Chapter Text
Kyrgios’ nose crinkles as he steps into Kim Dokja’s office. His eyes sweep the closet-sized room. The hardwood floors were always cold and cluttered with full notebooks, and old novels, pages worn and yellowed at the edges. A true testament to the creative chaos warring in Kim Dokja’s mind. The clutter seemed to be common for most flat surfaces in the room, actually. Every square inch of the desk, the shelves, the side tables, were consumed by books. Save the desk chair, where Kim Dokja is perched, back hunched over his laptop, completely defeating the point of the three hundred-thousand won ergonomic chair that Kyrgios bought him.
“Cedar?” Kyrgios finally pipes up, arms crossed as he leans in the doorframe. Kim Dokja jumps, turning towards his editor with an eyebrow raised. Kyrgios nods to the burning incense.
“Ah, no, it’s sandalwood.”
Kyrgios hums, taking a step into the office to peer at Kim Dokja’s laptop over his shoulder. “Is it helping you write?”
Kim Dokja first sighs, which isn’t a good sign, then begins cradling his head in his hands, which is an even worse sign. He mumbles something into his palm, too muffled for Kyrgios to catch.
“What? Speak up.”
“A bit.”
“How much is ‘a bit’?” Kyrgios has to physically force the words out of his mouth. He doesn’t even want to hear the answer.
Kyrgios feels the colour drain from his face. “Three thousand,” he repeats.
Kim Dokja nods, a pathetic gesture, unable to meet his editor’s eyes.
“Kim Dokja, the manuscript is due in like, three months.”
“I know,” Kim Dokja replies.
“I need another ninety-eight thousand words before then.”
Kim Dokja shrinks a bit in his chair, and Kyrgios almost feels bad, except for the fact that this has been a daily routine for months now. Kyrgios has had his share of experience with a variety of authors, and he knows suffering from a writer’s block is pretty common. The issue here presented itself in the fact that Kim Dokja wasn’t just suffering from a writer’s block, but being absolutely brutalised by it.
Kyrgios has always rather liked Kim Dokja, he found him to be pretty charming, though the guy didn’t seem to have much going for him besides his career. He suspects that Kim Dokja, nearing thirty now, might be feeling some of the effects of his isolation. Though Kim Dokja doesn’t really strike him as the type of guy to wind up with a big family and a dog and a thousand kids. He’s probably more of a guy who settled down with twelve cats, and maybe a spouse who has at least one more ounce of self preservation than he did.
Reflecting on it though, Kyrgios really isn’t sure. He sees himself as a pretty good judge of character, but really struggles to get a read on Kim Dokja sometimes. He’s almost a textbook sardonic bachelor in his late 20’s who has given up on everything in his life except for his career, but sometimes he says things, and gets a certain look in his eye that suggests otherwise.
That, and, his writing.
Kyrgios stops his pacing, planting a decisive foot onto the ground. “You’re going.”
“Going where?” Dokja looks up, desperation on his face.
A sliver of sunlight shines through the gap of the curtains. It’s partially caught by the dust floating around the room, gentle like a summer’s breeze. The rest of the light hits Kim Dokja’s hair; choppy, undyed layers that hang heavy above his eyes.
Kyrgios takes a step into the room and yanks the curtains open. He can tell that Kim Dokja wants to recoil from the light, like the demon-type of human he is, but refrains from reacting too dramatically.
“I don’t know. Away. Anywhere. Hiding in this apartment isn’t helping anyone. You need a change of scenery, and a haircut.” Kyrgios is pacing again now, picking at the skin on his fingers to quell his panic.
There’s an evident look of doom on Kim Dokja’s face, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that. He’s already Googling accommodations in the most remote towns he can find.
Three days later, Kim Dokja finds himself sitting in the passenger’s seat of Kyrgios’ car. There are two bags in the trunk of the vehicle; one suitcase containing a few weeks worth of clothes, and a backpack stuffed to the brim with novels and notebooks. It was an astonishingly difficult task to pack, since Kyrgios refused to tell Kim Dokja exactly where he was going, or for how long.
“You know, this is probably some form of kidnapping.”
Kyrgios rolls his eyes and grips the steering wheel a bit tighter. “Have you ever heard of the lesser evil?”
Kim Dokja shrugs, “Of course.”
“Think of it this way then: if you don’t draft this entire novel soon, I’m going to be arrested for murder anyway.”
Kim Dokja laughs sarcastically at the half-assed joke. He plays with the zipper on his jacket as his gaze shifts from the road in front of them to the trees lining the side of the highway.
The leaves have begun to fill the branches out nicely in the height of spring. Kim Dokja always hated transitions between seasons, the slush that gathers on roads as snow melts, the freezing rain in late November as the earth tries to hang onto autumn for another day.
Maybe it’s because the indecisiveness of it all reminds Kim Dokja of himself. He can almost taste it in the air, the longing to be something else. Spring was only a tool to transition between fall and winter, a label to put on the yearning to be something whole.
Kim Dokja can almost smell the rubber burning as Kyrgios rips out of the small town he left Kim Dokja in. Kyrgios promises to return in a month, or earlier, given that Kim Dokja can provide a high enough word count. Gwangchae, population of 1,500 people, exists as more of a historical artifact than an actual town. The architecture is gorgeous, every time worn building a masterful combination of materials, creating shapes and movement that Kim Dokja’s untrained eyes would never be able to fully appreciate.
The streets are paved with cobblestone, whispering tales of the past. Towering lamp lights send echoes of history floating through the air. Painted black, the lamps stand at around ten metres high, if Kim Dokja has to guess. The plain, flared bases that climb to the sky, supporting the delicate lamps on top. Kim Dokja has to squint against the bright sky to try and trace the lacy patterns of the lamps with his eyes. He eventually gives up, surrendering to the fact that his already strained eyes aren’t enough to face the power of the sun. He’ll have to come back at dusk to try and appreciate the view of the town against the setting sun.
Kim Dokja turns to the building that Kyrgios dropped him off in front of. It has that same rustic feel as the rest of the town, a real hole-in-the-wall type restaurant, and also Kim Dokja’s home for the next few months. And as gorgeous as the town was, Kim Dokja couldn’t stop the anxiety chewing at his stomach. He’s a born and raised city boy, only knowing the concrete sidewalks and thirty-five story buildings. Kim Dokja isn’t living a chaebol life by any means, but he could tell that some sort of a culture shock was imminent.
Kim Dokja’s eyes catch on a sign printed with “The Final Wall” as he pushes open the door to the restaurant. He’s greeted with an almost overwhelming amount of wood as he steps inside. Not yet open for the day, the restaurant lay in quiet repose. Chairs are still set upside-down on the tables, and a mop leans against the wall in the corner. The place is empty, besides a woman standing behind the bar, too distracted by typing furiously on her phone to notice Kim Dokja’s entrance. The floorboards creak under Kim Dokja’s shoes as he approaches, finally altering the woman of his presence.
Her expression lifts as she catches sight of him, eyes tracing from Kim Dokja’s hair, messy and a bit matted after falling asleep in the car, to the luggage hanging off of him.
“Ah, you must be the new renter. Last name Rodgraim, right?”
Kim Dokja squints in a half smile, “That’s correct.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Jung Heewon.”
“Kim Dokja. Ah, my boss was the one who made the reservation,” he explains the difference in names.
Jung Heewon tilts her head a bit, “Your boss? Are you here for work?”
“Something like that. I work from home, and he thought that I could use a change of scenery.”
Kim Dokja keeps his answers vague, but honest. He’s found that it’s the easiest way to politely end conversations of small talk that neither person wants to have.
Jung Heewon explains the setup of the apartment, leading Kim Dokja upstairs to get a look at his accommodations. It previously belonged to the last owner of the restaurant, who eventually moved out after he got married. It was a restaurant passed down the generations, until Jung Heewon eventually inherited it from her grandmother. Jung Heewon is living with her boyfriend right now, so she listed it as a temporary rental online in hopes of attracting some tourists to the town.
“It’s not much, but you’ll be comfortable. Probably the only accommodations you’ll find in town, except for Mrs. Park’s spare bedroom, which is smaller, but she cooks a pretty good breakfast.” Jung Heewon flashes another well mannered grin as she opens the door for Kim Dokja.
They step into the apartment, and it’s as small and dated as Kim Dokja expected it to be. A different dark wood lined the floors, the colour so rich that it almost appeared to be velvet. The walls are lined with old wallpaper, worn as a shirt with a hole under the arm. Tall windows stretch from the ceiling to halfway down the wall, flooding the room with sunlight. One of the windows is lifted open a sliver at the bottom, letting the scent of grass and fresh country air pour in.
The rest of the apartment is as expected: a small table and chairs, a bed, a small kitchen with some basic appliances, and a bathroom. There’s enough space for Kim Dokja to shower, and sleep, and write, which was everything he could ask for with such slim pickings.
Jung Heewon drops a key for Kim Dokja on the table, along with a crumpled piece of paper that has her phone number on it in case of any issues. Before she leaves, she invites Kim Dokja to come down to the pub tonight to meet some of the other people that live here. Kim Dokja graciously accepts, because Kyrgios told him to befriend some locals, and as much as he hates socialising with new people, he hates the thought of Kyrgios murdering him in his sleep more.
Kim Dokja spends the next few hours sitting at the table, staring into the hungering abyss of his laptop screen. Most of the time, his fingers sit rigid on the keyboard, almost as if they’re scared to type. They sit still, hyper aware of the letters on the screen, the prey watching them, staring down, waiting to consume every push they make.
Sometimes, Kim Dokja will get small bursts of inspiration, the words stringing together just right in his head after tossing them around enough times. He gets down just over five hundred words before surrendering to the white noise filling his head, throwing on a proper pair of pants and making his way downstairs to the restaurant.
The restaurant is a nice lull between silent and rowdy. Most of the tables are full, a variety of elderly and middle aged people sharing conversation. Kim Dokja catches sight of Jung Heewon behind the bar, and makes his way over, sitting heavy on a stool.
“Hey, I’m glad that you came down. Want anything to drink?” Jung Heewon grins.
“Just water, thanks.” Kim Dokja smiles mildly in return, taking another glance around the restaurant.
Now that it’s filled out a bit, all of the wood doesn’t seem as daunting. As the sun sank low in the sky, a warm lighting burst in, casting a sunkissed tint on the customers. Kim Dokja thought that they looked happier than anyone he’s ever seen in the city, rosy blushes sitting high on their cheeks, faces etched with years of laughter and wisdom.
Jung Heewon soon returns with his water, then proceeds to introduce him to the rest of the people sitting at the bar. To his relief, they’re people closer to his age, a group of three people who seem to be wearing the same airy expressions as everyone else in the room. Maybe it was something in the countryside air.
Kim Dokja exchanges pleasantries with the rest of the group, praying that he’ll be able to remember all of their names. There’s Lee Hyunsung, who runs his grandparents’ farm, then Han Sooyoung and Yoo Sangah who live together closer to town. They keep a few hives of bees, and make honey and beeswax candles that they sell.
“What brings you here, Dokja-ssi? We don’t often get visitors.” Yoo Sangah asks politely once their introductions are done.
“Ah, it’s a bit of a business trip. My boss sent me here to get some work done.”
Han Sooyoung raises an eyebrow, “What kind of work could require you to come out here?”
He tries to play it off nonchalantly, “I write a bit. My boss thought that getting out of the city and breathing some fresh air might help me work.”
Everyone’s faces brighten immediately. Before Kim Dokja has a chance to deduce if that’s a good thing, Lee Hyunsung is asking him, “What kind of writing?”
“Novels, mostly fantasy fiction.”
Kim Dokja is expecting a mild reaction, as was usually offered. His work is rarely acknowledged for the complexity that can be carried in fantasy, and seen as stories for children. However, to Kim Dokja’s absolute surprise, and slight horror, the bar surged into a chorus of excited reactions.
Yoo Sagnah’s once quiet smile stretches wide across her face, “That’s amazing! Sooyoung writes a lot too, though they aren’t just fantasy.”
“Oh, really? Anything that I’ve read?”
Han Sooyoung’s face is clear of the obvious apprehension that she displayed before. “I doubt it. It started with webnovels, but I mostly work on indie screenplays now.”
“You’re a bee keeper and a screenplay writer? Talk about range.” Kim Dokja teases.
Han Sooyoung rolls her eyes, “At least I’m not boring. You probably worked at an insurance company before your big break.”
Kim Dokjes bites his lip, unsure if it’s a frown or smile tugging at his lips. “It was a consulting group, actually.”
After that, the awkward atmosphere dissipates quickly. There’s a display of tender friendliness that you can only find in the countryside, and Kim Dokja finds it easy to talk without overthinking the sound of his voice. The strangers to Kim Dokja become acquaintances, and suddenly, spending the next while all but isolated in this town doesn’t seem so horrible.
Not long passes before Kim Dokja retires his exhausted body back upstairs. As he steps away from the lively gathering, the warmth of shared laughter clings to him like a cloak. It sinks into his skin and wraps around his bones, still sticking under the harsh spray of the apartment’s shower as Kim Dokja washes off the rest of his stress from the day. He changes into a pair of clean clothes and sits down on the bed as he begins to towel-dry his hair. On the bedside table sits an object that stands out- a polished brass lamp. Kim Dokja sets his towel down, choosing instead to cradle the lamp gently in his hands, tracing the patterns engraved on the surface.
After a quick search on Naver, and digging around the kitchen for a box of matches, Kim Dokja is prepared to light the lamp. He’s probably far too confident dealing with an open flame lamp that could easily burn down the entire building, but if Jung Heewon left it in this room ready to be used, it probably can’t go too horribly.
With shaking fingers, Kim Dokja raises a burning match to the wick of the lamp. It catches fire quickly, as it did in the tutorial video he saw, and it feels strange that such a massive flame managed to bring such comfort. Kim Dokja pinches the dial on the side of the lamp, rolling it gently to decrease the size of the flame to something more controlled. He places the glass lid over the flame again, trapping the light like a bug on the wall. He spends a moment absorbing the warm ambience of the apartment that accompanied the change in lighting.
Kim Dokja’s apartment back in Seoul always felt like a cocoon of solitude, a barrier to keep him separated from the city’s restlessness. Now, though Kim Dokja knew he was still alone in the room, as he sat next to this dancing flame, it didn’t feel quite so lonely. Maybe the fresh country air has been good for him already.
Under the covers, three chapters of a novel later, Kim Dokja finds his heavy eyes sinking into sleep. He has the mind to turn over and blow out the lamp, plunging both the apartment and his consciousness into darkness.
Kim Dokja startled awake to a pitch-black room. He wasn’t surprised, never being good at sleeping in new places. He found his body to be restless, refusing to sleep for another minute no matter how long he tossed and turned. Eventually sitting up in the bed, Kim Dokja frowned as an aching tiredness didn't consume his body. How long had he been asleep?
Kim Dokja didn’t bother reaching for his phone, knowing that he would never make it back to sleep once the blue light hit his eyes. Instead, pulling back the curtains on the window, Kim Dokja felt his confusion grow further. He couldn’t have been asleep for long, judging by the sliver of dusk left outside, no longer than a few hours had passed.
Hoping that the fresh air might clear his head, Kim Dokja made his way outside. He descended the staircase leading directly from the apartment to outside, willfully ignoring as each step creaked and sank under his feet. Once at the bottom, Kim Dokja sat down on the second last step, peering into the quiet night, taking in the fluid sounds of the countryside. Soon, the cricket chirps were interrupted by the much more distinct sound of footsteps. Kim Dokja’s attention was captivated by a lone figure moving along the sidewalk in front of him.
The man, dressed in a weathered coat and carrying a long pole, moved gracefully beneath the flickering streetlights. In his hands, he carried a flame that danced and swayed hypnotically, much like the lamp in the apartment.
Kim Dokja watched quietly, intrigued by the man’s actions. He approached each lamppost with practised confidence, igniting the gas lamps in an almost ceremonial manner. Unlike the mighty roar of Kim Dokja’s small lamp, each flame on the lamppost purred to life gently.
Kim Dokja observed the lamplighter, a throwback to a bygone era, and wondered where Kyrgios was able to find such an eccentric little town. The lamplighter approached slowly, breathing life into each lamp with a waltzing flame and illuminating the quiet street in a warm, nostalgic glow.
As the last lamppost came to life, the man turned, glancing down at Kim Dokja. Their eyes met, and Kim Dokja felt a silent understanding forming between them. Something gentle that transcended the distance between them. Kim Dokja had found the rhythmic pattern almost hypnotic, a forgotten arc resurrected in a modern world. With a quiet nod, the lamplighter turned around, continuing his task.
Kim Dokja felt the connection between them stretching thinner, tensing to the point of snapping in two. Before he had a chance to process what he was doing, Kim Dokja found himself scrambling to his feet, calling out into the empty night.
“Hey, excuse me!”
The man turned around quickly, eyes wide open. He was obviously started by the sudden cry. He pointed to himself, in a slow, almost animated motion.
“Yeah, you.” Kim Dokja’s feet shuffled to a halt in front of the man.
The man’s eyes were flying rapidly in every direction, swiping up and down Kim Dokja’s body, behind Kim Dokja, behind himself. “Is something wrong? Do you need help?”
The deep tones of his voice were a steady, captivating vibration, resonating at the pit of Kim Dokja’s stomach. His dialect was thicker than anyone else’s in the entire village, it took Kim Dokja a moment to process what exactly the man was asking him.
“I’m okay,” he finally said, unsure of how to follow it up. Kim Dokja had no idea why he called out to the lamplighter in the first place.
The man looked at Kim Dokja with a playful look in his eyes, and something about the expression altered Kim Dokja of how young the person in front of him actually was. He was no doubt around the same age as Kim Dokja. Jung Heewon had claimed to have invited all the younger people in the village to the restaurant the night before, but is it possible that she forgot about this man? Kim Dokja took one look at the lamplighter and almost scoffed out loud. With a face like that, there was no way he would be forgotten so easily.
The man cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, but are you lost? I don’t believe that I’ve seen you in the village before.”
“Ah, I’m just visiting, actually. I was having trouble sleeping, and wanted to get some fresh air. My name is Kim Dokja,” he finally introduced himself.
“Yoo Joonghyuk,” the other man offered.
“Do you spend every night lighting the lamps? It’s the first time I’ve seen something like it.” Kim Dokja asked.
“I do. I was hired as a watchman, but this is a very quiet town. It was suggested that I take over lamplighting to make the nights pass by quickly.”
A cloud passed by, and in the moonlight’s glow, Yoo Joonghyuk's features came to life like a finely crafted masterpiece. His raven-black hair fell effortlessly across his forehead, the strands kissed by the moon's silver sheen. Eyes, deep and mysterious, reflected the weight of countless experiences etched into his soul. A subtle hint of a smile graced his lips. How curious.
Kim Dokja felt his fingers twitch as the gears in his brain began spinning to life. The realisation dawned like sunrise at midnight. Kim Dokja wanted to write. He wanted to hear Yoo Joonghyuk’s story, and he wanted to weave it into words.
“Do you read?”
“I do. Not much talent when it comes to writing, though.”
“Don’t worry about that part.” Kim Dokja knew that now was his best chance. He grinned before speaking, “It’s a beautiful night isn’t it? Are you allowed a companion on your shift?”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s soft smile grew. There was a quiet reluctance in it, but it seemed that he was pushing that aside. “Sure.”
“That was surprisingly easy. I was sure that I would have to lay on the charm a bit thicker.”
“I thought that it might make the night a bit more interesting. We don’t get many travellers passing through the village.”
Kim Dokja hummed, falling into step with Yoo Joonghyuk, “Jung Heewon mentioned that.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t seem like she knows you either. I guess that small towns are never really that small.”
They walked in silence, the air still, and a sense of quiet ease hung over the empty streets. The moon cast long shadows that stretched across the cobblestone path, not quite as cracked as Kim Dokja remembered it. The footsteps of the two strangers echoed through the stillness, each step a muted thud against the silence. The buildings, a warm glow of life during the day, now stood as silent sentinels, their windows reflecting the pale moonlight. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, causing leaves to whisper in a ghostly chorus. The deserted storefronts displayed remnants of the day's activities, with signs swinging slightly in the breeze, creaking like distant whispers. Kim Dokja had yet to explore the town during the day, but he felt his creative mind growing almost anxious at the thought of seeing how different it would be in the sunlight.
Kim Dokja finally peeled off the warm blanket of silence, looking forward to hearing more of Yoo Joonghyuk’s story. “So, how did you end up in this village? Did your parents grow up here?”
“I don’t know.”
Kim Dokja’s rhythmic step was thrown off half a beat. “You don’t know?”
“I don’t,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, this time smiling.
As they continued their walk, Kim Dokja found himself drawn further into Yoo Joonghyuk’s. He spoke almost as if he was of a different era, a time when gas lamps illuminated the streets was common, and the night held a certain mystique. He shared stories of his lost childhood, his life in the village, and his career as a lamplighter.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s life unfolded like the pages of a well-worn novel— in Kim Dokja’s brain at least. In reality, his stories were much less refined. Yoo Joonghyuk was a clumsy narrator, but he seemed to be honest, which made it all so much more captivating. The night, once silent, echoed with the resonance of shared stories. Underneath the scattered pools of lamplight, the two walked alone together, forging a connection by the stars of the night.
Kim Dokja wasn’t sure if he picked the luckiest clover out of the bunch, or if countryside hospitality really extended this far. Somehow, he ended up spending the entire night at Yoo Joonghyuk’s side.
As dawn broke in the village, the landscape almost transformed into a canvas of tranquillity. The quaint houses caught the early light, absorbing amber and gold deep into their bricks. The trees that lined the cobblestone streets stood tall and proud, their budding branches beginning to cast delicate shadows on the ground. The weathered surface of the ground was still dark, illuminated only by the glow of the lamps, their once brilliant light now dull next to the waking sun.
While Yoo Joonghyuk watched the sunrise, Kim Dokja watched Yoo Joonghyuk. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, unblinking, as if he was afraid that it would disappear the second he looked away.
“This is my favourite part,” Yoo Joonghyuk told him.
“I’ve always been partial to sunrises,” Kim Dokja replied.
Yoo Joonghyuk sighed. One of relaxation, not contempt. “I feel like I’m witnessing something sacred.”
Kim Dokja glanced at Yoo Joonghyuk once more, and believed that he could say the exact same thing.
Once the sun rose high enough, Yoo Joonghyuk began the final steps in his shift: turning off the lamps. Using the same tool that he did to light the lamps, Yoo Joonghyuk used a small hook to extinguish the flame. Kim Dokja found the process fascinating; the immediate darkness, the memory of warmth, and the newfound stillness in the air with every lamp that went dark.
The silhouette of each gas lamp stood like sentinels, waiting for the next turn of a valve to bring light. They grew in numbers as the pair worked their way back through the streets, eventually arriving back behind the restaurant.
“I enjoyed your story a lot,” Kim Dokja said, watching the last lamp left burn.
“I’m glad.” Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze follows the same line of sight, landing on the dancing flame.
“Do you want to try this one?” he asked.
Kim Dokja’s eyebrows shot to his forehead, “Me? Is that allowed?”
Yoo Joonghyuk held out the pole, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Standing beside the lamp, Kim Dokja took a moment to appreciate the flickering warmth. With a steady hand, he raises the poll up, hooking it into the lamp just as Yoo Joonghyuk instructed. There was a subtle resistance, but soon the flame began to quiver. Kim Dokja watched attentively as the light of the flame reflected in his eyes was extinguished.
“I think that was my favourite part, Kim Dokja exhaled, turning around to look at Yoo Joonghyuk. “Hey, we should–”
Kim Dokja paused, feeling the words die in his mouth as he was plunged into darkness.
Part I: Exposition
Beneath the brooding sky, where the edges of reality blur and the whispers of forgotten secrets linger in the air, Yoo Jaehyuk found himself standing on the precipice of a journey that he never knew awaited him.
The city of Gwangchae had been his home for his entire life, his conscious life at least. Ten years ago, in the hushed corridors of memory, where the echoes of a forgotten past linger like shadows, Yoo Jaehyuk awoke to a village of strangers and a mind shrouded in amnesia.