Archive of Our Own

Taerae is in the prime of his youth. That’s what he tells himself, but moving heavy boxes and endless stacks of books is seriously making him feel old and unfit. At least he can’t guilt himself over a gym membership. The closest thing he could find here is just an early morning lap around the town.

Every placed box kicks up enough dust to knock a year off his lifespan. The entire house is caked in a thick layer of it. It makes sense, he supposes. Nobody has lived here for nearly two years. By the time he’s done moving everything inside, he’s exhausted enough to drop on the couch without so much as removing his shoes. Not that he particularly wants to. He needs to vacuum first. Several times, perhaps.

It’s a charming house, in its own way. Every floorboard creaks, but they’re a beautiful dark wood, contrasting with everything else painted in white and refreshing shades of olive green. Granted, said paint is chipped beyond belief, but he’s convinced he can fix it. The entire underside of the staircase is shelved for books, and the windows are wide and let in copious amounts of light. It should feel lonely, maybe. Taerae has never lived alone before. Looking at the bare walls however, just waiting to be filled, he’s thrilled. It feels like home.

When he has regained his breath, he decides to look around properly. He’s only seen this house in pictures, which maybe makes him less of a responsible adult, but he was desperate to move and it really did seem like his dream house. A wide living room, a long hallway, a narrower kitchen but with a perfect view of the sea within walking distance. It’s the closest house to the short, rocky cliffs that tumble into the ocean, but still only a few minutes walk away from the rest of the town. The kitchen counters are disturbed by little paw prints in the dust; a cat must have gotten in. Each step of the staircase creaks a different tune like playing piano keys, but he doesn’t know enough about houses to even begin thinking of ways to fix that yet.

The bathroom is functional, the guestroom is big, and the main bedroom is bigger. Taerae has zero complaints. After a moment of thought, he drags the desk in the bedroom from the wall to the window for that expansive sea view. Inspiration and all that. The pawprints continue in little scattered sections across the house, and Taerae wonders if some stray has been living here this entire time and he’s just taking over their home.

There’s an attic to which he was not provided a key, but he ends up finding a vacuum tucked into some dingy closet. It would be a long, long day of cleaning before he could settle, but he wants to unpack as soon as possible, so he accepts his fate.

1. First things first, congratulations are due! Great things are said about your books, and having read them both, I see they aren't baseless claims at all!

Flattery right out of the gate! Thank you, I really appreciate it. I hear a lot of sweet compliments, so I shouldn't let my head get too big. What if my next book is terrible? (laughs)

The next morning, he rises incredibly early, disturbed by the feeling of waking up somewhere new. It’s too dark to clean, so he grabs around for his glasses and sits at his desk to write. Predictably, by the time the sun is visible, he’s done very little writing and a whole lot of deleting.

The sunrise catches the ocean waves in something out of a painting outside the window. What a view. I get to wake up to this every day, Taerae thinks, content. The notes on his screen are staring at him purposefully, so he closes his laptop with a sigh. If he isn’t going to get any work done, he may as well acquaint himself with his new home.

Winter is fast approaching. The sea is supposed to prevent it getting too cold, but Taerae seriously doubts that claim as he wraps his scarf tighter with cold fingers. The small garden out front is overgrown, weeds reaching through the unkept path. An old wooden rowboat, crumbled apart and mossy, hides in the grass off to the side. Little patches of dew on the low fence and trees just past it are frosted over from the chill.

Despite not being a big town, the difference from the isolated walk to stepping into the main scattering of buildings is instantly noticeable. People congregate the streets in small groups, looking at Taerae curiously but greeting with enthusiasm; most of those living here must know each other. There are many little artsy stores with cute signs, and a paved plaza-like area with stalls. Colourful bunting hangs between lampposts like festivals are held here.

When he later sits for the best coffee he has ever had, he pulls his notebook from his jacket to take notes for his writing. The town is far too quaint for the kind of things he likes to write, but something about it distantly inspires him.

Taerae ends up caving and going home when he can no longer feel his fingers in the cold. As he approaches the path to his house, he can hear voices coming… From his front door? He stops, confused.

“–obody wants their neighbours at their door when they’re still moving in!”

“What! Everyone wants to make friends when they move somewhere new!”

“ You want to make friends! At least give them, I don’t know, a week to settle.”

Taerae rounds the trees and sees two guys hovering at his door. They’re probably around his age, and the taller one is holding a little pink box and putting on the most scandalous puppydog eyes Taerae has ever seen coming from a grown adult.

“Uh,” he says awkwardly, hovering at the end of the path. Both sets of eyes snap to him. “Hello?”

“Oh! Hi, you must be the guy who just moved in?” The one holding the box presents it cheerfully as Taerae walks towards them. “I brought cookies! We live next door, just over there.” He shoves the box into Taerae’s arms and points at the nearest house, blue-painted and cozy looking, closer to the center of town. “Oh, I’m Gunwook, this is Ricky. Nobody has been in this house in forever, and there’s also like, almost nobody our age here, so it’s great to meet you!”

Taerae balks at the enthusiasm and Ricky throws him an apologetic look.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Taerae says, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. “Did you um, want to come in? It’s still really dusty and messy, though.”

Ricky goes for a polite headshake that is instantly overshadowed by Gunwook’s eager “Yes!”

Reluctantly, Taerae takes out his keys to unlock and open the door. He shuffles across the creaking floorboards, around boxes and piles of books, to go set the cookies down in the kitchen and make coffee, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do for visitors.

“Wow, you must read a lot,” Gunwook says behind him, accidentally knocking over a precarious book pile and quickly moving to fix it.

“I’m an author,” Taerae explains, cringing as a cloud of dust is thrown up in the process.

“Really? What kind of stuff do you write?” Ricky asks, eyes trailing across the scuffed green paint of the kitchen cabinets. It’s a cute kitchen, Taerae would argue, or it will be once he repaints the entire thing.

“Horror. Like, ghost stuff, I guess. I only fully published one, though. It did pretty well.”

“Huh. What did you say your name was?” Ricky says. In the hallway, Gunwook trips over another stack of books, and Ricky looks embarrassed.

“I didn’t.” Taerae pours three cups of coffee and offers one to Ricky, gesturing to the sugar on the counter in invitation. “It’s Kim Taerae.”

“Kim Taerae?” Ricky suddenly looks brighter. He’s stirring enough sugar into his coffee to kill a small child. “I’ve read your book! You didn’t just publish one, that’s a bestseller! Anyone who reads knows it.”

Taerae squirms at the praise and passes a coffee along to Gunwook, who has stopped wreaking havoc and made his way into the kitchen. He says his thanks, then proceeds to drink the mug in its entirety without giving it so much as a moment to cool down.

“A ghost writer moving into this house? That’s got to be intentional,” Gunwook says. “This place gives me the creeps big time. You wouldn’t catch me living here, it’s super haunted.”

“Haunted? Hah, I sure hope it is, could really give me some material,” Taerae jokes. He offers the coffee pot to Gunwook, who cheerfully pours another cup. “It’s a bit of a fixer-upper, but it’s really cozy for how cheap it was.”

“Well yeah, the ghosts!” Gunwook puts down the pot and wiggles his fingers in some kind of ominous spooky gesture. “I’m not kidding, people move out of this place within the month every time. I hope you break the curse.”

Taerae glances out the window. He really has a perfect view of the ocean from here. It’s been a long time since he lived near the sea, and the sight is quite soothing. “It may shock you to discover I am not a big believer in ghosts.”

“What kind of ghost writer doesn’t believe in ghosts?” Ricky says incredulously. The comment amuses Taerae since, from baseless first impressions, Taerae thinks Ricky does not seem the type to believe in ghosts either.

“This one,” he replies, pointing to himself. “Let’s be serious, I’m a fantasy writer. I have no ghostly experiences, I just think it’s interesting to write about.”

“Update us on that after a week spent here,” Gunwook teases.

Taerae spends the rest of the morning chatting with his neighbours. Despite his initial reluctance, he finds himself really liking them, and realizes he is also thankful to have people his age here. His lifelong friends were a three hour drive away now and, while it may not be a huge distance, the space feels infinite after many years of having them at his side. Plus, the cookies were actually really good.

After lunch he returns to his room, and finds his laptop open, unfinished chapter staring back at him. He could have sword he closed it, but he doesn’t bother thinking anything of it.

2. You've published two bestsellers back to back! It's unusual for a relatively new author, so we have to ask: what's your secret?

Honestly, 'back to back' is generous! I took three years between my first and second book, which may not actually seem like a lot, but very little of that was actually spent writing. I wish I could say I had a secret. I just write what I enjoy writing, and I'm honored people enjoy it!

Taerae fights with the back door to open it, and the hinges make such a concerning noise when he finally succeeds that he’s a little worried it’ll come right out of the kitchen wall. The slap of cold air from outside is instant, and a small cloud of dust disappears into the wind. Kind of gross.

A little chirp sounds by his feet, and Taerae nearly jumps out of his skin. He looks down to see a small white cat perched on the porch, blinking up at him with wide eyes.

“You!” he says, accusatory. “I knew it. Your little prints are everywhere.”

The cat stares at him without saying anything, because it is a cat. Taerae sighs, and leaves the door open when he goes back inside to rifle through his cabinets. He doesn’t really have any cat-friendly foods, so ends up offering it a small piece of cheese.

“Cats aren’t supposed to have this,” he says seriously. “I’m being nice.”

The cat sniffs his offering, ignores it, then promptly brushes past his legs and walks into his house. Taerae stands to watch it meander confidently, tail up, through the kitchen and hallway. So much for a hungry stray.

He doesn’t see the cat again all day, and accepts it will likely roam his house freely as long as it wishes. It was here first, after all. He spends most of the day cleaning again, before settling at his desk, opening his laptop, and taking out his notebook. Frankly, he has no idea how to incorporate this place into his writing. The house itself could be seen as creepy, sure, but the town feels rich and alive, and the people seem kind.

Something brushes against his leg, and Taerae nearly throws his notebook across the room. He looks down to see the cat has made a reappearance. It walks further into the room, sniffs the air, and returns back to him.

“You turned down a snack, so you must be getting fed somewhere,” Taerae accuses. “Or are you just wiping out the entire local population of birds?”

The cat trills, ignorant to the interrogation, and rolls against Taerae’s ankles in passing. It dips beneath his desk into the darkness.

“Hey, out!” Taerae scolds. He rolls back his chair and drops to his knees, coming face-to-face with eyes reflecting creepily in the black. His reaching hands are expertly dodged. “You need to come out before I forget you’re there and kick you.”

The cat tilts its head, then weasels right past his arms by itself. Taerae sighs, resigned.

A strange glint catches his eye. Just on the edge of the shadows, he can see… something beneath the desk. Curious, Taerae feels around and finds something cold. He pulls it loose and stands up, holding an old, battered key that had been taped down.

Who would hide a key like this? he wonders, confused. The only still-locked door in the entire house is the hatch to the attic. It feels strange that nobody would ever have changed the lock if the key was missing, but if what the neighbours said was true – that new movers had ever stayed here for more than a month – then perhaps nobody had ever gotten around to it. Behind him, the cat is settling itself comfortably into his messy bedsheets.

Taerae glances at his laptop. Deep down, he knows he is just desperately seeking for a distraction from his hopeless writing. Still. He looks back at the key.

Five minutes of struggling to reach the hatch devolves into standing precariously on his desk chair in the upstairs hall, begging the wheels not to slide and send him to the hospital. When he finally unlocks the hatch, a ladder folds down, leading delightfully into total, foreboding darkness. How thrilling.

Taerae clambers up and is thrown into nothingness. He turns on his phone torch and feels around for a light switch until he finds one concerningly connected to nothing but a ratty old cable. When he flips it, he’s surprised it even works, bathing the room in dim yellowish light from an old uncovered light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The entire room is caked in a layer of dust twice as thick as the rest of the house, mostly containing some old pieces of furniture and some unmarked boxes. There’s a painting easel set up in a corner of the room, dark wood streaked with colour. Finding it bizarre, Taerae walks over to look, but he’s distracted by the canvases piled opposite it. Hesitant to ruin old artwork, he blows the dust off of them and carefully looks through.

They are almost all landscape paintings, most of them familiar to Taerae now that he has walked around the town. Many of them are simply stretching swaths of blue ocean and even bluer sky, the rippling water painted with painstaking detail. One is of the living room of this very house, though the couch is different and the wall behind is covered in artwork that no longer exists. A white cat is sprawled across the couch cushion, and Taerae wonders if it’s the same stray living here now. He hopes its owners didn’t leave it behind. Each canvas has a little paint pawprint stamped into the bottom right corner like a signature.

There’s a second pile and, unsettlingly, they are entirely dust-free. Distantly, he wonders if they’re more recent but, despite the differing subject matter, they still carry the pawprint mark. They’re more abstract, Taerae notes, as he flips through them. The landscapes don’t feel like real places, and the colours are unusual. One is a portrait of a white cat, and now he is certain it is the same one he’s seen around the house.

He turns back to the easel, and it’s equally untouched by the dust. There are oil paints, brushes, and paint palettes scattered on the ground below it in half-organized piles. He crouches to look through, but his finger meets wet when he touches one of the palettes. When he looks at his hand, his finger is smeared with fresh blue paint.

Taerae stands up quickly, and looks back the way he came in. His path across the attic is clearly tracked by his footprints in the dust. There are only his. Nervously, he wipes the paint off on his jeans.

I need to get out of here, he thinks, irrationally creeped out.

When he folds the attic ladder back up, he tucks the key into his pocket; he can’t imagine going back up there, but his curiosity tugs at him to figure out what can only seem nonsensical right now. Nobody has been in this house for over a year. The key was purposefully hidden. It leaves an unsettling feeling in his stomach.

He’s making his way down the stairs when something moves out the corner of his eye. He expects to see the cat parading down the hall like it lives here, as usual, but he turns and finds – some guy. Some guy walking in the hallway of Taerae’s house, not even sparing him a glance.

“Wh–” Taerae stops at the bottom of the staircase, staring, and all-too-aware of his lack of survival instincts.

The man stops, now looking at Taerae, and says nothing. He glances behind him and back to Taerae. Then, he takes a step backwards, and his expression morphs from confusion to alarm as Taerae’s eyes follow him.

“What the fuck,” the man says, which feels like Taerae’s line.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” Taerae asks, stuck to the staircase like a lifeline. Is he getting robbed? Murdered? Is it just a local? The options are endless, honestly.

The man blinks owlishly, spins around to look behind him again, then spins back comically fast. He points a finger at his own chest. “Me?”

“Who else?” Taerae says desperately.

“You can see me?”

Okay, so he’s crazy.

And then, because he has no regard for Taerae’s mental wellbeing, the man steps backwards through the wall and… disappears. The sight is so peculiar that Taerae feels a wave of nausea and lightheadedness, so he does the only reasonable thing he can think of and sits right down on the step. Maybe he is the one going crazy. On cue, the man steps right back into the hallway through the same wall.

“Still?” he asks.

“What the fuck,” Taerae says weakly, holding a hand to his own forehead. “What the fuck.”

The man’s face switches from alarm to something like thoughtfulness, and he leans back on the very wall he just casually walked through. “How weird.”

You’re telling me , Taerae thinks, but he still feels a little nauseous and doesn’t dare try to say the words out loud for fear of his weak stomach.

“I didn’t do anything differently, so it must be you. Did you touch something? Oh, are you dying? Is that a thing? Maybe it’s something to do with your writing. But it isn’t very accurate, so that doesn’t really make much sense–”

The man continues to yap to himself, but the thud of Taerae’s heartbeat in his ears drowns him out. If Taerae looks closely, the very edges of the man’s skin, hair, and even clothes, have a slight shimmer to them, like he’s blurring into the background. Another rush of lightheadedness overtakes him.

“Sorry, I guess I’m being rude. It’s been a while,” the man says suddenly, turning to look at Taerae properly. He sticks out a hand to shake like this is a polite first meeting and not a world-shaking scenario. “I’m Jiwoong. I live here.”

Even in situations so ridiculous he nearly passes out, Taerae is nothing if not curious – possibly to his own detriment. Cautiously, he reaches out his own hand and very slowly slots it into Jiwoong’s. Despite the slight blur, the hand feels solid and normal. The only notable difference is that Jiwoong’s is icy cold, as if he’s been outside in the middle of winter with no gloves. Taerae stares at where their hands meet like it will provide him with sudden answers as to what is happening.

“Um,” Jiwoong says awkwardly, but it’s hard to worry about being a freak in front of someone who just waltzed through walls in front of you.

“I can touch you?” Taerae says haltingly, eyes still on their hands.

“If I couldn’t touch things, don’t you think I’d fall through the floor?” Jiwoong asks. He eases his hand free of Taerae’s, who returns his own to his lap. His palm is left chilled.

“You could float,” Taerae argues automatically.

“Ghosts don’t float. That’s one of the many things you got wrong in that book you’re writing.”

“You’re a ghost ,” Taerae echoes. Logically, his brain had already come to that conclusion, but having the word confirmed makes the world tilt all over again.

Jiwoong looks at him like he might be seriously stupid. “Was that not kind of established?”

“Why can I see you?” Taerae says, squinting at Jiwoong through his glasses.

“I’m starting to think you’re several minutes behind in this entire conversation.”

Taerae pulls himself upright by the banister of the staircase, braving through the wobble of his legs. “There’s a ghost in my house. My house is haunted. Oh my god, they weren’t kidding.”

“Do you want me to like, leave and come back later? You’re really pale,” Jiwoong says, gesturing to Taerae’s death-grip on the banister.

“No, no, not yet. Actually– No, wait.” Taerae scrunches his eyes closed really hard, then reopens them, just in case. Jiwoong is still standing in his hallway, looking concerned. “God, what the fuck. How long have you been here?”

“Some years,” Jiwoong says with a shrug. “Nobody ever stays here for more than a couple of weeks. I was just avoiding people at first, but then I found out I could get rid of anyone I didn’t like by just writing creepy shit on the bathroom mirror.”

The concept is so comical, so different from Taerae’s books, that he almost laughs despite everything. “You’re dead? Actually, don’t answer that, that’s a stupid question. I’m sorry, this is like, a lot.”

Jiwoong does look sympathetic. “I’ve never been able to interact with anyone before. This is weird for me too.”

“Is this one of those things where you have unfinished business?” Taerae asks suddenly, eyes widening. “Like, you’re stuck here because you have to do something before you leave?”

“Yes, I actually have a list of people to kill before I can pass on peacefully. You’ll help, right?” Jiwoong says seriously. For a second, Taerae believes him, and his jaw drops; the sight makes Jiwoong’s mouth corner twitch into a smile, and Taerae lets out a breath.

“What is wrong with you?” Taerae says, but he almost finds himself smiling in spite of himself. For the first time, Taerae processes that this guy looks to be around the same age as him. He’s taller, his hair is neatly styled, and he’s wearing a sweater with a little heart embroidered on the chest. He’s pretty, really pretty – he could be a model. He’s standing in Taerae’s hallway, making jokes. He looks like a person Taerae could meet anywhere. He looks human. It’s freaking him out.

My house is haunted. Ghosts are real. And there is one in my house.

“Can you do that again?” Taerae asks, gesturing to the wall. Jiwoong looks at the wall, shrugs, and steps straight through it. Instantly, Taerae regrets asking, weirded out all over again. He stares at the wall in silence until Jiwoong reappears.

“Any other circus tricks I can do to make you look less like you’re going to throw up?” he says when he’s back in the hallway.

“Honestly? No, I’m freaking the fuck out,” Taerae says with forced calmness. “Have you been here the entire time?”

“I’m not following you around, if that’s what you’re asking,” Jiwoong says, turning and walking down the hall towards the kitchen. Taerae reluctantly releases his hold on the banister and speedwalks after him, feeling like some idiot chasing after the strangest thing that’s ever happened to him. “I am stuck in this house, though,” Jiwoong continues, flicking on the kitchen light switch like he lives here. I guess he does, Taerae thinks suddenly. Much longer than I have.

“So you can just… Touch things? Move things? Do you ever throw things? Can you touch other ghosts?” Taerae says, finding the words pouring out his mouth. He stops himself. “Actually, I don’t think I want to know.”

“Well, check this out,” Jiwoong says, then promptly sticks his hand through the closed cupboard door, frowns, and yanks his hand back – holding Taerae’s favorite mug.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“I don’t know. Ghost stuff.” He shoves the mug back through the door, and the sight is once again so peculiar to the logic of Taerae’s brain that it makes the dizziness return.

“No, that’s fine, I understand you going through surfaces, but how did you get the mug through?” he says, staring at the cupboard like it could get up and start walking away next.

“You’re okay with ghosts, but you draw the line at breaking the rules of physics?”

“Yes,” Taerae says firmly.

Jiwoong shrugs helplessly. The skittering sound of little steps descending the stairs interrupts their conversation; the stray cat makes its appearance, roused from its nap by the noise. It instantly beelines over to Jiwoong, trilling cheerfully, and he smoothly scoops them up and holds them like a baby. They tolerate this for a grand three seconds before rolling over and… phasing through Jiwoong’s arms to escape.

“Pause,” Taerae says, eyes trailing the cat as it proceeds to… walk calmly through the nearest wall instead of the doorway. Just like Jiwoong. What was wrong with this place? “You have got to be kidding me.” He steps out of the kitchen to look into the next room over, where the cat is settling comfortably into the living room couch.

“You must have met Riceball by now. I’m not sure why people can always see her. I just assumed it was some weird cat thing,” Jiwoong says over his shoulder.

“That cat is dead? A ghost? You’re fucking with me.”

“‘That cat’ is called Riceball, and she’s my cat,” Jiwoong says. “She used to go everywhere with me. She stayed here when I died. Actually, she could see me the entire time, too. I’m not sure why she got stuck here when she died, though.”

Frankly, Taerae doesn’t have much time to ‘ooh’ and ‘aww’ over this information, because he has received far, far too much worldbreaking knowledge for some random weekday. Riceball is sticking out a leg and cleaning it diligently, like she even needs to. Now that he thinks about it, her fur does look a little shimmery and glossy on the very edges where it catches the light.

“I need a nap,” he announces.

“What, you’re not going to ask me how I died? Any ghost lore? I saw the book you’re writing, looks like you could really use it.” Jiwoong steps back to let Taerae back out into the hallway, but he has a half-smile on his face that Taerae decides is oddly infuriating. Of course his house is haunted by some man and his cat. Of course that would happen to him.

“No, I need a week to process, thanks.” He gets to the bottom of the staircase before he spins back around to add, “And stop reading what I’m writing!” before he keeps walking.

“Your laptop isn’t password protected!” Jiwoong calls up the stairs.

3. What inspired you to get into ghost stories?

As a kid, I was really into spooky things and I was never easily frightened. I never had any kind of ghostly experience though. If you can imagine it, I never even believed in ghosts! It was just a topic I found interesting and that fell into my writing naturally.

The next morning, Taerae completes his entire morning routine and cleans another part of the house without so much as a glimpse of Jiwoong or Riceball. He had started to seriously consider it just a particularly concerning hallucination, until he’d sat at his desk to work on his book and found a steaming mug of tea placed neatly on a coaster beside his laptop. He blinks at it like it’ll disappear. It does not.

He’s creeped out all over again, but perhaps that makes a better horror fiction writer. He plugs in his laptop – it’s hard to accept Jiwoong had been in here, reading his work when he wasn’t here – and turns it on, resolving to work until the afternoon.

It’s a tough couple of hours with minimal progress and a lot of stressed out sighing. Taerae’s eyes stray to the window, where he can see the ocean. Isn’t the sea supposed to help spur creativity?

“You were in the attic?” a voice says suddenly. Taerae’s head spins around to scan the room, but it’s empty. “Up here.”

He looks up and screams – it is, in retrospect, an embarrassing reaction, but Jiwoong is poking his head through the ceiling like it’s a window and Taerae had quite peacefully deleted the stranger parts of yesterday from his mind by now.

“Sorry,” Jiwoong says, not looking sorry. “I don’t even remember what I did with the key. Nobody’s ever been up here. Where was it?”

“Stop doing that!” Taerae says, clutching his chest. Jiwoong’s head disappears, and he only gets several seconds of recovery time before Jiwoong politely opens his bedroom door.

“Where was it?” he repeats, looking over at where Taerae is still half-paralyzed in panic.

“Taped under the desk,” Taerae says slowly. Jiwoong scrunches up his face in confusion.

“That’s weird of me. I didn’t want them getting rid of my painting things, but frankly, I totally forgot what I did with that key. Kind of crime novel of me, right?”

“The paintings are yours?” Taerae asks, but it’s mostly rhetorical because… of course. It makes sense. The wet paint. The lack of footprints. The paintings of Riceball.

Jiwoong leans in the doorway, looking thoughtful. “Yeah. You were in the attic yesterday?”

Taerae nods, unsure where this is going for a moment, but then it clicks into place. “You think it’s linked?”

“I did theorize for a while that my paintings were part of what kept me here. Why else would I get stuck here specifically, when they’re the only thing of mine still here? Maybe messing with my paintings let you see me. It’d be a weird coincidence, otherwise. Nobody else could.”

“You think moving the paintings would move you?” Taerae asks curiously, and Jiwoong shrugs in response.

His eyes shift to the empty mug. “Was the tea okay?”

The gesture is needlessly kind, and really weird coming from a ghost. A ghost! In his house. A ghost that made him tea. Embarrassed, Taerae crosses his arms. “I prefer coffee.”

Jiwoong just smiles. “Noted.”

Taerae returns to his writing, and realizes throughout the day that Jiwoong is incredibly good at avoiding him. No matter where he walks in the house, it’s empty, and the one time he is out of his room for several minutes he returns to a cup of coffee left beside his laptop. It’s nice to pretend his home isn’t literally being haunted, but there is also part of him that wants to sit Jiwoong down and ask him a thousand questions.

It isn’t until he’s making dinner that he finally has company – a particularly longing looking Jiwoong peering into the kitchen.

“I’m going to guess ghosts can’t eat,” Taerae says, glancing up.

“No, and it’s been the worst part,” Jiwoong says mournfully. He hovers around like he wants to be helpful for a bit, but Taerae doesn’t particularly feel like having a ghost help him cook. Not that he doesn’t trust him per se, but… Well.

“I was thinking about what you said, with your paintings,” Taerae says absentmindedly, not looking up. “If you’re tied to your paintings, it has to be something to do with effort, right? So like, if I finished my book and really put my heart and soul into it, I could get stuck with it when I died?”

“Do I look like some kind of ghost encyclopedia?” Jiwoong says with a smile. “I hardly know more than you do. I’ve been incredibly bored here for the last six years, honestly. It’s just a theory.”

“Well, you’d know more than me, since my book is so very incorrect according to you,” Taerae retorts, turning around and putting his hands on his hips.

“I could help with that if you were willing to ask me things,” Jiwoong teases. “Isn’t it supposed to be a scary book? It isn’t even scary.”

Operating on habit, Taerae moves to jokingly smack Jiwoong on his arm. His hand could definitely just pass right through, but Jiwoong leaps out of the way anyway, grinning. Taerae grabs an empty bowl off the counter and pretends he is going to throw it, and Jiwoong bursts out laughing. He leans in to take Taerae by his wrist to take the bowl off him, but his focus must falter because the fingers glide seamlessly though Taerae’s arm. For a brief moment, Taerae feels ice cold, a middle-of-winter chill that creeps rapidly through his skin and muscle and embeds itself into his bones. It isn’t unlike the sensation of an electric shock, and his hand jolts back automatically.

“What the fuck.” The feeling is gone the moment they stop touching, having disappeared so quickly he could have imagined it.

“Sorry, my bad,” Jiwoong says, retracting his own hand.

Disconcerted, Taerae slips back against the counter. On top of all the new information of the last few days, he is now experiencing entirely new sensations. Fantastic. Jiwoong steps back and leans against the doorway, looking at his own hand. When he isn’t trying to hide his laughter, he’s surprisingly hard to read. On the smallest off chance that he feels bad, Taerae feels a need to keep talking.

“Fine, I’ll bite. How did you die?”

“I was murdered tragically in this very room.”

Taerae gapes. “Seriously?”

“No,” Jiwoong chuckles. So much for Taerae being worried. “I drowned. In the sea, actually. It was pretty uneventful.”

“Asshole. And how can you call any death uneventful? You were so young.”

Jiwoong shrugs. “I lived alone, I moved here for the peace and quiet. Nobody had to watch me die or anything. Drowning feels weird, but it doesn’t really hurt or anything.”

“Still.” Taerae looks away, past the condensation building on the window panes. The sea blankets the entire horizon, an endless reaching blue. He’d thought it quite comforting when he moved in, but now it’s almost foreboding, just a little. “How do you accidentally drown?”

“You saw my paintings, right? I used to go out to sea to paint. That little wooden boat out front – would you believe it was mine?” He gestures vaguely with a smile. “There was a really bad storm. I love the ocean, but she clearly did not love me.”

Taerae hums, fascinated. He turns back to his cooking and finds vegetables burning in his pan. Does this house have a fire alarm? Is it even legal to sell one without?

When he looks up a few minutes later, Jiwoong is no longer hovering. He’d silently disappeared into the house, as quietly as he came.

4. You're pretty reclusive as an author, and we're flattered you even accepted an online interview when you turn so many down. What keeps you out of the public eye?

I actually live quite literally in the middle of nowhere. It's a small, quiet place I moved into with the hope of finding some inspiration and peace. I couldn't imagine travelling around giving interviews just for my books! I am very content with a quiet life.

Taerae groans and takes off his glasses just to shove the palms of his hands into his eyes like it will reset his brain. He’s spent so much time staring at screens lately that he’s starting to lose his mind. When this house is quiet, it’s entirely quiet. Nobody else making noise. No sounds of life from outside. The closest he ever gets to background noise is the sound of the tree leaves rustling in particularly windy moments, or the rumble of the sea if he cracks open a window.

There’s a radio in the bedroom, but it’s so incredibly rough looking that he isn’t even sure it works. It came with the house, so who even knows how old it is? Perhaps he could get it to work, or buy a new one. Maybe that would help his brain move at a pace faster than a snail.

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door. He hums in acknowledgement, and is pleased by how little his heart reacts when Jiwoong’s hand accidentally slips through the door, failing to grab the doorknob. The hand disappears and his door opens normally, and Taerae realizes at once that Jiwoong has been trying to avoid any strange ‘ghosty’ things in front of him.

“Do you own a screwdriver?” Jiwoong asks unexpectedly.

Taerae frowns and puts his glasses back on. “What could you possibly need a screwdriver for?”

“I’m trying to fix your heating but I need to get into the panel under the stairs,” he replies, like that’s completely normal. Taerae stares at him, baffled.

“Um,” he says eventually, when Jiwoong is just looking at him expectantly. “There’s utility stuff in the cardboard box right by the front door. I haven’t unpacked it yet.”

“Thanks. How’s writing going?”

Taerae sighs in melodramatic fashion, spinning a circle in his chair.

“That bad, huh?” Jiwoong laughs.

“I had such an easy time writing my first book,” Taerae explains. “It got picked up for publishing so fast, and the reception was so great, and it feels like the expectations are set so high.” He sighs again and squivels in his chair to face Jiwoong properly. “I just can’t write, I don’t know what it is. I always wanted to move somewhere really quiet, ideally by the sea, thinking it would spur some creativity. It isn’t helping, though.”

“And there’s a ghost in your house!” Jiwoong continues dramatically.

“And a ghost cat! Can’t catch a break, seriously,” Taerae laughs.

“Well, artist to artist,” Jiwoong says slowly, expression falling back to a thoughtful neutral, “You can’t constantly create new things and expect them to be up to some kind of standard set by your previous work. I’d argue the best work is made when you love what you’re making. If you’re struggling so much with your current book, why are you forcing it instead of trying something a little new?”

Taerae is stunned for a moment, then huffs a laugh. “Wow, ghosts are wise, huh?”

“Nothing to do with being a ghost. That’s all me,” Jiwoong says jokingly. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.”

Taerae isn’t sure what possesses him, but he feels a sudden need to extend some kind of olive branch. It’s not like it’s been awkward necessarily, but Jiwoong has clearly been politely avoiding him because of his initial dramatic display. While also fixing his house, apparently. Which was Jiwoong’s first. Taerae can’t help it, he just feels bad.

“Wait, before you go, I was wondering…” Taerae says, glancing off to the side. “Do you want to keep your paintings in the attic? Because, no pressure or anything, but it seems like a waste, so… If you wanted, we could put them up around the house. If you want. Obviously not, if you don’t.”

He’s rambling and uncomfortably aware of it, but when he looks back, Jiwoong is grinning.

“Sure, if you like them,” he says simply. He’s incredibly good at making things feel easy, Taerae realizes. It’s comforting. As much as a ghost can be comforting.

It’s how, a couple hours of working later, Taerae finds himself stressfully staring at rows of paintings while crouched opposite a ghost with a drill in his hand.

“I don’t know if I can pick,” he admits.

“Your house, technically,” Jiwoong says. “Up to you. Plus, I’m the one actually putting them up. Has to be a dual effort somehow.”

Reluctantly, Taerae settles on three paintings of the ocean for the living room, two of the more recent abstract paintings for the hallway, and the paintings of Riceball for his bedroom. They’re too cute to pass up, after all.

“Do you know how to work the radio in the bedroom?” Taerae asks, watching Jiwoong hang the last canvas. Thank god his home is haunted by someone that knows how to use power tools, because he most definitely does not.

Jiwoong stops what he’s doing and looks at him, surprised. “Yeah. You like music?”

“I used to sing and play guitar,” Taerae says, feeling a little shy. “My friends from home and I were in a band in school.”

“Really? I bet you were good. You look like you can sing,” Jiwoong says. Whatever that means. “Why did you stop?”

Taerae shrugs. “It just happened naturally when I got more into writing. I do miss it occasionally, though. I like to think I’d remember how to, given the chance.”

Jiwoong returns to affixing the last canvas to the wall. “This town holds a lot of arts festivals around the year. If you’re okay with an audience, they’d probably love to hear a song.”

An audience! It’s been so long since Taerae performed in front of anyone. The thought is as embarrassing as it is appealing, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I like music a lot too,” Jiwoong adds eventually, finished with the paintings. “I’ll make sure the radio works fine today, I’ve never touched it directly so I’ll have to check how that works.”

Watching Jiwoong step back, then step forward and slightly angle the painting to straighten it, Taerae can’t help but wonder if Jiwoong used the radio a lot. There can’t be many things for a ghost trapped in a house to do. Was that something he had to give up whenever people moved in? He hasn’t touched it in the time Taerae has been here.

“If you died right now, you’d be stuck wearing that forever, by the way,” Jiwoong comments.

Taerae pauses. “Why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing?”

Jiwoong looks at him, face carefully blank. “I didn’t say that. You’re reading into it.”

Taerae rolls his eyes. I was just thinking nice, empathetic things about you. He looks down at his bright yellow hoodie and colourful patchwork jeans, then up at Jiwoong’s tidy sweater and well-fit pants. It doesn’t seem fair, honestly. If he looked like Jiwoong he would probably dress like that too.

The idea that you could accidentally get stuck in any outfit will now plague Taerae forever. Pajamas? Naked, even? He ponders this as he watches Jiwoong pack up the drill and collect the leftover screws.

“By the way,” he says quickly, not looking up, before Jiwoong can wander off and disappear all day. “I don’t actually care about you being in the house. Or walking through stuff or whatever. I imagine it’s easier than trying to use doors every time.”

Jiwoong gives him a genuine smile. “If you say so.”

5. Despite the similar subject matter, your books have very different tones. Could you take us through the lifespan of your writing, from the beginning to now?

Like I said, I just write what I enjoy. I follow where inspiration takes me, even if it isn't entirely linear. I really didn't expect my second book to take off, considering how different it is. So, I guess I don’t really have a lifespan in my writing that I can explain. Just make what you love.

It’s sometime within the next two weeks, somewhere between the daily coffees left on his desk and occasional lighthearted passing conversations, between the cold cat frequently curled on his lap and the radio turning on without him touching it, that Taerae realizes he has fallen into a domestic routine with a ghost. They do not necessarily talk often – Taerae is pretty sure that Jiwoong still somewhat avoids him to give him his own space – but they’re friendly. It’s like having a roommate. A really polite, really hot roommate that walks through walls.

He is contemplating this thought in silence while watching Jiwoong paint. After some insistence, the easel and paints were moved to the guest room, so at least he has some natural sunlight and a view of the ocean that he likes to paint so much. Taerae typically tries to leave him alone when he does so, as not everyone wants someone over their shoulder while they work, but he’d been called in for his opinion – ridiculous, really, because Taerae knows nothing about art – and had found himself curious.

If Jiwoong has to focus every time he wants to pick something up, Taerae wonders, perhaps holding a paintbrush makes painting take twice the amount of effort now. Not that it shows. Jiwoong paints like it’s breathing. It’s fascinating to watch.

“What are you thinking about?” Jiwoong says suddenly, not turning around.

“Honestly?” Taerae says. “I’m thinking that maybe I’ve gone crazy. Totally lost it. Or maybe that I hit my head walking into the house for the first time, and I’ve just been hallucinating this entire time.”

Jiwoong turns around just to wink. “Your hallucinations have taste.”

“Ha ha,” Taerae says mockingly, but if he’s hallucinating, his hallucinations really do have taste.

“The world is far grander than any of us could even fathom. Our experiences are awfully limited; ghosts are just one thing you couldn’t have anticipated. Think of all the things we’ll never know. You have to walk through life with your eyes wide open. Who knows what you’ll miss if you don’t?”

“There he does again, waxing poetic out of nowhere,” Taerae teases. It makes Jiwoong laugh, which is always like some kind of reward. He loves saying the kind of thing that makes you roll your eyes, but that also settles within you and later develops into something truly heartwarming.

“You spooked everyone else out of this house, right? Why did you let me stay?” Taerae asks.

“Do you want me to call you special?” Jiwoong teases back, and when Taerae starts spluttering, he continues, “It would have been hard, since you could see me. But I’d have let you stay even if you couldn’t. You weren’t loud, you were kind to Riceball, and I liked getting to read your book.”

Taerae frowns. “You said it sucked.”

“Your ghost stuff is incredibly inaccurate. Your writing is great, though. You’re a really good author.”

“Ghosts are supposed to be made up, how would I know it was inaccurate!” Taerae argues, throwing up his hands in frustration.

There’s a little chirping noise beneath him. Riceball rubs herself against his ankles from wherever she has materialized, tail curling around his legs, then wanders over to do the same to Jiwoong.

“By the way,” Taerae says lightly, trailing her movements with his eyes. “My friends from home are visiting tomorrow, so no…” He gestures vaguely. “Y’know.”

Jiwoong turns fully around this time and raises an eyebrow. He has paint on his jaw, Taerae notices. “No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

“Don’t keep teasing me. No making the house all… Haunted.”

“I have terrible news for you,” Jiwoong scoffs. “The house is haunted. And I’m a great roommate.”

“You’re literally a ghost. You’re a terrible roommate.”

Jiwoong looks scandalized. “I am not! I clean, I make coffee, I fix things, I feed the cat–”

“The cat doesn’t need feeding! She doesn’t even eat!” Taerae says, pointing at where Riceball is inadvertently huffing paint fumes from the palettes she’s sniffing.

“She likes to try! Be nice to her!” Jiwoong crosses his arms, looking as close to offended as he ever has before. Honestly, Taerae loves cats, loves having one that costs absolutely nothing, and generally just loves Riceball. It’s still entertaining to watch Jiwoong jump to defend her, though.

“Sometimes I wonder if she wanted me to find the key on purpose,” Taerae says.

It’s an effort to be amicable, he’s sort of expecting Jiwoong to agree enthusiastically and talk about how smart she is and how she definitely understands far more than either of them ever could. Instead, he looks at Taerae strangely.

“She’s a cat?” he says.

Whatever. Taerae huffs, and it makes the corners of Jiwoong’s mouth do the little tilting thing.

“Grab her for me for a sec,” he continues.

Taerae is confused, but stands to scoop up Riceball. She makes a little noise of discontent as he does so. He watches Jiwoong take out a smaller tube of paint, different to the rest, put some on a paintbrush and begin carefully applying it to Riceball’s paw. It’s obvious she is used to this as she doesn’t fight the process, but Taerae can feel her beginning to fidget from being held too long.

“Okay,” Jiwoong says, stepping back and pointing at the corner of the canvas. “Right here.”

Taerae follows his gesture and takes Riceball’s paw, pressing it to the canvas as dictated. It leaves a little pawprint, matching that on all of Jiwoong’s paintings. A thought occurs to him.

“Jiwoong,” he says, trying to stabilize Riceball as she shuffles around in annoyance. “Is Riceball also tied here by your paintings because of this?”

Jiwoong widens his eyes a little. “If our theory is that the effort put into my work is keeping me here…” He hums, and turns to stick the paintbrush into a jar of water. “Maybe she also cares about the paintings?”

“She’s a cat?” Taerae echoes, doing his best to mimic the look Jiwoong gave him earlier.

Jiwoong narrows his eyes. “Very funny. You can go wash her for me, now.”

“I can what? ” Taerae says, alarmed. He tightens his hold on the writhing cat.

“Well, the paint can’t stay on her.” Jiwoong smiles, but he’s teasing again, it’s obvious.

Riceball breaks his grip and performs some kind of acrobatic trick to free herself that smears paint all across Taerae’s cheek. He turns to watch her sprint out of the room, leaving an obvious colorful path behind her.

“Your help is appreciated,” Jiwoong says, eyes on his painting but smile still obvious.

6. What advice can you give to writers that want to experiment with different genres?

I'd recommend trying not to lock yourself into a box. I mentioned writing what you love, and I think that's important. Try a lot of different things, even things you're not sure you'd be good at.

“Taerae! I missed you! My little yearning seaside artist. God, they grow up so fast.”

Taerae loves his friends, truly, but the speed at which Matthew jumps in the door, yells at him, and flings his entire body into Taerae’s arms rapidly knocks the breath straight out of him. Hao trails in and throws himself into the hug, but Hanbin is kind enough to wait until Taerae can breathe again.

“This place is cute,” Hao says, unwrapping layers of scarf and coat. “A bit grandma, but it can be fixed.”

“Did you move in okay?” Hanbin asks. “We would have helped.”

“It was fine, I didn’t want you to take a day off work. It was manageable for me.”

Taerae walks his friends around the house, listening to Hao’s advice – honestly, useful advice – on making the space more homely. Matthew trails behind, testing every door and cupboard that squeaks from the slightest movement.

“Well, I want updates,” Taerae says eventually, walking back downstairs to stop in the hallway. “Knowing you guys, ten different things happened in the few weeks I was gone that you’ll have to tell me about. I’ll make coffee.”

Hanbin nods, smiling, but there’s a sudden, comically loud bang from upstairs that freezes them all in place.

“Sorry, this house is… really windy,” Taerae says, putting on his best ‘I’m not harboring a grown man in my attic’ face. Instantly there’s another bang, then a clatter, then Riceball comes skittering down the stairs, tail fluffed up, packet of cat treats in her mouth, and Jiwoong hot on her heels. Taerae goes really still.

“Oh, you have cat?” Hanbin says, brightening. Riceball slips through their legs and Jiwoong starts weaseling his way around the group in the hallway instead of just politely walking through a wall or something.

“Rice, drop it!” Jiwoong demands, and Taerae holds in an instinctive gasp at the bone-chilling sensation of the ghost accidentally brushing through him in passing. “Those are years out of date!”

“Um, sort of,” Taerae says, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. “She was a stray living on the– the porch.”

“And yet you bought her treats. I think that’s your cat,” Matthew laughs. “Aren’t you going to go take those off her?”

“Right,” Taerae says, because that is in fact the normal thing to do when a ghost is not involved. He leaves his friends to settle in the living room and chases the sounds of battle to the kitchen where Riceball has found herself on top of the overhead cabinets. Jiwoong has one leg on the counter mid-climb when Taerae walks in, which he slowly retracts.

“Seriously?” Taerae whispers, and Jiwoong doesn’t even have the decency to look a little guilty. Instead, he gestures Taerae closer, then pulls him in by the arm.

“She’s cornered, grab her,” he says, placing two firm hands on Taerae’s waist and lifting him. One moment he’s on the ground and the next he’s face-to-face with Riceball, who looks just as guilty as her owner – which is to say, not at all. He grabs her while she yowls in a dramatic protest, and then finds his feet back on the floorboards with a wriggling mass in his hands. When Jiwoong removes his hands the spots he leaves feel oddly cold without the contact, which makes absolutely no sense to Taerae, with ghosts producing no body heat and all. The treat bag is taken away, and a released Riceball walks away with visible indignance.

Taerae spins around. “Can you please just act normal for a couple of hours?” he whisper-shouts.

Jiwoong looks at him blankly, but Taerae knows better. The corners of his mouth betray when he finds something funny. “I’m normal.”

“I’m not dealing with this right now. Please don’t touch anything.” He walks away to find his friends, and is almost convinced he can hear Jiwoong smiling behind him.

“What happened to the coffee?” Matthew asks, grinning, when Taerae walks into the living room. Damn it. He pivots and walks back to the kitchen, but Jiwoong has disappeared already, leaving no sign he was even there.

When he is later sending his friends off, Riceball is sitting on the stairs, watching with wide eyes. Hanbin coos and tries to pet her, but she skitters quickly up the stairs at the attention. How he earned this cat’s affection so quickly is beyond Taerae.

“We’ll come back soon,” Matthew promises, giving Taerae another bone-crushing hug. “It feels weird without you.”

For a moment, Taerae feels a rush of longing for the life he had, but he knows he doesn’t miss it. He just misses his friends, terribly. He misses picking fights with Hao that Hanbin tries to break up, that devolves into them both ganging up on him. He misses Matthew nearly burning the kitchen down, and watching Hanbin’s choreography videos in a little group on the couch, and falling asleep in Hao’s bed when he wants company, only to get the blankets stolen entirely.

“I miss you guys,” is all Taerae says. It’s only been weeks. Maybe they were a little codependent, if four people with wildly different jobs can even be codependent. Still, he loves this house. He loves the quiet. Maybe the longing would feel worse if he felt lonely here, but he isn’t ever actually alone.

Matthew squeezes tighter, and the other two join the hug, and Taerae drinks up the moment. Or, he would, if there wasn’t another notable thud from upstairs, making Hao jump hard enough to clip his head into Taerae’s jaw, hard.

“At least your cat keeps you company,” Hanbin jokes on his way out.

The exact second the front door is closed, Taerae sprints up the stairs and checks every room. He finds Jiwoong and Riceball in his bedroom, standing face-to-face like they’re having a very serious conversation. Both sets of eyes turn to him. Neither looks ashamed in any way.

“You!” Taerae says, walking over to Jiwoong and pointing at him threateningly. “I asked you to be normal! This house is so quiet all the time, and suddenly when there are guests, you have to start haunting or whatever it is you–” He stops as he realizes Jiwoong is slowly stepping back into the wall behind him. “Hey, you can’t just leave whenever I– Hey!”

Taerae is left staring at the patterned wallpaper. He pauses, offended, then runs out of the doorway and into the neighboring guestroom. Jiwoong turns, looks at him, then slips straight back through into the bedroom.

“Jiwoong!” Taerae yells, turning and running back. This time, he leaps over to grab onto Jiwoong’s arm, who clearly lets him as his hand finds purchase on chilled fabric. “Do you think you’re funny?”

“Yeah,” Jiwoong says honestly, grinning with full charm on display. Some tiny thing in Taerae’s stomach reacts to it.

Taerae just frowns and tugs Jiwoong further into the middle of the room.

“I’d like to argue my case that I did not make a single noise the entire time,” Jiwoong continues, allowing himself to be pulled. “She should be on trial, not me.” He gestures to Riceball, who has not moved from her spot on the floor, watching them with indifferent eyes.

“You’re both insufferable,” Taerae decides, pointing at both of them in turn. “I don’t care who is responsible. I need you both to act normal sometimes . Am I asking for a lot?”

Jiwoong smiles at him again, and Riceball just flicks her tail, completely unbothered. Taerae sighs.

“I’ve been rewriting some concepts for my book,” he says, switching his focus fully to Jiwoong. “I’m just testing out some genres outside of the horror thing. I wanted to get some opinions from my friends, but maybe I can show you first and you can tell me if my ghost logic is dumb again.”

This seems to surprise Jiwoong. “Of course.”

Riceball finally decides she is no longer going to be involved in this situation, standing up and walking out of the room with her tail in the air. Must be nice to leave as soon as you’re bored.

“Your friends seem nice, by the way,” Jiwoong adds.

“Were you listening? Mind your own business,” Taerae scolds, finding himself strangely embarrassed.

“You guys are very loud,” is all Jiwoong says, and this time he doesn’t let Taerae’s hand find purchase when he goes to whack his arm. It throws off his balance and he yelps at the sudden cold, leaving Jiwoong with the last laugh.

7. What inspired you to become a writer?

I've always loved reading, and I found myself falling into it naturally during school. I'm sure what I wrote was mediocre at best back then, but I just kept going all through college, and my first book almost wrote itself!

When Taerae sits down to look at his laptop the next morning, he does a double take. Every idea and short test passage is thoughtfully annotated with notes. He’s baffled. At the bottom of his document is a scruffy doodle of Riceball, clearly done with the trackpad. Annoyingly, it’s really good.

Around midday he finds Gunwook and Ricky at his door holding many empty bags and offering to take him to get groceries so they can show him around properly. It’s unexpectedly cute, so Taerae agrees and finds himself trailing around the town for hours. Gunwook is really good at yapping about anything, but Ricky seems to enjoy reading a lot, so they have plenty in common to talk about.

This ends up becoming another puzzle piece in his routine. Gunwook and Ricky will often just show up, and Ricky ends up adding his number so he can at least warn Taerae of Gunwook’s impulsive visits.

“Oh, you made coffee! You’re the best neighbor ever.” Gunwook says one morning, shuffling past him with hands grabbing in the direction of the counter – which now miraculously contains three steaming cups. “I’m so cold my fingers could fall off.”

“Yes,” Taerae says robotically. “I made coffee.” He did not, in fact, make coffee.

“You really have broken the curse of this house,” Ricky says when they sit in the living room. “So, what’s the review? Is it as haunted as they say?”

“I think the cat might be a ghost,” Taerae jokes. Riceball is sitting in the doorway to the hall, tail curled neatly over her paws. Ricky looks like he really, really wants to pet her, but knows she won’t let him.

“I’d believe it. That cat has a real creepy vibe,” Gunwook says, like he hasn’t pspspsp ’d at her every single time he’s seen her pass by.

“I was actually wondering,” Taerae says, mostly directing his attention to Ricky, “If you’d be interested in maybe looking at some of the things I’ve been writing.”

Ricky tries to look coolly indifferent, but his hands tighten on his mug and his eyes open a fraction bigger. “Sure, what have you been working on?”

“Well, one second.” Taerae leaves his coffee and heads upstairs to go get his laptop, stepping over Riceball who promptly stands up to trail him all the way to the bedroom and back. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to try a slightly different genre,” Taerae continues, returning to his seat. “I’m still interested in ghost stories, but the atmosphere of this place doesn’t really lend itself to horror. I was just testing out some things. If you could tell me what you think, it would actually help a lot.”

He passes his laptop to Ricky who proceeds to browse the document – carefully cleared of signs of Jiwoong – with Gunwook reading over his shoulder.

“If you want my opinion,” Ricky says after ten minutes of nerve-wracking silence, “I like the romcom feeling one.” He spins the laptop around to point at the last few pages of the document, where the text stares back at Taerae, mocking him.

Taerae feels his cheeks warm like he’s being called out for some terrible secret. It’s a totally irrational feeling because it’s a concept he wrote, and it’s entirely baseless, and has absolutely no real life counterpart, and it’s completely made up. Really.

“Huh. I wasn’t expecting that. I was leaning towards the historical one.”

“I might be biased, I actually really like romance,” Ricky confesses, surprising Taerae again. “But this concept is honestly very cute, and I love what I’ve read so far.”

“Would it not be weird to write a romcom style book after publishing a horror?” Taerae asks, willing his face to cool down.

Ricky shakes his head. “You said you wanted to try something different. Plus, I think the tone of this would really fit this kind of setting.” He gestures generally to the window and its view of the area. “It would probably be easier to immerse yourself if you can experience a similar setting firsthand.”

It’s great advice. Internally, Taerae wails in agony, like he didn’t put himself in this exact position. He takes the laptop back and stares at the screen. Maybe he can consider it. After all, it wouldn’t be weird or anything. It’s just a story.

“Thanks,” he tells Ricky.

8. How do you handle the typical writer's block?

I don't! You should see how many times I sat staring at my laptop, achieving absolutely nothing. Sometimes you just need to try new things and talk to people for their input. Something might kickstart your ideas again.

The next day brings an angry storm. Taerae has never experienced a storm so close to the sea, and it's as if the ocean itself spurs it on, encouraging it to be twice as loud and twice as aggressive.

He’s watching Jiwoong paint in silence, cup of coffee in his hand, enjoying the break from writing. It’s anything but quiet, rain battering the windows and thunder rolling in the distance. Riceball has curated a perfect loaf shape beside him, unaffected by the noise.

“I wonder if you are tied to the house,” Taerae says suddenly. “Or just the paintings themselves.”

Jiwoong stops painting. “What do you mean?”

“Like, could we theoretically bring you somewhere? If we took the paintings? Have you tried it?”

Jiwoong turns and looks at him with wide eyes. “No, I just sort of assumed I couldn’t leave. Ghosts haunt houses, right?”

“Who’s the one relying on ghost media now?” Taerae laughs.

“We don’t even know for sure if the paintings are tying me here, it was just a theory.” Jiwoong turns back to his work.

Taerae considers being able to help Jiwoong leave the house. He could accompany Taerae to town. Visit the sea again. An unanticipated feeling of yearning fills him. He couldn’t imagine being stuck in one building for years. Jiwoong always seems unbothered, but he is never really sure if he truly is unbothered, or if he has simply mastered the art of pretending he is.

“Let’s test it,” Taerae says.

“Right now?” Jiwoong says, frowning.

“Yeah, why not?”

Jiwoong turns back around fully, frown deepening. “Have you seen outside?”

“Don’t you want to try?” Taerae urges. “What if it works? Aren’t you curious? This could change everything.”

“It can wait.”

“It’s just a storm.”

“I’m starting to think you’re more excited about this than me.” Honestly, it’s probably true. Taerae hesitates for a moment.

“I just feel like, if I were you, I’d be jumping up and down at the thought,” Taerae says. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Jiwoong looks at him, something between purposeful and ‘seriously’ ?

“There’s just no need. I am excited, and it’s a good idea. We can test it sometime. There is no rush, though, and there’s no need to try anything stupid. I’m just trying to protect you,” Jiwoong says calmly.

“You couldn’t even protect yourself!” Taerae says. “You’re literally dead!”

It’s mostly supposed to be a joke. It doesn’t come out sounding how it does in his head and, for a split second, it feels like one of those moments that should cross a line, and with most people it probably would. Jiwoong, however, seems totally unperturbed by Taerae’s bluntness, and just looks comically scandalized.

“Talk about uncalled for. I’d like to see you pick a fight with the literal ocean. People die in way more embarrassing ways.”

Taerae lets out a sigh, but he thinks it might be more out of relief than annoyance. He feels the fight leave him with how Jiwoong is looking at him, gentle, and like he wants to laugh. Unable to hold the gaze, he looks away.

I’m just trying to protect you. It’s silly and just some offhand comment spurred by Taerae’s stupidity, but his stomach reacts anyway, uncaring of how his brain feels about it.

“Fine,” he concedes, not letting himself stew in any strange feelings.

Later that night, he is tucked up beneath layers of blankets in bed to work on his book. He has written more in the past week than he has in months, and it’s strange to have his motivation back. It’s almost like the words write themselves, and he’s forgotten how that feels.

It’s late in the night when Taerae finally flips the laptop shut and sets it on the floor. At some point, Riceball has wormed her way under his sheets.

The storm rages on in the silence. The press of Riceball’s fur against his leg is oddly comforting despite the lack of warmth. He can hear the crashing of the sea against the rocks like some kind of vicious, wild animal. His thoughts drift to Jiwoong. Do storms frighten him? he thinks. They would, right? After all, they unsettle Taerae, and he most definitely has not died in one. Was this why he was so cautious earlier?

“Jiwoong!” he calls, suddenly concerned. The sound is eaten by the rumble of thunder, sounding so close he half-expects the house to shake. “Jiwoong?”

His bedroom door cracks open and Jiwoong’s face peers through. Instantly, Taerae feels ridiculous, because Jiwoong looks entirely fine as he always does.

“Um,” Taerae says intelligently. “Do you want to sleep in here tonight?”

Jiwoong steps fully into the room and is bathed in silver light from the uncovered window. He seems visibly amused, and Taerae feels twice as stupid. How would he have survived the last six years in this house alone if he was afraid of storms?

Instead of justifiably making fun of Taerae – can ghosts even sleep? What was he thinking? – he clicks the door shut behind him and says, “Sure, move over.”

Feeling awkward, Taerae scoots along, disturbing the lump that is Riceball against his legs. Jiwoong slips beneath the covers beside him and his cat crawls up to curl into the space beneath his chin. The temperature of the sheets noticeably dips a few degrees.

After a few moments, Taerae quietly turns on his side. Jiwoong’s eyes are closed and his hair is splayed across the pillow. The soft rumble of Riceball’s purr is audible even over the storm outside. Like this, he could be like any other human. He looks perfectly alive. The only tell is the way that, laying totally still beneath the glow of the soft moonlight, his skin looks white and a little shimmery, almost like the surface of a disturbed pond. He really is pretty, Taerae thinks, because anyone with eyes could see that. His beauty is locked cleanly in place from the day he died, dark eyelashes and youthful tilt to the corners of his lips.

“Are you going to stare at me all night or sleep?” Jiwoong says suddenly, not opening his eyes.

“I wasn’t staring,” Taerae says quickly. He had no way of knowing that! Embarrassed, he closes his own eyes. The surrealness of the situation has little time to eat at him, as the noise of the thundering storm finds itself becoming oddly soothing as it climbs its way slowly across the sea and away from the house. Sleep takes him abruptly, the sound of purring a close comfort.

9. If you weren't writing, what do you think you'd be doing for a living?

Back when I was in school, I was in a band. (laughs) Shocking, right? I used to sing and play guitar. I think I'd still be doing that. I fell out of it for a while, but I've been slowly getting back into it lately.

“Okay,” Taerae says, opening the front door. Jiwoong is holding some small canvas, barely larger than three inches, with the tiniest painting of Riceball on it. Taerae thinks it’s incredibly cute, actually, and he sort of wants to ask to have it on his desk. “Go ahead.”

Jiwoong hesitantly places a hand against the space where front door stood. “No, it’s still solid.”

Taerae holds out his hand. “Give it to me, instead.”

Jiwoong raises a confused eyebrow, but takes the canvas and places it in the other’s palm. Taerae opens the front door and steps outside into the early morning chill. He huffs out a breath that creates a plume of condensation. Jiwoong reaches out a hand, but it rests flat against the space in the doorway, and he retracts it in disappointment.

Determined, Taerae steps forward and takes Jiwoong’s hand, then tries to pull it through the invisible barrier himself. Instantly, the hand follows his through the doorway, and Taerae keeps walking backwards until Jiwoong stumbles onto the path. He stands there gaping until Taerae attempts to take his hand back; his eyes lock back onto Taerae, and his grip tightens.

“Wait, what happens if you let go?” he says, alarmed. It’s a funny expression on Jiwoong, one Taerae has yet to see.

“Well, we have to test it right? This isn’t practical,” Taerae replies, getting déjà vu to their first awkward handshake-handhold. Slowly, Jiwoong releases his grip, and drops his arm down to his side. Taerae abruptly misses the contact, and the thought rudely smacks him before he can tuck it away.

“Didn’t explode,” Jiwoong jokes, but he’s back to looking around like some starry-eyed kid. His hair buffets in the wind like any other person, and unbidden joy rises in Taerae.

“What can I say? I’m a genius,” he laughs.

Jiwoong turns to look at him properly, and it’s probably entirely in Taerae’s head, but he swears he can physically feel the moment stretch out, like something in the air itself is waiting on them to catch up.

“You are,” Jiwoong says seriously, smile wide. Taerae breathes in quickly, hopes it isn’t audible, and looks away.

“Let’s try going for a walk. We can test if there’s a distance limit or something,” he says, breaking that strange moment himself. Jiwoong hums in agreement, and follows after him with more enthusiasm than he has ever seen.

“We make every single person in the town touch your paintings,” Taerae is ranting after a few minutes of walking. “Then you’re just a normal person to them.”

“That’s still relying on the unproven touching-the-paintings theory. And what about all the people who knew me when I lived here? They’ll think I rose from the dead,” Jiwoong counters.

“You’re kind of ruining my elaborate plans right now. We could at least test it with my friends, right? Then you’d have some more people to talk to. If you wanted, that is,” Taerae adds quickly.

“Do I look normal enough? I feel like I look a little…” He holds up a hand and waves his fingers, displaying the slight blurring effect.

“I didn’t notice it on Riceball, or on you, really, until I thought to look for it.”

“Hm. Can we go down there?” Jiwoong asks suddenly, gesturing over to the ocean. The higher parts of the cliff tumble down into flatter rock, and later down into beaches in the distance. The closest they could get would be a dock that stretches out above the waves, unless they wanted to walk all the way along to the faraway sands.

“It’ll be cold. Maybe we go get coffee first,” Taerae suggests. Jiwoong hums in agreement and walks in time with him, step by step, to town; his eyes catch on every little thing, really taking it in with the eye of an artist who has been kept in the darkness for too long.

A short time later and Taerae is glad for the coffee. The sea air is dry and cool in the wake of the storm. The wood of the dock is a little sticky from the salt, but the rushing of water beneath them is a soothing, repetitive song.

Beside him, Jiwoong’s hair is ruffled messily from the force of the wind, eyes glued to the horizon. He’s holding a cup of coffee he can’t drink, but that Taerae bought for him anyway because he likes the warmth of the cup. He looks like he’s where he’s supposed to be, against the backdrop of the sea.

I wish you were human, Taerae thinks for a moment, completely irrational. The thought fights strangely against him, something almost painful. He isn’t sure where it comes from. He doubts their paths would even have crossed, were Jiwoong not literally stuck in Taerae’s house. If he were alive, if he had more options, maybe he wouldn’t even bother with someone like Taerae. The thought feels wrong to him, though. When they hang out, they make sense, in some really peculiar way. Jiwoong just has an out-of-reach feel to him as a person, one that has followed him even after his death. Taerae can’t even imagine how bright he was when he was alive, and how many people orbited him.

“I wonder how hard it would be to get some painting stuff out there again,” Jiwoong says, breaking the silence. “On the ocean, I mean.”

“Very. A canvas, paints, brushes, whatever else you need? We’d need a boat. We don’t even know how much you can control that far out. That’s a silly idea.”

“You think?” Jiwoong says, unperturbed. Taerae looks at him through strands of hair being buffeted by the wind.

“You always seem so calm and laidback. I don’t know how you do it. Frankly, I feel like I’m kind of rude to you, sometimes.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to sit and think and not do much else. It really helps shift your perspective.” Jiwoong shuffles around and turns to look at Taerae, stretching out a leg across the dock behind him. “I don’t think you’re rude. You can be blunt. I know you don’t mean it, though. It’s just nice to have somebody to talk to again.”

Taerae looks down at his own cup, and when he shifts his eyes back up, Jiwoong is watching him with a genuine smile. Taerae feels it in his stomach again.

“Do you ever miss living?” he asks.

“I miss my friends. I miss my friend’s dog. I miss good food, and going places, and buying new books to read and clothes to wear. But I can still paint and listen to music. And like I said, I have someone to talk to now. So it’s not all bad.”

Taerae ponders this for a moment. They’re all things he takes for granted. It’s something for him to think about. Jiwoong turns his eyes back to the sea, and Taerae takes a moment to simply look at him.

Despite still having lived a short time in spite of everything, his eyes have some strange wisdom to them that Taerae wholeheartedly believes existed long before he died. They’re overlain with something gentle and peaceful. Acceptance, perhaps, or even just some brand of kindness. If Taerae thinks about it, Jiwoong seems to carry this kindness constantly, even in how he holds himself, how he chooses his words, how he moves in his day-to-day. The tilt to his mouth, when he is fighting a proper smile.

That something familiar twists in Taerae’s stomach at the sight, this time taking root like a physical thing. It should be sweet, maybe, but the significance of it is a terribly foreboding thing. He pulls his eyes away quickly to watch the curling waves in the distance, but it doesn’t leave. It sits in him, a reminder of how stupid he can really be.

10. Do you read the reviews on your books? How important would you say they are to you?

Is it rude if I say I don't? My friends will frequently send the kindest ones to me, and that's the only time I'll see them. I think the importance depends on who you're writing for. If you're writing for yourself, does public input really matter?

Taerae’s stupidity makes many appearances in many forms across the next week. The most recent variety is staring him in the face: one of Jiwoong’s paintings. The gravity of how ridiculously wrong this could go hits Taerae all at once. He could just tell his friends that Jiwoong is a ghost. They’d believe him, they’ve been friends forever. He could tell them anything and they'd take him at his word, as he would them. Strangely, however, he doesn’t really want to. That knowledge feels like his and Jiwoong’s, for now. It’s okay to keep that to them, right?

Resolved, he leaves the painting like a trap in the living room for when his friends arrive, relying on Matthew’s constant touchy enthusiasm to help him test his theory. Predictably, within two seconds of stepping over the entryway, Matthew has picked Taerae up in a hug, spun in a little circle, and made an excited noise at the sight of Taerae’s carefully placed trap.

“Woah! Sorry, can I–?” He hesitates before picking the painting up, hands mid air, and Taerae tries to go for his most aloof ‘sure, whatever’ nod. Matthew scoops up the painting to look at it in the light from the window.

“Oh, they’re everywhere,” Hanbin says, trailing a step behind. He looks around the walls, no longer bare like they were the last time they visited.

“This is crazy. I know you have zero talent for this kind of thing, who made them?” Matthew asks, handing the painting off to Hanbin and Hao. Taerae watches with sharp eyes as the other two accept it, looking it over and making impressed noises.

“I made… a friend. In town. He gave them to me. He’s um, really good,” Taerae says, then snaps his mouth shut before he can dig himself a hole without even holding the shovel.

“And he gave you this many or what?” Hanbin laughs, walking to set the painting back down and take a seat on the couch. “Look at you, making friends who fill your home with artwork. Popular already.”

Taerae lets the conversation die out as fast as possible, plopping himself on the floor opposite his three friends on the couch and listening avidly as they update him on their busy lives. At some point Riceball meanders her way in and ignores all three guests to navigate herself onto Taerae’s lap.

It isn’t until around half an hour later that there’s an audible step in the hallway. Taerae had almost forgotten. Out the corner of his eye he can see Jiwoong poke his head around the door. Just in case, Taerae doesn’t dare look, but it doesn’t seem to matter – all three of his friends turn their heads rapidly to look at Jiwoong in surprise.

“Hey,” he says, totally casual, and Taerae is impressed.

“Oh, hey! Um, who–?” Matthew says, turning back to Taerae, because Hanbin and Hao are still just gawking. Whether it’s the fact Taerae has managed to actually make a new friend, or that said friend is unconcernedly hanging out in his house, or just the fact Jiwoong is supermodel-level attractive, he isn’t sure. All are embarrassing.

“Right, uh. This is Jiwoong. My… friend. He’s um, the painter. Jiwoong, this is Hao, Hanbin, and Matthew,” Taerae says, gesturing to each of them in turn.

Jiwoong smiles and offers a little wave, which seems to break the others out of their frozen state. “Nice to meet you,” he says, unperturbed.

Hao’s gaze snaps back onto Taerae with some evil combination of suspicion, understanding, and resolution, and Taerae is instantly filled with a very specific brand of fear that only Hao can instill in him.

“Oh! Your paintings are so good! How did you meet?” Matthew asks brightly, blind to the mental warfare being waged two feet away.

“I live on the other side of town, we just ran into each other,” Jiwoong says smoothly, clearly a much better liar than Taerae.

“That’s cool! It’s nice that there’s other people our age here, this town kind of has an old person vibe. Did you wanna hang out with us?” Matthew continues, tapping the couch next to him. “We’re going to walk around the town soon.”

“Oh no, I’m helping fix some of the stuff around here right now. Old houses, you know,” Jiwoong replies, putting on that winning smile again. “Thanks though, I’ll definitely catch you next time.”

As he wanders back toward the kitchen to the sound of Matthew’s cheerful farewell, Taerae grips the edge of the coffee table in fear.

“Damn,” Hanbin says quietly, but Hao has already smelled Taerae’s fear, and his gaze is zoning in maliciously.

“Five weeks,” Hao says, reasonable enough to keep his voice down. “You’re here for five weeks and you have some hot young guy in your house, what, fixing things? Your ‘friend’? You, Taerae, who moved here so you’d have less people to talk to?”

Taerae throws up his hands in desperate innocence. “He’s really friendly. He likes being helpful.” Both true.

“Leave him alone,” Hanbin says, elbowing Hao in the ribs. “Let him have his little seaside situationship. Have you seen the guy?”

“Situationship!” Taerae splutters, feeling his face heat up. They’d proven the painting theory, but at what cost?

“Oh, it’s like that?” Matthew asks, eyes wide.

“No!” Taerae says, at the exact same time as Hao says, “Obviously!”

They stare at each other, argument silent but vicious.

“Okay,” Hanbin says, clapping his hands decidedly. “What a great time for us all to link arms and go on a little walk and be kind to one another. Thoughts?”

Taerae trails his friends out of the front door, glancing behind him as he does. He wishes he could talk to Jiwoong properly before he has to leave all day. People can see you, he thinks, and the thought makes him weirdly giddy. You can make friends again.

“I guess we can leave mister hot-not-boyfriend alone, since he has keys to your house, right?” Hao says.

Hanbin’s sixth sense kicks in just in time to grab Taerae and prevent Hao getting whacked.

11. Can you describe your writing space for us? What about it is most important to you?

I mentioned living in the middle of nowhere earlier, and that's an important part of my space to me. I love the controlled quiet. I write at a desk in my bedroom, right by the window so I have a beautiful view. Probably helps to be able to look at something other than pixels sometimes, too.

When Taerae gets home he is entirely chilled to the bone. The house is warm though, and he speed-walks from room-to-room in an effort to find Jiwoong before his scarf is even fully removed.

Taerae stops when he gets to his bedroom, because Jiwoong is standing inside and looking at the paintings and, though his expression is neutral, the air in the room feels slightly strange.

“What’s on your mind?” Taerae tries, hanging his scarf on the doorknob.

“Whatever I am is tied to these paintings,” Jiwoong confirms. “I am, to some extent, trapped in them.” He pauses, tilts his head in thought, then adds, “I assume destroying them somehow would fix me being stuck here.”

Jiwoong stays looking at the paintings on the wall and falls into silence. Once again, Taerae finds him hard to read, but a nervous thought crosses his mind.

“Do you…” He hesitates. “Want to go?”

Jiwoong doesn’t turn to look at him. “Do you think I should?”

“I think that’s probably up to you, nobody else,” Taerae says, but every fiber in his being is desperately telling him to say no.

“No, I don’t want to leave,” Jiwoong says, eyes trailing down to the floor. “I would miss this house, and Riceball, and what living I can still do, and I’d miss you.”

It isn’t anything particularly ridiculous to say. They live together. They spend a lot of time together now. Still, it feels loaded, even if it's all in his head, and Taerae feels his ears heat up with embarrassment. He shuffles along to sit in his desk chair, tucking his hands into his sleeves to warm them.

“Well, I’d miss you too,” he says, trying to seem aloof as he does so. He knows he fails because Jiwoong is grinning at him.

“I don’t know anything about how ghosts work beyond what I’ve experienced. It could have a cutoff point. Outside of the paintings, I mean. Maybe one day I’ll just disappear, who knows.”

“If that’s true, I’ll just stay with you until you do,” Taerae says, not really knowing what possessed him. Jiwoong’s grin softens into something that makes Taerae want to stand up and sprint full-speed out of the room, but his dignity keeps him in his seat.

“Thank you,” Jiwoong says, and Taerae isn’t sure anyone has ever said anything so genuinely to him before. There’s a few beats of silence, it really can’t be more than a few seconds, but it feels like an infinite stretch of time to Taerae, a feeling of waiting wherein he really thinks Jiwoong is going to say more. Part of him is scared, and a larger part of him is desperate, needing Jiwoong to be the one to potentially push against this barrier of common sense, because Taerae knows he won’t.

The moment is destroyed by the sound of a clatter, and both sets of eyes spin to see Riceball jumping on the bedside table, knocking several things onto the floor in the process. She then hops onto the bed, the perfect sign that she had absolutely no reason to wreak such havoc in the first place.

Taerae sighs, watching her as she rotates and kneads a little spot into the bed for herself to sleep. Jiwoong is already on his feet to fix the minor earthquake, so Taerae directs his thoughts straight to Riceball. I seriously think you’re too smart for your own good. I’m starting to think you both love and hate me.

She looks at him cluelessly. Because she is a cat. He turns to sneak a glance at Jiwoong and finds him already looking, expression something close to curious.

12. What other hobbies do you have to help relax?

People relax? (laughs) I'm kidding, mostly. I listen to a lot of music, and I go for walks pretty frequently. Sometimes I just like to hang out with my friends while they do their own thing.

“Jiwoong?” he calls into the entryway, rubbing his hands together in an effort to warm them. The sun is low in the sky and beginning to take its warmth with it.

Jiwoong’s face appears at the top of the stairs, looking at him questioningly.

“Bring a canvas, some brushes and paints, whatever you need so long as you can carry it,” Taerae tells him.

“Where are we going?” Jiwoong asks, visibly confused.

Taerae ends up dragging Jiwoong all the way back to the dock, and the ridiculousness of it all feels worth it when he sees Jiwoong visibly light up again.

“Where the hell did you get a boat?” Jiwoong asks, walking enthusiastically down the dock with Taerae on his heels.

“I’m borrowing it, so don’t set it on fire.”

“In the ocean?”

“Could happen.”

Taerae has to admit, he’s never been on any kind of boat before, nevermind one that’s hardly big enough for two people. It’s pretty similar to Jiwoong’s old one though, maybe even a little bigger, and he climbs into it so confidently despite how much it wobbles. Hesitant, Taerae follows, accepting the hand that is offered to help him step in.

It ends up being rather peaceful to be out in the sea with the sun easing its way into the water. When Taerae holds up his hand, the house looks to be the size of his fingertip from out here. The whole coastline looks beautiful, and he can see where the trees disperse into the rest of the town.

“Maybe you could paint that,” Taerae says, gesturing to the view. “It might be even prettier than the ocean.”

“Take a picture,” Jiwoong suggests, organizing his paints into a cohesive line. "In case the sunset changes the colors." Without a second thought, Taerae pulls out his phone and stands up, and he isn’t sure he has ever regretted anything so quickly in his life.

The boat wobbles out of nowhere, so aggressively that Taerae is instantly convinced he is about to join Jiwoong as the second owner of that house to drown. The waves carry the momentum, and Taerae can’t find anything even remotely resembling balance, and if Jiwoong hadn’t stood up to take him by the shoulders he may truly have fallen over. His glasses slip from his face, clattering to the bottom of the boat like an insult.

“Sit down,” Jiwoong says, entirely too calm for Taerae’s taste.

“I can’t,” Taerae wails, clasping at Jiwoong’s arms. “I’m going to fall overboard, I’m so serious.”

This seems to make Jiwoong laugh in spite of Taerae’s suffering. “This was your idea.”

“I was trying to do something nice!”

A particularly large wave strikes the boat, making it tilt precariously, and Taerae screeches, clutching onto Jiwoong’s arms with renowned fervor. Jiwoong is laughing hard and he does not appreciate it.

“If this was a movie you’d have terrible ocean trauma, and this would be a deeply frightening moment, not whatever it is you’re doing!” Taerae yells. If it was possible to bruise a ghost, he’s sure he would be doing it right now.

“Well I’m sorry for not following the movie plot,” Jiwoong says, moving to hold Taerae by his waist and steady him in the boat. “Can’t you swim? Why are you being such a baby?”

“I can swim!” Taerae retorts. “It’s just, a lot scarier when you’re out here in this pathetic excuse for a boat, and your only company is a man who quite literally died in one!”

“We’re fine,” Jiwoong says, but he’s still laughing and it’s infuriating. “Stop wiggling, you’re worse than Rice.”

Taerae struggles to find his footing, so Jiwoong tugs him closer and spreads his feet slightly further apart with one of his own to try and give him some stability. When the boat finally stops rocking, Taerae still has his fingers clutching desperately onto Jiwoong’s arms, and he realizes rather quickly that he has placed himself in another one of those situations that feel like waiting, but with no cat to disturb them this time.

He stares diligently at the heart embroidered onto Jiwoong’s sweater. For a few moments, he allows himself to try and calm down. He doesn’t even have to look at Jiwoong to know. It feels like it’s up to him, and it can’t be. He takes one deep breath to steel himself, and looks up to meet Jiwoong’s gaze.

Taerae meets the same eyes he always does. Gentle, thoughtful, kind. Looking at him. There’s no getting up and running away on a boat.

“I need you to be the one to do it,” Taerae says dumbly, but even that vague comment feels like taking initiative in and of itself. He doesn’t know how to explain it, but this strange string between them that occasionally pulls a little too taut – Jiwoong knows about it too, he’s certain. He has no doubt of its mutual existence, and no doubt of what exactly he wants, but some part of his brain is viewing this situation like a barrier he cannot cross. He needs Jiwoong to tug him across it, just like Taerae did for him every time they left the walls of the house.

“The ghosts in your books kill people,” Jiwoong says, and of course he would make some stupid teasing comment in this situation. Taerae doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth right now, so he vents all of his annoyance by glowering up at Jiwoong with as much emotion as possible.

“Okay, fine, stop that,” Jiwoong continues, but he gives Taerae no time to keep sulking or bite back, because his hands tighten and he’s kissing him right away.

Taerae isn’t sure what he expected, but it isn’t that different from kissing a normal person who just came in from the cold. It’s a strange sensation to feel himself instinctively heat up at the contact while having such a constant chill resting on his sides, but he oddly finds himself wanting more of it.

It feels like both a second and minutes when it’s over, and when Jiwoong pulls back he looks content. Taerae reaches up to the collar of his sweater to pull him back in, and he isn’t certain if he was going for something romantic, but the gesture is too fast and jostles the boat, instantly destroying the careful balance he had achieved. It rocks precariously, he’s back to screaming, and Jiwoong is back to laughing at his turmoil.

13. Are there any other genres you would like to explore?

If writing a romance book out of nowhere has taught me anything, it’s that I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to write next. I have a lot of ideas. Which one I’ll settle on is a mystery. I try not to overthink it anymore.

Even after a long shower, Taerae’s mouth tastes like salt.

“Are you sulking?” Jiwoong asks. He’s at Taerae’s desk, legs crossed as he reads through Taerae’s writing, but his eyes keep straying to where Taerae is sitting in bed – sulking, in fact.

“The sea is cruel,” Taerae says simply, drinking his tea. Riceball has rolled herself up into a perfect circle on the corner of the bed. He can’t help but admire the craftsmanship.

“Sometimes,” Jiwoong agrees, closing the laptop and standing up to stretch. “Not enthusiastic about trying that again?”

“No.” Taerae looks over at him, then purposefully scoots over a little in bed. Taking the sign, Jiwoong turns off the desk lamp and lifts the sheets to slide in next to him and lay down beside him.

“I didn’t even really think about this before, but you can… sleep?” Taerae says, turning to look at him. “You slept before. Wait, do you need to sleep?”

“Ghost author is finally fishing for some real info, huh? I can sleep, but I don’t need to. I don’t get tired or anything.”

“Huh.” Taerae turns away to lay down, eyes on the ceiling. “Thank god, it would actually be kind of awkward if I had to sleep every night and you were just off doing… your ghostly night things.”

“Haunting the house?”

“Sure, if that’s what you do.”

For some minutes they are quiet, Riceball purring the only sound, until Jiwoong breaks the silence.

“I could never give you the kind of life you deserve to live. You know that, right?” Jiwoong says, but the words don’t sound sad, or like he thinks Taerae is making some terrible decision. They just sound like a footnote. A distant thought.

“And what kind of life do I deserve?” Taerae asks.

“Going places. Doing things. You know what I mean, normal people activities.”

“I can do plenty of normal things here. And in the time you’ve known me, have I given any sign I particularly enjoy going anywhere? I’m happier like this than any other way.”

Jiwoong just hums, seeming content to take Taerae at his word. When Taerae looks over, his eyes are closed. He seriously might be the prettiest person to ever exist. Nobody should look like that, and act so kind. What was Taerae ever supposed to do?

Resolved, Taerae scoots over to tuck himself against Jiwoong, and a hand automatically comes to wrap around him without second thought.

“God, you’re cold as fuck,” Taerae whispers, and it makes Jiwoong laugh.

“I’m sorry, get off of me then.”

“No,” Taerae says resolutely, tucking himself in tighter. “You’re just lucky you fixed the heating ages ago.”

“My master plan,” Jiwoong jokes, and Taerae resists the urge to unwrap himself just to kick him. Instead, he listens to Riceball purr from her perch, a soothing noise in the silence.

14. Do you have anyone in your life that inspires your work, or that motivates you when times are tough?

Don't get me started! (laughs) I have a lot of people to thank, and I can't make this interview too cheesy. I owe a lot to my best friends, who constantly come to visit me despite my middle-of-nowhere move. I also owe a lot to my neighbors who helped me settle, and read my book over for me many times before publishing. Of course, I also owe my boyfriend, who helped more in the writing process than I can ever say. And my cat. Seriously, writing with a cat on your lap works wonders.