face could only fantasise about it, claiming that he must look beyond ethereal. And those who have been blessed with his presence all rhapsodize in awe.

“And, what do you think about my raven black hair and ocean blue eyes, hmm Abel?” he solicited, pacing his words slowly as he turns around.

“Y-your Highness?” Abel stuttered when Jin takes a step forward to close the distance between them. He was a full head taller than the young page boy so he towers over him like a roguish predator.

He lifts his hand, startling the boy, before gently using a finger to brush away the floppy chestnut hair falling over his eyes. “Do you like my hair and eyes, Abel?” Jin hums as he leans in with hooded eyes.

His page boy immediately flushes, pink blotches crawling up his pasty skin as he fumbles to distant himself from the flirting Prince. From the corner of his eyes, he could see the ladies huddle together, straining to see what they were doing. Their muffled whispers were heard, filled with gasps and utters of blasphemy.

“Y-Your Hig-”

“Kim Seokjin!” a voice roars from the other side of the room, but he doesn’t turn. “If you’re done foolishly amusing yourself, I suggest you come to the middle and start the bloody match.”

Hearing the King chastising him like that gets him gritting his teeth with locked jaws. “Always so wearisome, father,” he mutters heavily with a roll of his eyes.

Not wanting to show the ladies of the court and the guests his bitterness, Jin takes a deep breath, before twirling around flamboyantly with his head held high. He takes his time strolling to the middle of the room, where his opponent is already waiting with a ramrod stance and a frown deeply carved into his forehead. Too dour, Jin observed, which will prove to be an easy rival in a game of finesse. These burly wooden sticks of men always stumble - they always do.

“Apologies, father,” he muses out loud with a sweet smile as he gives a small bow. “I was only asking my page boy how I would fair with the ladies. Humbly, I would have to contest that Sir Ellis here takes the win with his...hulking arms.”

After his little tease, he throws the ladies of the court a flirtatious wink, accompanied by his charming grin. As expected, the girls squeal and giggle, hiding their lips behind dainty fingers. So transparent, he thinks. So easy to manipulate.

So fake.

“Come now, Sir Ellis,” Jin calls out as he raises his glinting sword to his lips, the pointed end aimed at the high ceiling. The multi-coloured jewels heavily encrusted on the handle, shines with brilliance, reflecting off the rays of light with every little move. “Ready to meet your death?” he hisses cunningly with a Cheshire grin.

“En garde!”

Tick, tick, tick, tick

“Fucking hell,” he huffs out a frustrated sigh as he throws the clock sitting idly on his desk a scandalised look.

Grumpily, with a childish pout, he fumbles to turn the old-fashioned machine off. He felt offended that the once cool-looking piece of antique lantern clock - that he so painfully scoured the net to obtain - is now betraying him.

It’s been 3 hours now - he knows because the clock keeps reminding him - that he’s glued to the seat of his chair, staring wordlessly at his laptop. After missing out on weeks of work, he had decided to pull himself out of the slump and jump right back into writing. But his efforts were to no avail. So far, all he has managed to do was complete his plot draft for the new chapter and wrote out 2 paragraphs - which can barely be called an achievement.

After getting stuck at phrasing the right sentence for the tenth time, Namjoon finally gives up with a grumble. “Ah, this is where you usually come in and start massaging me, you know?” he commented in a blasé way to his late wife. His sobs were muffled when he smushes his face into the open palms of his hands.

All of a sudden, he feels his eyes prickle with unshed tears while his throat is getting too tight too quickly. No, no, no, not again. Gritting his teeth, he presses the heel of his palms down, willing the tears to go away.

“I miss you, baby,” Namjoon chokes out as he lets his head fall on the table with a thud. Like an unbroken curse, a tremble of shuddering sobs wracks his entire frame in retched waves.

Humans are such feeble beings, he thinks. How is it that the human race can be innovative and intelligent yet so weak and hopeless when it comes to the concept of death? We know of the pain and grief of losing someone we love yet we still blindly lead life without taking a second to consider appreciating the person.

Oh, how he has wished numerous times that he could turn back time just so he could tell her he loved one last time. So he could thank her for everything she’s done for him one last time. So he could hold her close and feel her warm body… just one last time. Namjoon scoffs out a laugh as he shakes his head, thinking how stupid he was to ever imagine that life would be easier without her constant nagging. God, would he take her chiding at him for his dirty laundry over this odious silence; any day.

Stupid.

Who was he without her?

Who was he without his beacon of light?

Who was he without his perfect partner?

“Your Highness!”

The shrill sound of his pageboy calling for him halts him mid-flight. He was just about to dash for the secret doorway down the hall when Abel catches sight of him.

“Bugger this,” he mutters with clenched fists as he pivots on the spot, his form rigid as a board.

From down the long narrow hall, he sees Abel scampering after him while juggling his heavy fencing gears. The thick leather vest was haphazardly thrown over the young boy’s shoulder, the round gilded mask was tucked under his gangly scrawny arms and the long sword dangling from the tight grip of his fist. Even with his arm raised higher than his head, the tip of the silver weapon still grazes the marble floor, scraping it every so often.

Hearing the hair-raising screeches of the scratching, Jin whines out in grimace and strides over, snatching the sword before further damage can be done. As Abel babbled on, he inspected his prized sword with a pout, running his thumb over the grazed tip. Great, he thinks, the blacksmith’s sure to think that he’s a Prince unfit to even keep his fencing sword void of any ruin.

“Sorry ‘bout that Your Highness,” apologised Abel, sheepishly and out of breath. “I ain’t been blessed with height like you have.”

At the flattery, Jin only rolls his eyes. But he gives a curt nod, silently letting the boy continue speaking. Better that the younger one gets his words out earlier on instead of beating around the bush so that he could scurry away to his Eden. Already, his fingers were tapping impatiently, thinking of the mockingbirds waiting for his melodic return.

“Right,” the page boy clears his throat as he steals a glance up to Jin, sensing well enough that his Prince was in a hurried mood. “W-well since you missed tea with the Queen, she has called you to her garden this afternoon. Her Highness s-said that your absence is not to be tolerated.”

Jin abruptly halts with a resounding sigh as he squeezes his eyes shut, guilt pawing at him. He had totally skipped out on his mother’s beloved tea time days ago and hadn’t had the chance to sit with her as of late. Apart from rushed breakfasts and occupied dinners, he’s barely had time with his mother - both too busy with their own errands. Only then did he fathom how much he has missed her.

“-the Queen’s been wanting to introdu- oh! Your Highness, my mistake, I thought you were right beside me.” Abel stopped his prattling when he realizes that his Prince was lingering a ways back, preoccupied with gazing out the floor-to-ceiling arched window. “Y-your Highness?”

“See to it that you send a message to my mother,” Jin ordered with a fond look, a smile already settled on his lips. He hands the sword over to Abel, who rushed to grab it, before placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell her I’ll be attending tea this afternoon.”

With pursed lips and a pat, he scuttles away, trusting that his pageboy would do as he says. If he hurries to the hidden door now, he had time to play with the mockingbirds before having to ride to his mother’s expansive garden. He had taken a peek at the purple sun hanging in the sky, positioned slightly to the left, and knew it granted him an hour or two to be down in his Eden.

Just as he was about to round the corner, Abel yells out, “H-hold on Your Highness, where are ya’ goin’?”

“To Eden, my friend!”

Ding

Eyes still peeled on the television, he flips open the glass door of the toaster then proceeds to blindly fumble around to find the knob of the cupboard. A curse flies out of his mouth when his knuckles graze the edge of the wooden door, and immediately, he hears her voice.

“Joon, baby, can you please, for the love of God, watch what you’re doing?”

“Okay, okay, fine,” he mutters to himself, pouting slightly at the fact that even from heaven, his wife is still looking after him. His friends would get a kick out of it if they knew. They’d tease him endlessly, claiming he was such a baby.

Finally taking his eyes away from the Italian film playing - that he has yet to figure the title of - Namjoon swivels around to sort out his dinner. That is, a stack of frozen Eggo waffles thrown in the toaster. He was close to eating it just like that, but decides against it for fear of his wife’s ghost clucking her tongue at him. So he shuffles over to the fridge and pulls out the butter and maple syrup.

“Okay, but why are you so set on using your fingers, Joon? In this house, we use utensils, yeah?”

“Too lazy, baby,” he drawls as he tries to cut a slice off the stick of butter. It’s still too hard so he forgoes it all together, letting the butter knife clatter on the marble counter unceremoniously. “Plus, I don’t want to have to do more dishes than necessary,” he reasons out, getting comfortable with talking to the empty house, as he uncaps the bottle of maple syrup.

“Can’t believe I married a slob! But fine, since you’re so adamant about eating with your hands, we’re going to eat tonight’s dinner with our hands.”

A smile tickles the corner of his lips when he recalls the time she had been stubbornly trying to show him how his eating habits were improper. That night’s dinner had been baked Gnocchi with chicken and mushrooms and boy, was that one messy meal.

“We had fun, didn’t we, baby?” he chuckles alone at the memory as he drenches his waffles with the gooey thick syrup.

“Oh my god! My fingers smell like basil and parmesan, baby! I don’t know how you can continuously eat with your hands.”

He folds the waffle in half, salivating at the sound of the crunch, and takes a big bite out of it. “Mmm, god that hits the spot,” he groans, muffled from his munching. With sticky fingers, he drags the plate across the counter so he could get a better view of the Italian film on tv.

The golden rays of the setting sun filter through the crowd of trees, streaming in the big glass windows in smithereens of freckled warm light. It falls like a broken painting on the wooden floor, pieces of it scattered all around the house. The longest of the ray stretches itself across the room as if reaching for the closed room situated right beside the kitchen.

He pauses from his chewing and lets his eyes trail the ray crawling to the sleek white door. Amalea Rosalie’s, it says, engraved on the metal plate. The waffle goes down dry as he swallows, threatening to stay in a lump stuck in his throat. Ever since her passing, he dare not touch her belongings, let alone go through the little room she had set aside for her office cum art studio. He’s been avoiding her room like the plague, afraid that if he enters, reality would set in too heavily on his shoulders.

“Hey Joondles, I love you and everything, but you gotta knock if you wanna come in, buddy. Marriage doesn’t mean I’m dropping privacy all together!”

Namjoon bites his lips as he juggles the idea of entering her room. Never in his life has he been in there alone, without her presence. The last time he had set foot inside was when she called him in, asking what he thought about the jar of colourful sand and mini cactuses in her hand. She had been playing around with sprucing up the interior of the house and chanced upon a D.I.Y blog about sand art on Pinterest. From there, it just cultivated into her never-ending fascination with coloured sand and tiny plants stuffed in a bottle.

“Baby?” he calls out into the open air, not really expecting an answer. “I can come in your room, right?”

The house falls silent, save for the occasional creaking when the strong wind breezes by. But then, a puff of cloud moves in the sky, floating away to reveal the other half of the sun. And in that exchange, the single ray of golden light extends, slithering further up the door. Her name glints then, under the sunlight, as if beckoning him to come in.

His lips part in awe and his eyes blink, trying to fathom what had occurred. Now, he wasn’t one to believe in the supernatural, but this? This sent a shiver down his spine, bringing goosebumps to dot his arms. Coincidence or not, he knew that she would’ve wanted him to find closure. It was time that he finally faced the truth.

She was gone, and he had to accept that.

In stiff movements, Namjoon washes his hand, drying it haphazardly on his sweats. He shuffles over, bare feet dragging across the cold wooden floor. The mumblings of the Italian film was white noise behind him as the pounding of his heart echoes in his ears like an unsteady drum beat. He wipes away the sweat already pouring out of his palms before grabbing the doorknob.

Bated breaths followed his dry gulp. “Baby, I’m coming in,” he whispers, voice dripping with uneasiness and tenderness.

Click, the door crack opens.

It swings wider, slowly revealing the room, inch by inch like the heavy red curtains of a theatre lifting off the stage. Sunlight streamed in through the skylight in faint fractions, lighting the little specks of dust particles suspended in the air. With a second of hesitation, he lifts his foot, hovering over the threshold of her room. Gingerly, he puts it down and enters, surprised that he had been holding his breath all this time.

He inspects the room precariously like as if his late wife was going to jump out from behind the table and yell, “Surprise! I’m not dead! The funeral was all a huge joke to prank you!” Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen. All he was greeted with was a comfortable silence, humming with the energy left by the wake of his late wife. The room didn’t feel eerily icy cold and dead like he expected it to be. Instead, it felt warm and welcoming - as it should be, considering his late wife was a cheery angel sent from heaven.

With newfound confidence, Namjoon takes a tour of the room as if he’s never seen it before. Which - in a way - was true. The room felt different, empty as though it was missing its heart. Sans his late wife’s cherubic chattering, all it is, is a room and nothing more. He lets his fingers trail along the tables lining the four walls, taking in her organised messiness with an amused smile.

Jars full of paint brushes all stuffed in a corner, unfinished artworks on canvases abandoned in a stack, printed photographs taken by her hanging on the overhead ceiling, a container filled to the brim with bundles of wool tucked under the table. He wasn’t exaggerating whenever he introduced as an artsy maniac. God, did she love to get her hands on every form of hobby that involved expressing creativity.

Then, he comes across her drafting table - where she uses for her architectural work. It’s tilted upwards, pieces of drafting papers and vellum papers laid out on it along with a stubby pencil sitting idly at the edge. The table looked exactly like the way she had left it and it got him feeling a little crushed; as he had initially feared before entering the room.

“Hey, babe? Take a look at this will you?

He thumbs the piece of drafting paper between his fingers, peering at the cluster of lines and shapes and technical terms that he barely understands. She had said that it was her latest project - designing a house by a lake with an open concept; which she was extremely excited about. It’s what she loved doing, creating and designing houses that had an eccentric flair.

“It’s going to be amazing Joonbug, I’m telling you. With this, I’m going to break the standard designs of houses and build a totally new world. Ah, they’re going to love it, I just know it.”

She had been so giddy about it, a smile that curved from ear to ear plastered on her pretty face as he went on to talk about her dreams. He’s heard it a thousand times now, yet he never complains. Instead, he sits and listens, genuinely interested to hear her story tainted with passion. Now, he can’t help but think that her death was such a waste to society. God, she was so young, so ready to share her innovations with the world.

“I don’t think everyone realised that they’ve lost a gem, baby,” he quipped with a shake of his head.

Namjoon takes in a shaky breath, blinking away the fresh set of tears that welled up in the corner of his eyes. He moves along, leaving her design alone; never to be seen by anyone else apart from the two of them. How pitiful.

“Oh my gosh, you know what I just realised baby? We’re like a couple living in the 20s in Paris,” she had gasped one day.

“Do explain.”

“Well just imagine, me - a self-proclaimed artist - and you - an exceptional poet and writer - living in a tiny apartment in Paris circa the 20s. Every day we skip down to the cafe a block away for a cup of coffee and croissants and we’ll sit outside, taking in the beautiful landscape. We’ll both pull inspiration from the crowd to create our own form of art,” she had fantasised.

“You just want to imagine yourself dressed like the Gatsby girls with those long pipes between your fingers.”

Totally ignoring his tease, she had turned to him with a look of eagerness, “Babe, you should totally write a poem based on an artwork of mine!”

And he never did.

Too caught up in work and too immersed in finishing the countless chapters for his book, he had totally forgotten her chirping about it. “Ah, fuck, baby! Why didn’t you say anything!” he wailed out loud in desperation, guilt gnawing at him as he buries his face in his open palms.

“You’re so forgetful Joonie,” she would giggle.

He drags his bottom lip between his teeth as he drums his fingers on her wooden table, deciding whether or not he should do it now. “Fuck it,” he mutters and dashes out of the room to grab his poetry book along with his favourite pen. Seated, Namjoon dusts away the colourful sand the speckled the desk and sets his book down.

The leather cover squeaks when the spine of the book bends as he opens it, flipping it to a fresh page. He smooths out the plain yellow page and spins his pen between his fingers. By habit, his eyes fleet across his inspiration, and for that moment, it was her room. Then they flutter shut on their own accord, letting his brain simmer in flowering words and expressions and images of her - his radiating wife.

Like as if his fingers were leading him blindfolded, they move, dancing across the paper fluidly. His pen grazes the page, reeling in the gritty sound as it scratches, dancing like a free-spirited ballerina.

~ I met an artist; now my days are painted in lavender, every hour a different hue. I dream in watercolour, write in blurred tones; with each stroke I glide, moved by inspiration. ~

“Are you reading this, baby?” he pondered out loud, wrist still moving as he poured words into the blank page.

~ You’re my vision, my dancer, my impression of beauty. This paper is my stage, as I write for you. ~

The poem ends then, silence by the last period he dots on the yellow crisp page. Black fluid surges out, leaving a blot of ink seeping into the paper. Swiftly, Namjoon signs the bottom, as he always does, using the Italian phrase Luce dei miei occhi which translates to light of my eyes.

He settles the pen down gently with a satisfied ache in his heart and proceeds to run the tips of his fingers to trace the embossed words. After rereading his words again, deeming it elegant enough, he nods to himself. But then he pouts and sighs, “Wish you could see it though, baby.”

“Joon, Joon, Joon! Guess what I just read up on.”

“Mmm, what is it baby?”

She had pulled up her phone and settled between his lap like a cat, “So, according to folk tales and old century legends, this place is supposedly an enchanted forest.”

“Enchanted?” he had scoffed dubiously. “Yeah, I think they’re just spewing Disney fairytales on that article.”

“Shush and listen? As I was saying, over the years, this forest has been given different names across eras and religions. However, the common factor in all these written tales of said forest is that the river was the heart of all living things. It’s said that it can do many things; healing wounds and blessing babies to name a few. But the most phenomenal myth is that the river - the river that’s literally flowing underneath us - is actually a passageway to a paranormal world, like a gateway to a portal of some sorts. Hence in a few tribal religions, it was tradition to write wishes and prayers and float them down the river, in hopes of it reaching a God. Albeit it being a lost tradition, it’s still penned in history for its anomalous ritual. How cool is that?”

“Sounds like paganism to me!” he had mocked with a hearty laugh.

She clearly wasn’t amused because she gave him an unimpressed look and tutted. “Ridicule it all you want Namjoon, but I like to believe that something magical like this exists in our rather banal world.”

He didn’t like that she had used his real name instead of her usual varying nicknames for him. Sensing that his teasings had upset her, he avoided making fun of her belief and interest in the supernatural in the future. So today, he shall indulge in his late wife’s fascination. And in commemoration of her passing, he will utilise this magical river to send the poem to her in the afterlife.

With careful precision, he tears the inked page away from the book and rolls it into a tight scroll. He secured it with a cut up piece of her wool, tying it so it would look presentable floating down the river; not that it mattered but for the sake of his late wife, he was going to make it pretty. Making use of the empty bottles lining the shelf, which were meant for her sand art, he slots the rolled up paper. As an afterthought, he briskly drops a few pinchful of her coloured sand before corking it shut.

“I’m sure you’ll be happy reuniting with your multicoloured sand, right baby?” he joked, softly chuckling at the idea that his late wife would somehow get a hold of the bottle.

Wordlessly, he pads over to the balcony, sliding the glass doors open. Gazing far between the tree line, he sees that the warm sun was already setting below the horizon, casting a bruising blue light over the forest. Birds were squawking away up in the tall trees, a melodic contrast to the calming rush of the river below him. He takes the few steps down, closer to the water.

Pursing his lips, he kisses the bottle, channelling every ounce of love he has for his late wife. “Wait for me in heaven, baby. For now, I’ll send you my written poems,” he chokes out, a tear travelling down his cheek as he gently lowers his hand. The cold river rushes between his fingers, as he lets the water take the bottle away.

The slim glass bottle bobs in the water, tumbling around when nudged by the rounded rocks. He watches with serenity, bidding it a silent goodbye as it floats further and further away, into the depths of the forest. In the distance, it glints in the sunlight before disappearing.

“According to the renowned historian, Sir Tobias, the river that flows through Lorewood, holds the essence of spiritual mysticism that sorceress and witches alike often use in their acts of witchcraft,” he read out loud to the birds as he paced around the desolated building, a hand behind his back while the other holds up the leather-bound journal he borrowed from the castle library.

After greeting the mockingbirds with a stanza of a new melody he was composing, he eagerly slips out the thick journal from his violin case. He had found the old thing slotted between the heavy hardbacks while lazily running his fingers over the spines of the neatly shelved books. It looked out of place - ratty and faded - amongst the crisp volumes of historical encyclopedias. But boy, did it hold some pretty interesting information.

At a glance of the messy handwritten author’s note, he had thought it was a boring old journal of an aged historian, talking about the Settlers and whatnots. He couldn’t be bothered with that ancient story after having heard it about a million times since he was born. However, as he read on, he realised that it was a detailed journal about Sir Tobias’ findings in the enchanted forest; or more commonly known now as Lorewood. Immediately, he was mesmerised. Without a second of delay, he hurries to his room and stashes it in his violin case, reminding himself to read it once he was down in Eden.

He continues reading while winding around the tall columns, his unaccompanied voice echoing in the open ruins, “The practice of drawing water for healing remedies and witch elixirs has been passed on for generations over the centuries. It has also been recorded that sorcerers often drop welded crystals into the river so that it would absorb the water’s extract. They would then use these crystals as pendants sold for numerous remedies. If lucky, you’d be able to find stray crystals at the bottom of the river.”

At that, he lowers the books with his brows perking up in interest. He eyes the crystal waters flowing down small hill, pouring in from the broken arched windows. It snakes its way around the mossy rocks, pooling in a small pond before streaming away on the other end. Would there be a chance that there are stray crystals sunken down in that pond?

His face lights up with elation at the thought of collecting these little crystals and rocks. Biting down on his lips, he trots over to the water, already slipping off the heavy embroidered cloak. He kneels down, careful not to get his pants dirty on a wet patch of mud. God help him if the wash maids find his precious leather pants mussed and dirtied. Tossing aside the book, he rolls up the sleeves of his tunic and dips his hand in.

The water was cold, but not icy; comfortable to the touch and weirdly soothing. His hand clumsily fumbles around, fingers feeling for loose stones as he keeps an eye out for anything striking and out of the ordinary. He wasn’t too sure what these crystals and stones were supposed to look like, considering it was used thousands and thousands of years ago.

“I’m sure it’s easy to spot, you reckon?” he asks out loud, shooting his question to the flock of mockingbirds now watching him with cocked heads. Slimy grey stones slip through his fingers as he continues rifling around for that sparkling magical gem. “It’s got to be dazzling like mother’s diamonds.”

But what he finds isn’t a shiny precious gem. It wasn’t a stone or a crystal either, looking rather conspicuous as it descends the rocky hill, toppling and dropping with a plop. The corked bottle resurfaces as it floats closer to him, spinning and bopping around. Intrigued, he reaches out and snatches it before the bottle could be pulled away by the current.

“A mysterious bottle, floating down the river that travelled through Lorewood?” he presented his rhetorical question as a muse to himself.

He peered into the clear glass bottle and spots a rolled up paper. For a second, he hesitates, eyes fleeting between the entity in his hand and the river, uncertain about the coincidental happening. Was it meant for him? Was the magical forest sending him a message? What’s written inside this scroll?

In an instant, his excitement dials up to the maximum as he hastily uncorks it. If this really was from a magical being living in the forest, he sure as hell wasn’t about to waste this opportunity to - hopefully - communicate with it. Already, he was visualising himself as Sir Tobias’ apprentice, assisting him in expanding his journal on Lorewood.

With jittery fingers, he slides the knotted wool and unfurls the scroll. The smell of the ink was strong and sour, smudging slightly when he had run his thumb on the words. Freshly written? he thinks.

“I met an artist; now my days are painted in lavender, every hour a different hue. I dream in watercolour, write in blurred tones; with each stroke I glide, moved by inspiration. You’re my vision, my dancer, my impression of beauty. This paper is my stage, as I write for you. Luce dei miei occhi.”

“A poem,” he gasps, his lips parting in wonder as he absorbed the lilting words engraved in the paper. “Beautiful.”