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Museums. A thing of recent times, a concept created yesterday if one compares it to the age of the world. It holds what is considered precious, protects national and stolen heritages of people that no longer walk on this world. Their memory is trapped in those same paintings and busts and statues shaped with the faces of the rich or the important, kept safe behind glass displays and barred by red cord and silver poles.
The portraits look at Minho with their vivid yet dead eyes made out of old flaking paint on old canvas, a new shiny layer of resin prolongating their life, trying to take them back to their splendour of once but failing because their nature has changed with the times too. They’re no longer an active symbol of wealth and influence of the family that ordered the painting, meant to impress and sway those in power. They have been extracted from their home that no longer exists, from a family lost generations ago. It lost its meaning and acquired a new one. It’s a piece of ancient times now, made of canvas and ink, meant to be looked at and forgotten.
–
“ ... I don’t understand why no one likes Yuumi. ”
“ You only say that because you love playing her. Over. ”
It is another day of work plus yet another day of hearing Chan and Felix bicker regarding a fictional cat from a game they played in their free time. The radio went silent after that and Minho went back to hearing his footsteps on the large polished tiles echoing in the grand halls of the museum, bouncing off the tall ceiling and large windows from where night poured in.
Minho hums a little tune that got stuck on his head since that afternoon and continues his quiet patrol, surrounded by millenniums of silent yet very loud history hung on walls or entrapped in glass cases in the themed decorated exhibition rooms. The flashlight hangs untouched on his belt, Minho preferring the dim lights from the displays also bathed by the moonlight over the artificial white one. It is a soothing ambience, like a calm river running softly during a summer’s night and Minho doesn’t want to disrupt it by walking against the current. So he follows its course under the hue of the glimmering night.
The trees shake in the wind, their shadows wavering as well as the leaves did. Minho turns to the right, walks past another hall, and strolls around the temporary exhibition of Joseon dynasty portraits. It seems that there is a common agreement between his fellow night guards that portraits are the worst. They are silent observers watching every movement intently, dodging the guards' gazes when they look at the still paintings, sending shivers down the spine and making goosebumps raise on the skin.
And the shadows as well.
Often there are tales of arms crawling from the ground up the walls, trying to pull at guard’s legs or simply growing out of someone’s body. Phantoms that roam around and are only seen on the beige walls of the museum at night. There are stories about the place being haunted, more specifically the stairwell and the third floor where mostly ancient jewellery is kept on display. Those are the places where it is said the shadows are the worst and snickering whispers are heard during the quiet of the night. Perhaps it is the wails of long lost souls who once wore the pieces.
For Minho they are just that - stories. He doesn’t really believe in the supernatural, much less haunted spaces. Surely it is nothing more than the shadows that surge from the outside, stretching over the flooring and walls, growing strong from the same moonlight that casts a tranquil light onto the night sky. Though it is thanks to those stories that Minho now has a comfortable job at the museum, since the previous guard that worked there before him was said to have quit because of what lies in the shadows.
“ Minho where are you? It's time for your break.” The static of Chan’s voice breaks Minho from his reverie, making him check his clock to confirm that it is indeed time for them to switch places and for him to finally have a snack before going back on his rounds.
He crosses by Chan on the way, scaring the crap out of him and making him almost jump on the spot because Minho never has his flashlight on so all Chan can see is a looming figure walking towards him. When he finally reaches the break room he sits down, giving a break to his tired feet, munching on a cereal bar as he scrolls through his phone. The room is still dark, he hasn't bothered to flicker the light on and ends up burning his eyes on the phone screen. But maybe he should have turned the lights on because the itchiness of his eyes was making him imagine things. The hairs on his nape rise and so do the hairs on his head. There is no one, the room is empty and yet when he looks at the wall there is a shadow sitting by his side. Someone’s shadow, the shadow of an actual body, not leaves, not some random object. And that shadow is trying to get a few strands of Minho’s hair to stick up like an antennae.
It is late, the wind whistling outside like a wolf, the glow of the full moon making the shadows more pronounced. His shift is almost over and so that must be why Minho’s head is playing pranks on him. Surely he is simply in a dire need of a nap and that’s why his brain tells him that now, after blinking twice, there was no one by his side but instead there is a shadow of an arm crawling through his shoulder as if it was a deformed zombi hand twisting and turning. The hand comes to a stop and Minho doesn’t move, doesn't say anything. He just freezes and keeps on watching it slowly sink back into the dark nothing it had come from. It doesn’t do anything, doesn’t try to strangle or poke at him so he ignores it after shaking away the strange feeling, going back to mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Whatever it is it doesn’t feel looming, doesn’t feel threatening.
The wind howls again, shaking the trees and lampposts with vigour. Minho looks at the wall again and sees only his lonely self.
—
It keeps on happening.
Whether it is at the staff’s room or exhibition halls, the shadow keeps showing up. At first Minho thinks it is nothing, that he had imagined it all the other day because of how exhausted he was. But then when he turns around the corner of a hallway he catches the shadow trying to hide behind a statue, copying the pose of the woman made out of marble holding a vase over her shoulder. It fails, obviously, and after Minho looks directly at the dark shape void of detail on the wall, it vanishes as if it was embarrassed.
However from that day onwards it stops hiding behind the art pieces and the thick velvet curtains and starts to follow Minho around on the walls - always on the walls - keeping a few steps of distance. It is freaky but the days the shadow lingered around his own are… nice. It isn’t strange or unfamiliar and Minho guesses it has always been there, hiding in the corners, roaming the museum like a long dead phantom. And the amusing thing is that the shadow seems bored and has been trying to get a reaction out of Minho for a while now.
He hasn’t been paying it attention, just keeps doing his work while pacing down the tile floor, the heel of his shoe filling the silent void. A silent friend, that’s what the shadow feels like for him. A silent and annoying friend, waving at him from down the hall, trying to jumpscare him at the corners by putting its hands up. A silent but also protective friend.
“Come on Minho don’t be such a party popper, you just have to show up and chill in a corner or something.” Jihoon says. He is one of the night guards who often shares shifts in the same floor and who Minho is honestly tired of dealing with. The guy has been trying to convince him to go to one of his nights out for blind dates and apparently he was so famous around town no girl wanted to hang out with him and so, he needs Minho to basically function as bait. As if he doesn’t passively insult Minho at every passing opportunity.
“Listen, I-” Minho sighs, hoping to get this conversation done with as soon as possible so he can continue his patrol away from Jihoon. However the man didn’t like to be refused and so he interrupted.
“Dude please, what are you even going to do Saturday night besides being a homebody? It’s going to be fu- what is that?” Jihoon’s voice shakes as he takes a few steps backwards, away from Minho. Away from the wall. The wall that shows the shadows of three people when currently only two stand in the room.
Jihoon looks back at Minho who simply shrugs and the latter watches his fellow guard bolt with tail between his legs, terrified of the thing he saw and of Minho’s indifference towards it. The bright light of Jihoon’s flashlight bounced off the corridor as he jogged away in panic.
“He’s a prick you know. I’ve been wanting to scare his ass for a while now.” Oh. The shadow speaks. It has a voice. And in all honesty it does freak Minho out to the point he stiffly continues his walk while doing his best to pretend that never happened, that maybe he is actually losing his marbles and none of this is real. But Jihoon has seen it too so it has to be real . “Please stop pretending you don’t see me. I know you can hear my voice!” It whines, the shadow actually whines at being ignored and Minho is definitely mortified for the rest of his shift.
"Everything good? You look kinda pale hyung." Felix notes when they change back from their uniform at the staff’s room. Neither Chan nor Felix are good with horror so Minho passes it off with a shrug and with the excuse of being tired, not wishing to be part of the reason his friends quit. And he is going to need his friends close by if he wants to keep his sanity.
The morning sun peaks in between the tall buildings, its light bright orange and blinding. At this time most people are walking out of their homes getting ready to work while for Minho it is the exact opposite. The museum looks entirely different with the light of the sun pouring in, giving it a life beyond tones of blue and black.
On the way out Minho can’t feel the presence of the shadow around him but he actively feels shivers running down his body all the way up to his home. The light of the dark long corridor of his apartment comes to life automatically and Minho tries not to be acutely aware of every single darker silhouette that’s created because of its brightness. When he gets inside his home he feels all the same, like his heart is beating in his ears because what the fuck. The shadow has a voice. But also the shadow has a life or it’s a life by itself.
“What is it Dori?” The smallest furball of the three rubs against his legs asking for attention the minute Minho steps inside, his brothers staying still looking at him on the little entrance step. They momentarily take his mind out of today, soothe his anxious heart with their purrs and soft fur. However the moment he lays in bed he’s back to thinking about this last shift.
It’s odd how he brushed it off so quickly before, how he played a little game with it, pretending to not be bothered or giving it attention but the moment it spoke it made it real, it made it exist in this world for Minho. ‘He’, not ‘it’ anymore. The shadow has a male voice, deep but also with a higher pitch when he gets annoyed. Minho thinks back to the nights the shadow marched behind him, how he’s shorter in stature and wears something that looks like a baggy hoodie or maybe it’s a jacket, he can’t be quite sure as it just looks like a blob of dark.
Minho didn’t believe in the supernatural before, now he’s not quite sure on what to believe.
He closes his eyes, tries to get a good night’s rest because tomorrow he has more work to do bright and early and he’s meeting his friend Hyunjin, though he ends up spending quite some time rolling around on bed, pondering how things are going to go at work in the future. Minho ends up dreaming of a silhouette that dances on the walls and hides in the corners silently watching over him.
–
“Do you know what you’re going to do after you graduate?” Minho sips his drink as he watches his school friend Hyunjin doodle on a magazine. The sun is high in the sky creating strong shadows everywhere but Minho doesn’t feel anything about them. The ambience is entirely different from the one of the museum at night so he doesn’t even contemplate there being ghosts roaming during the day.
“Stop it hyung, you sound like my mom and I love my parents too much. I don’t want to associate them with you”. Hyunjin has a frown on his face but his eyes are mischievous as usual. They have been friends for almost half a decade and know each other like the palm of their hands. People that don’t know them well say they are an unusual combo, Minho the one with the sharp tongue and rough exterior and Hyunjin with the soft heart making them seem like siblings that bicker all the time. But they work nonetheless and Minho, despite not expressing it verbally, adores his friend.
“You little devil.” He says jokingly, kicking Hyunjin’s leg under the table in revenge.
“Honestly I have no idea what I’m going to do. Don’t you find it weird that when we are like sixteen or younger we already have to choose a career path? What if I actually hate what I’ve chosen and now I’m stuck with that for the rest of my life? Ugh why can’t I be like Jisung, at least he’s dead certain on what he wants to do.” Jisung is another of their mutual friends who is currently studying journalism but more directed towards art. Maybe he can ask him if he knows anything about the shadows in the museum.
“The entire school to work system is dumb but what can we do? So you hate art now?” Minho takes the straw between his lips, his mind transported back to yesterday’s events momentarily. Should he tell Hyunjin about it?
“Gosh hyung, that’s a whole new sentence.” Minho looks at Hyunjin deadpan, a look he has mastered over the years. They talk some more, end up doing some chores and Minho goes back home to rest some more before going back to work.
The days are warm but the nights are still a little bit chilly as the spring weather transitions to something warmer. The leaves shake in the trees as Minho crosses the road and the tall, old building appears in front of him. He doesn’t quite know what to feel and that is what confuses him more. He’s not exactly scared of the shadow, after all it helped him with Jihoon but he couldn’t deny how creepy the situation is.
Still he walks up the steps, greets the guard at the main door and follows through familiar paths to get his uniform on and his work started.
“Hey, new partner.” Chan is at his side after he checks in and with a smile that makes Minho relax and feel comfortable.
“New partner?” Minho asks. Usually he was paired up with Jihoon and in some rare instances with Chan whenever the other couldn’t come.
“Haven’t you heard? Jihoon asked to be transferred to another post. He’s going to be stationed on the jewellery floor and Ryunjin is covering my spot since she wanted a change too. Anyway, did anything happen between you and him? He seemed pretty… how do I put it? Terrified?” Chan tries to soften the last part but much to Minho’s pleasure it fails. Maybe he should stop ignoring the shadow and thank him for his service.
“Nothing happened, really. But isn’t the jewellery floor the one with more rumours?” Chan looks at him with a questioning gaze, like he knows there is more to it than Minho is letting on but he simply sighs because he knows the two don’t get along. In fact, not many got along well with Jihoon so it really shouldn’t be a surprise.
“Yeah, things there seem a bit off. But Ryunjin says it’s just because we believe in the rumours that things seem more scary.”
They part ways after setting their radios and Minho goes on his familiar stroll. At this point in time he can walk with his eyes closed since his body has memorised the route of the place.
“Poor guy he really has no clue what he got himself into, I wonder how long he’ll last with Innie.” As soon as he rounds the corner Minho is greeted by an unfamiliar voice from a familiar presence in the wall. Yeah, it’s still a little freaky, creeps him out a bit but their routine still goes on like usual and eventually Minho loosens up his rigid posture. He wants to ask about who else inhabits these walls but at the same time there is a high possibility someone would hear him so he keeps quiet.
The shadow on the other hand, has a totally different plan. “What happens when you sit on a grape? It gives a little whine .”
It’s awful. It’s so darn terrible that Minho almost trips and plants his face on the floor but thankfully he gets his composure back at the last second. Oh this is hell, without a shadow of a doubt.
Minho clears his throat and prepares himself for whatever is to come because unfortunately he has shown some type of reaction and the shadow is most likely going to see that as an incentive to continue in his efforts to get Minho to acknowledge him.
And he’s right. The following days Minho has to hear at least one terrible pun that makes him want to curl on himself like a shrimp at how bad they are. He’s thankful that he has had good practice on controlling his expression and looking the most dead inside possible with Jisung but mainly Hyunjin.
“Why does cheese do well in school? Because it’s inclined to be grated well.” That one is probably the worst of the bunch the shadow has thrown around and Minho quietly sighs. The reason he liked this job so much was mainly the ability to work in utter silence and now that was gone. To be fair, on some days the shadow is a lot more quiet than others which makes Minho wonder if everything is okay because somehow he had gotten used to that voice filling the display rooms. At least there is some peace when they are patrolling the corridors, the shadow knows their routes probably better than anyone and so he knows when he has to keep quiet and hide when someone is close by.
“Okay that one is also a scratch. Let me think, what else?” They walk by a window with a lamppost right outside and the warm yellow light makes the shadow’s features more defined. His pace has slowed down and Minho takes a quick look back but he can’t read anything on the other’s expression because he doesn’t have one. The shadow stops and Minho wonders if something is wrong but he keeps on walking forward, ignoring him as usual. “What sound does a witch’s car make? Broom Broom.”
For a slip of a second Minho’s composure falters but because the shadow is so far behind he doesn’t see it. Minho has to clear his throat and take a deep breath before going back to pretending there is no voice whispering in his ear and certainly that there is no one there but him. Minho genuinely wasn’t ready for that one.
However that was the last he heard of the shadow for quite a while. The following days are odd without his presence and as much as it costs Minho to admit, he’s worried about the shadow. But maybe that’s his fault, maybe the shadow grew tired of being ignored and just decided to change targets.
Today it rains, turning the weather hot and humid and Minho feels mildly disgusted with how the bottom of his jeans glue to his skin. Everything goes on as usual, the people he crosses paths with are the same and so is the smalltalk. His work is no different, it’s back to how it was at the beginning, quiet with the exception of the rain. But he sees him today.
Minho is walking into the staff’s room for his break when he spots a figure on the wall, sitting down on the table. He doesn’t say anything, there are no words or greetings but Minho is relieved just seeing him. It’s a strange thought, the fact that he missed the company of the shadow but he pushes it to the back of his mind, not allowing it to linger on the surface any longer.
“ Something really freaky just happened.” Felix’s voice trembles though it’s made less evident through the static of the radio. The shadow perks up at it too, and Minho has to try and pretend he hasn’t been observing him this whole time.
“Is everything okay Lix?” Chan asks, obviously concerned.
A flash of light erupts in the sky and goes away as quick as it came and Minho could have sworn that in that brief moment the shadow had colour and dimension. Like a real human.
“I was walking down the stairs on the second floor when I tripped but then something grabbed me in the air? I- I don’t know, it was really weird.”
“It was probably Seungmin, he doesn’t like seeing people get hurt.” The shadow says. The tone of his voice is surprisingly soft and overall he doesn’t seem nearly as excited as he previously was when telling his jokes. He seems a little down and perhaps that’s why he has been gone for the past few days.
Minho doesn’t reply as usual but he carefully goes to sit next to him, staring at both their shadows on the wall for a beat before moving on to scroll through his phone. They bask in the silence and in the company of one another before Felix comes in looking a bit shaken. When Minho looks away from the door, the shadow is already gone.
"The museum is definitely haunted." Felix says with a deep exhale, sitting down where the shadow previously was and laying his head on the table.
Minho gets up and goes to get a bottle of water for his friend that is clearly drained out of energy and has probably a few years of his life shaven with the scare. "It could have been worse, at least whatever it was it saved you."
"I thought you didn't believe in these kinds of things hyung? Thank you."
It’s hard for Minho to come up with a plausible answer that sounds genuine and he is taken aback for a moment. In the end he chooses to not answer. "Rest up kid."
"I'm not a kid hyung.” Felix pouts after Minho rubs his head, messing up his neat bleached hair. “But seriously though after what happened with Jihoon and now this…" Felix says as he visibly shudders.
"What happened?"
"Didn't you hear? He quit two days ago, just walked out in the middle of patrol cursing on his way out, something about ghosts whispering behind his back. I'd say good riddance but now someone else has to go to the third floor and after today I hope it's not me."
Words from the other day slip back into Minho’s head. The shadow had indeed made a comment about the longevity of Minho’s fellow night guard with someone named Innie who Minho presumes is the name of the shadow on the third floor. Speaking of which he currently knows the name of two he has never met yet the one that walks by his side during the quiet nights remains nameless. He wonders how many there are in total.
The raindrops knock on the windows while the wind whistles a gentle melody outside. Thunder rolls down the sky and paints the shadows in stronger tones. Minho doesn’t look for one that doesn’t belong.
–
“Hey, the chief asked if you can cover the third floor just for today.” Chan’s voice coming out of nowhere almost makes Minho trip as he adjusts his boots. He had been so lost in his own thoughts he didn’t hear Chan even come in.
“Yeah, sure. Anything I should be wary of?”
Chan seems to stop to think for a moment before waving him off. “Nah, you’re all good since you don’t believe in the rumours.”
“What if I believed in the rumours?”
“Wait, do you?” Chan stops in his tracks, surprised wide eyes pointed at Minho who just shrugs in response.
“Not really, but I’m curious.”
“Well, in any case ignore the strange noises and the diamond necklace ghost, I think that’s what Ryunjin would say.” It’s obvious Chan tries to be nonchalant about it but is actually a little bit uncomfortable and Minho does not blame him for it. Despite getting over the fact that there are ghosts in the form of shadows in the museum pretty quickly, he still sometimes shudders in the middle of the day thinking about how weird it is in reality.
“Cool. You’re staying on the first floor?” Minho asks and Chan simply nods affirmatively as he focuses on tying up his shoelaces. “Okay, you’ll probably get along with the ghost here, he seems to enjoy bad puns like you.”
“What?” Minho pats Chan in the shoulder before moving up the stairs. What he did was absolutely evil and he kind of mildly regrets it after seeing the shocked expression on Chan’s face.
Minho goes up the elevator with a calm and prepared heart. He kind of knows what to expect but is surprised to find out that there is nothing out of the ordinary happening in the first few hours. He sees the other guard a couple of times and they just nod to each other in acknowledgment, not wanting to break up the serenity that Minho can only find on nights like these at the museum.
The moon is still unravelling, only a thin stripe is visible on the sky and because of that the space is a lot darker than usual. The light of the lamp posts also doesn’t reach the third floor as easily but it’s enough for Minho to keep his flashlight on his belt, especially with how bright the jewels shine even in the dark. The walls on this floor are shorter while the displays are also smaller. There’s larger ones in the middle of the room, full of intricately decorated boxes and containers that held things that were once precious but now the boxes themselves are the precious things. There’s hair pins, bracelets, belts and then the necklaces, encased behind glass. The velvet busts present the necklaces like trophies and there’s a peculiar one that shines the brightest.
“Break it. I know you want to. Break the glass.” A voice whispers right behind his ear and Minho can almost feel the ghost of its breath on his neck. It makes his hairs rise and Minho now understands why this floor and this room in particular is where the rumours of the supernatural are the strongest. “Take it. Try it on. Feel its weight.”
The wall in front showed all there was to see. There is only one person in the room yet two shadows stand there, the one whispering in his ears slightly taller than him. Minho feels its hand crawling up to his neck, the touch very faint and barely noticeable. It’s something straight out of a horror movie even for him but then he remembers the other shadow’s dumb puns and that terror flies away like a feather in the wind.
“I’ll pass, thank you.” Minho walks away, continuing on his patrol through less familiar corridors. He hears the shadow mutter behind his back, clearly not expecting that reaction coming from him.
“What the heck?”
–
“What did you do to Innie last time? He won’t stop sulking and now I can’t go bother him.”
Minho tries to stifle his yawn without much success. He ended up staying past his usual bedtime talking with Jisung and Hyunjin and after that he couldn’t fall asleep for some reason. It’s even more frustrating because the two days he had off work he ended up going to bed early because of how tired he was.
The shadow persists on speaking to him despite the lack of response even though it’s been close to three weeks of being ignored. He says more than dumb jokes now, talks about the weather and the news he reads from the journal that the old man at the front entrance keeps on the desk. But every now and then Minho had to be prepared for whatever joke came his way.
“I need you to ask me a question for this one, ready? The question is: what is the key to comedy?”
It’s nearing the end of his shift, soon the sun will peak beyond the high towers made of glass and concrete and the shadows will grow darker. Exhaustion has well seeped into Minho’s body and the sound of his heel on the tile gives place to his feet dragging through the floor. And for the first time, he slips up. “What is the key to comedy?”
“Delivery-” The shadow answers in a squeaky voice, completely caught by surprise. They both freeze but thankfully Felix comes to Minho’s rescue as he calls him to change out of their uniforms and go home. The shadow vanishes when he hears that bright voice, it hides in Minho’s shadow and when Minho moves it’s gone, sunk back to the oblivion it came from.
Mortified is the word that describes Minho’s state the best. He does not really know what and how to feel. It changes nothing but it changes everything simultaneously. A monologue is one thing, Minho does not participate in it, he can compartmentalise it in his head, he can easily forget it. A conversation on the other hand, leaves a feeling of unease at the pit of his stomach. Deep down he knows it, he knows that these shadows that roam the halls of the museum are nothing like the paintings and statues that inhabit the place. These shadows are people, with unique personalities, trapped onto the walls for who knows how long or how, each with their history. He is scared. Scared to develop a connection with figures that appear and disappear at their whims during the night. Scared of missing the presence that is so quiet but so there , so intangible tangible, in the echo of his shadow.
-
The weeks that follow that two sentence conversation have revealed quite pleasant, Minho thinks. Initially that mental anguish clawed at him deeply, that fear opened wounds he was not expecting. But as time went on, they healed, as the shadow whistled melodies he sometimes recognised, as the sound echoed on open, moonlit halls and got absorbed into tapestries and curtains. The painting’s eyes followed two shadows on the wall now.
They don’t speak for quite some time, each satisfied with the simple fact they knew they were in company. And it works, for now. Despite the shadow not speaking to him, Minho can still feel his emotions. He reads it on the wall, through the spring in his steps, watches in the corner of his eye the slump of his shoulders, the lagging behind or the simple absence. Minho hides the scar, ignores its tingling as he feels the shadow’s emotions more and more by his reach.
It is at the end of the third week that, for better or worse, something finally cracks. There is a vibration in the air, a restlessness that accompanies the wind as it gently shakes the leaves from the trees. There is a dampness in the outside, but the museum continues as a separate world, at the perfect temperature, at the perfect humidity levels so its delicate occupants remain in pristine condition.
They sit side by side at the break room, just like that night so long ago, the shadow resting his head on the table, or so Minho assumes as all he sees is a blob occupying his side. How much time has passed? How long has it been since Minho last heard words spoken from hidden corners on the walls? Maybe it’s not the night that’s restless, maybe it is the shadow.
“I know you can see me,” the shadow whispers by his side. Minho can almost feel the rustle of fabric on the table’s surface as the shadow adjusts his position. If he reaches his hand, could he feel it? Could he feel the hair on the shadow’s head? Could he feel the warmth of his skin?
“What’s your name?” Minho asks quietly. It’s raining again, softly this time and it lulls him into a peace that makes breathing easier.
“Changbin,” the shadow answers softly. They fall into silence for a moment. “Thank you”, the shadow adds a few beats later. It’s so sincere and heartfelt it hurts. Minho can feel the pain from the man next to him. How long has it been since he had been acknowledged? Since he hadn’t been feared as something paranormal? Minho is curious about the shadows’ existence, not just this one, Changbin, but also the others that made the museum their homes. He wants to ask so many more questions but at the same time he does not want to break the calm surrounding them, enveloping the room that buzzes with the sound of the electric appliances. They speak nothing more for the night. They both walk the corridors of the museum, letting the sky weep.
-
“You’ve got cat hair on your uniform,” says the shadow as a form of greeting at the start of Minho’s next shift once they are by themselves. Minho absentmindedly brushes the area of his uniform where he felt a touch. He does not think much of that. “I wish I wasn’t allergic to them,” Changbin continues “How many do you have?”
“Three”
“Tell me about them”.
And Minho does. That and much more as Changbin keeps questioning him about this and that, about his interests, hobbies, friends, his taste in music, his favourite food. There are days where they don’t feel like talking about themselves so - Changbin mainly - quizzes him about sections of the museum, which one is creepier, which one is the prettiest, which one is haunted to which Minho chuckles at because they both know the answer to that. And in exchange Minho asks him to rank all of the exhibitions in order, his favourite rooms and the ones he doesn’t step his shadow on, because as much as he won’t admit himself, Minho enjoys listening to Changbin’s voice as much as he enjoyed working in silence in the past. However the substance of their conversation never goes much further than what is encapsulated in the museum. Changbin does tell him some things about himself, mostly things that pertain to his taste but his memory seems fuzzy beyond the more superficial aspects.
There is this knot tightening around Minho’s wrist, pulling him deeper and deeper into the shadows. But he lets himself be pulled.
-
The day fades away slowly. Minho melancholically watches the sun disappear as the night creeps up from a window in his apartment. He sighs as he closes the front door. The past few shifts have been different, his and the museum’s routine has been broken by dozens of visitors coming in for a new temporary exhibition. It is nothing new, Minho has had his fair share of events organized past its regular hours but now he wonders how the shadows feel about having time stolen from them, how the monochromatic movie projected on the wall robs them of their space. Yet he never asks Changbin when the movie ends, when it is time for dawn to creep over.
It is finally the last night and the last horde of visitors are left when Minho hears his voice.
“Can you turn it on?” It’s a hoarse sound, as if his voice had been stuck in the prison of his throat. He had not spoken for so long. Had Minho been the last person he spoke to?
Minho complies, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to the projector as the pictures move fluidly on the white canvas. His eyes roam the walls that surround them, looking for him, for the shadow that seemingly doesn’t belong. Minho finds him on the wall behind his back, further apart than where Minho usually finds him to be. For some reason, the distance seems bigger than ever.
He tries to shoo the thought away, to ignore the unease at the pit of his stomach and he focuses on the exposition. It is an old korean movie, still in various shades of white and black and the mix of the two. Minho feels a pressure in the air, or perhaps a pressure in his lungs as he watches a shadow cover most of the movie. He can almost see him through the particles of light that float like dust in a sunlit room. Minho watches as the shadow becomes smaller, as the ghost that projects it moves back and rests against the wall. Minho watches with an unease at the pits of his stomach how Changbin’s shadow blends in and yet it doesn’t. It's too colourful in his eyes, it’s too alive against the backdrop of dead souls moving on those same walls.
There is an eagerness to touch him, to stretch his hand and feel matter beneath his palms. To feel a heart, beating in tandem with his. Minho feels Changbin looking in his direction but he is looking at the eye of the projector. He is looking towards the light.
-
Jisung gives Minho a confused look. “Are you sure you want to know about that?” his friend asks. “I would never be able to work somewhere with such rumours”.
“Wouldn’t it be better to know? Besides you know I don’t believe in such things,” Minho sips through his straw, looking around the cafe, avoiding Jisung’s eyes. He had asked his friend to search for anything regarding the rumours around the museum, mostly pertaining to ghosts and shadows. He had not given any names yet, he wanted to know what Jisung could dig first.
“But really, why do you want to know it?”
“Morbid curiosity?” He doesn’t know if it fully convinces Jisung but he knows he’ll do it regardless.
When they both say their goodbyes, Minho wanders around, his feet taking him through narrow streets that lead to intersections, to tall buildings, to parks, to the stairs of the museum. It is his day off, the time in which both he and the sun are awake and Minho can let it seep into his skin. He should enjoy the spring outside, not confined to the walls he is so familiar with. Regardless, he pays for a ticket without bothering to use his position as a night guard to enter for free. There are quite a few people, some tourist groups, a school of children and some artists sitting on the ottomans provided by the museum, their pencils scratching the pages.
He roams around the same layout as in his patrols. He sees the exhibitions but he looks at the walls, for something, some sign of life, for the shadows that don’t truthfully belong. He never finds them, they do not acknowledge the sun and Minho goes home with an odd feeling in his chest.
-
“Hey Minho, is everything okay?” Chan asks, a hand over Minho’s shoulder as he stays in place, staring at his shoelace that had come undone.
“Yes, why?” he asks as he snaps out of whatever spell he was under. He has found himself staring blankly at nothing these days. He avoids thinking about it.
“Nothing. I mean you’ve just been quiet? More quiet than usual I guess,” Chan scratches his head, frowning as if examining the past few weeks inside his head but he shrugs and goes on with his night, not pushing Minho for more which he is grateful but also regretful for.
If Minho were to be honest he would tell Chan he feels at sea without a compass with overcast skies, no stars to guide him through his inner turmoil in the shape of a whirlpool. All of it because of what it has and what has not happened in the previous weeks. It has led to such a mental anguish he has clammed on himself.
Minho’s steps drag through the floor. He feels tired, like he needs more sleep and sun or both. Hyunjin had commented that working night shifts were starting to weigh in on Minho. He did not have the courage to tell him the truth.
A carpeted hall muffles the sound of his boots. Minho moves to a more secluded area, one where while he shouldn't, he knows he can sit on an ottoman, just to close his eyes for five minutes as he gathers his jumbled mind.
A melody catches his attention, as he approaches his destination. The grand piano sits there next to a bunch of folded chairs against the wall. A shadow falls over its keys and body and Minho stops to listen. Changbin knows he’s there, as there is a hiccup in the methodical way he presses the keys. He can not turn away now, he can not let Changbin know something is wrong by avoiding him. So he steps forward, sits on the piano bench right next to the darkness illuminated by the moonlit sky. Changbin seems to scoot over to give Minho space when he sees him approaching.
“It’s a really nice song, what’s the name?” Minho asks as the sound gradually fades away. He tries to hide the pain in his voice, the grief that wraps around his existente, that slowly chokes him up, night by night.
“Piece,” Changbin whispers weakly.
“What?”
“It’s not a song, it's a piece.”
“Oh. What’s the name of the piece then?”
Changbin doesn’t answer immediately, he plays with a few keys, pressing them randomly almost as if he has something on his head. Or almost as if he is trying to figure out the last part of the melody.
“I don’t remember,” he says. Minho can feel the dejectedness in his voice.
Minho watches Changbin’s hands fall to grip the bench, clearly hurting inside. Minho softly raises his fingers to the keys. They are cold to the touch, no warmth despite the person that just touched them. He feels the smooth, used textures under his fingertips, the gaps between the whites, the rise of the black ones. He presses a few random keys down, the sound of mismatched and random notes filling the silence that is often broken by his footsteps on the tile.
When Minho looks past the keys, he sees them there. Both their shadows, side by side, in the same dimension, same plane, same surface. Together. He tries to shoulder Changbin softly and for the first time there is something there, there is a resistance against his skin. It makes Minho’s heart cry. There isn’t a mass, there isn’t a warmth from a physical body that he can reach towards. Just an emptiness so full of life and soul. He leans into the touch, tries to etch it in his heart, to write it into memory in permanent ink. Minho keeps looking at their shadows, lines blurring where one begins and the other ends. He feels more than he sees the hand delicately touching his jaw, a finger travelling over where a stubble lies red and angry. He can not tell if he is imagining it. Minho turns his face.
But there is nothing there.
His eyes roam, trying to calculate where Changbin’s features would be, how further he needs to extend his hands to hold Changbin in place, to hold him against his heart. That ghost of a touch on his skin sends a pleasant tingling over his body. Minho yearns for a kiss, he breathes softly in wait, for something, for a connection, for the feathery touch of that soul on his.
“I’m sorry.” Changbin says, leaving behind an ever emptier, colder spot, painted by moonlight.
Minho does not stay either, he gets up, gets out of the room with a deep sigh. He buries the events deep inside, holds his chin high as his footsteps fill the silence, as his own shadow roams by his side, alone.
-
The text finally comes. Minho hopes that Jisung has found some answers.
Nothing in his routine has changed, or their routine. Changbin still walks by his side sometimes, sometimes he stays in some place where Minho passes by, sometimes he is gone completely. They speak less however. Whatever weighs in Changbin’s heart seems heavier, seems to consume him day by day.
“Can I first ask what’s going on?” Jisung says as he sits down. The coffee shop is quiet this time around, the music filling the air. Jisung has an expression of concern over his features which makes Minho more curious.
“Just tell me what you found”.
Jisung hesitates as he tries to read Minho but the latter gives nothing away in his expression.
“Found someone on a forum saying the ghosts are from the people that died in the museum, I mean besides of the hundreds of articles where people say it’s the ghosts of the relics or owners of the relics or something like that, you know, the usual. What do you want to know first?” There is a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The pastry he shared with Jisung suddenly made him nauseous.
“The people that died in the museum,” Minho says.
“So the first one is actually a pretty famous story. Have you heard of the robbery in 1995?” Minho shook his head, it was not really required to know all the history of the museum since he worked for a private security company that the museum subcontracted. “The building had just finished expanding to the third floor when five people tried to rob it. There’s not many details but something went wrong, a guard caught them in the act and one of them got shot”.
“What were they trying to steal?” Minho asks. He has an inkling to what Jisung would answer but he wanted to be sure.
“The jewels I think? Yeah, that’s it, because they had been recently exposed at the time of the robbery. Anyways the one that died was seventeen. Apparently he was just a kid pressured to go with the others. There’s not much more about it, they never managed to catch the rest of the group”.
Minho’s heart sank further. This has been a bad idea, though it’s maybe for the best. These shadows, these people that inhabit the museum’s corners are remnants, souls without a body, tied to foundations of that space, confined where they took their last breath. It isn’t really a shock per say, Minho already had the feeling that Jisung would say something along those lines. But hearing it spoken, hearing that they are nothing but ghosts from the past made it all very real and very painful. He hopes his face doesn’t give anything away.
Jisung fiddles with the papers strewn across the surface of the rounded table between them. There are copies of newspaper clippings, and notes on a journal where Minho can see blots of ink from the fountain pen he had given Jisung as a present when he got into the college of his choice.
“The other one is a college student who fell from the stairs and died. It was an accident, he had bad eyesight and missed his footing.” Another story that checks out with the shadows. Minho can see where this is going. He feels light headed and short of breath but urges Jisung to continue. He needs to know. He needs to be sure, even if it’s at the cost of heartbreak.
“The last one I got is more recent. I know that there’s a couple more but I can’t find anything about it because it was so long ago and I could not find the archives,” Jisung’s digression was killing Minho inside who kept on rocking his foot anxiously. “Last year in autumn, in October to be more precise, a guy had a heart attack and is in a coma.”
“Is?”
“From what I got he’s still alive. His name is Changbin”.
-
A few days later Jisung texts him an address to a hospital with a room number. It appears some of Changbin’s friends had posted well wishes on their social media that Jisung was able to track down. All Minho has to do is say he is a friend going to visit. It is not a lie, at least that’s what he tells himself.
The facilities are a lot quieter than he imagined so, not as much as the museum at night but closer than he thought. Minho is guided to a room that he can neither call cozy nor cold. There is a jar with dried flowers in a small table as well as a photo frame of what he assumes is Changbin’s family. Minho does not look at it, does not look at the face lying down immobile on the bed, not yet. He looks around the room, gazes outside towards the blinding sun, spilling orange rays into the world. There are so many shadows. When he finally turns around he sees not a blob of darkness, but a figure, a shape, warm and… and not breathing, not by himself it seems.
Minho sits on the chair by the hospital bed, follows the tubes of the machines down their path and into the skin of Changbin’s hand. He thinks back to the piano, to the ghost of a touch against his skin. He extends his hand, following the length of Changbin’s fingers and careful of the needle on the back of his hand. Minho holds it between his. And it is warm, it is sturdy and Minho breathes with relief. He finally lets his eyes travel further, to a mop of black hair and gentle features. It feels odd to put a face into a faceless shadow but it also feels right, just as the hand in his feels. It changes nothing but it also puts an ease into Minho’s heart. He is alive, his heart is beating, he just isn’t breathing the air in this room but in the walls of the museum. It’s still scary, daunting, but there is a weight that doesn’t disappear, it just moves slightly, letting him breathe deeper.
He doesn’t stay long. “I’ll see you later”.
-
Time passes achingly slowly. More often than not Minho has to slow down his pace because he keeps on hurrying ahead. There is a restlessness burrowed on top of his skin, itching to push on. The museum has changed, or more accurately, he has changed. He doesn’t stride along the current, he rips through it. His footsteps echo loudly, his lantern that hangs from his belt keeps bumping against his leg. But when Changbin comes they go back to before, in step with one another, silently, the antsyness slipping off of Minho like an ill fitting glove, if only for when they are together. But that time is even rarer now.
“I haven't seen you in a while” Minho whispers into the air, catching the shadow out of the corner of his eye. He tries to keep his voice level, pushing away that edge of worry. Minho wants to question why though he doubts he would like the answer.
“Sorry I’m just tired. I didn’t know you were missing me, I would have prepared more puns if I had known,” there is a cheekyness in his tone that Minho had forgotten how it felt. But Changbin too, hid something within.
“Just like this is fine”. This is them, in the break room, in the company of each other. There is so much beauty in the museum, in the gilded paintings that shine with the moonlight, the glasses and boxes and fabrics that twinkle with the shift of the light, but here, with the old coffee machine and fridge that occasionally makes a worrying noise, with the singular window towards the deserted street at the back of the museum, here lies the beauty of Minho’s past year.
They sit side by side on the table, staring at the wall in front of them, the shadows their mirror. Minho can not see what Changbin is doing, he moves his hand but it is in front of his body making him nothing but a blob of darkness. “I felt it”.
“What did you feel?” Minho cleared his throat, feeling his voice stuck on the confinement of his body.
“A hand on mine, I don’t know whose but… it was you wasn’t it?” Minho could only imagine Changbin was looking at his own hand. He wanted to ask what it felt like. Was it like on the piano? Was it a phantom touch? Could he feel the warmth of Minho’s skin on his? “What happened to me?”
“A heart attack. You stopped breathing for a long time and went into a coma”. Changbin just muttered in acknowledgement and the silence stretched for what felt like an eternity. For once it was not reassuring but heavy. A feeling of desperation slowly crawled over Minho, clouding his mind “You have to go back into your body. Please,” he begged.
“I can’t go back, none of us knows how to”.
Minho eyed the empty space next to him. Ever since going to the hospital he keeps imagining Changbin in flesh and bone, how he would fit on the seat, moving as his shadow does. There is still some blurriness on his mind, details that he has never seen in motion. What are the colour of his eyes, how do they wrinkle when he smiles, when he laughs, when he says those dumb puns that Minho has learned to adore and keep in his mind like precious jewels? How would he wrap his fingers on Minho’s? Gently? A feather of a touch initially until Minho squeezed back? Strongly? So that Minho could not let go?
His shadow is stronger, deeper. So why does Changbin feel so far away? Why does it feel like he is fading?
-
They settle back to their old routine, no more talks of their bodies, their materiality or immateriality. Though that does not stop them both from reaching towards each other, searching, craving for that feeling like when there is thunder in the air. They both have decided to bury their sadness, accept it as it is, as something out of their control. It does not make it hurt any less.
But one day Minho breaks that truce. He does not mean it, but the underground line he is in also takes him to the hospital. He slumps into the chair, hearing the echoes of the machines and the heavy rain that falls from the grey skies. Thunder roared outside screaming in tune with his cracking heart. The flickering of the light takes him back to nights at the museum, to the shadows, side by side. He is sitting on a chair, watching Changbin wrapped around in tubes that breathe life into him. But in that split second where the light flickers, Minho is suddenly in his uniform creased on spots he forgot to iron, still sitting in that hospital room watching Changbin, unmoving as still nature. And with them both is a shadow on the wall looking back at him. Minho blinks, there are tears in his eyes and he licks his lips. His nerves are on edge.
He is afraid. Afraid that like the insentient art in the museum, Changbin will never wake up, and just like the art, all that will be left of him is a plaque with a name, a date and a sentence.
Minho stays until the nurses tell him it is time for him to go though before he leaves he says goodbye. He inhales and holds his breath as he pushes Changbin’s hair away from his forehead, as he reaches down and kisses his forehead.
-
“ I know this is a bit sudden but is everything okay? ” Minho ignores the text Jisung sends him. He guesses Felix, Chan and Jisung must have been talking about how out of it he has been for the past couple of days, or months even. He does not know how long it has been since his world has drowned into the shadows. He turns the flashlight on and off and closes his locker with too much force, echoing in the quiet halls.
The night is silent for the most part, there are no shadows beyond those expected. That is until the dogs outside howl like a pack of wolves. There is something in the air, the pressure changes, the wound in Minho’s heart seems to fester and burn.
The days that pass, Minho avoids looking onto the walls, he looks out towards the window, he looks out towards the light, ignoring the shadows. He hasn’t seen Changbin for weeks and he has a gnawing feeling in his heart. He knows where to look for answers, all he has to do is walk to the stairwell and wait for the soul that lives there. Minho sits on the step, waits till he sees someone appear on the wall, standing up in front of him. There is another shadow beside him, sitting at the end of the same step as Minho.
“He’s gone isn’t he?”. Minho asks. He does not want the confirmation, but it is a need, something like pulling a tooth out.
“Yes,” the one standing up answers. He does not recognise the voice so he assumes it to be Seungmin’s.
“He is,” Jeongin replies. There is a clear sadness in his voice, a mourning for a friend, a brother. Minho pulls himself together, thanks them and leaves.
The walk over the corridors feels lonely. But it is a different kind of loneliness now. There is a hole that he knows will never fill, will never heal. Each person touches one differently. No matter how long, how many more people that enter his heart, that space will remain empty, waiting for their touch. It is a wound in the shape of a specific soul. A missing weight with their name engraved in the museum one holds inside one’s head. It isn’t perfect, most of what one has in inventory inside their minds is smudged, cracked, details remembered and details forgotten. Minho wonders if that is what Changbin will become. Just another piece, stored in an exhibition, looked at but never seen even within himself.
When he goes to the hospital, the sliver of hope he held like snow is squashed. Changbin’s room is empty. Minho clenches his hand. The only resistance he finds is of the skin of his palm being dug by his nails.
-
“ Solo-queuing ranked is a nightmare, I don’t know why I do it ,” Felix cries, exasperated, into the radio. It is a continuation of the topic he and Chan left behind at the break room.
“ De-ranked again? ,”
“ Sorry wha-, it keeps, cu- off. ”
“ Yeah, sure ”
Minho strides down the hallway, counting the minutes for his shift to be over. With the sun rising it marks half a year since Changbin’s passing. He endures the pain well now, the hurt dried out but on such milestones it bloomed back like a weed, the bulb forever remaining within. He remains alone during his patrols but he sometimes sees Seungmin, Jeongin and other shadows that feel ancient roam around. Sometimes he chats with the two of them and they talk about their past. It feels somewhat healing. But on days like this, they don’t appear on the walls and Minho does not look for them or for any other shadow with a familiar shape.
When the time finally comes he changes out of the uniform with record time speed, wishing to escape the confinement of stone, the halls, the darkness, the past. He barely manages to mumble a goodbye as he checks out his card and bolts out of there. It feels as if he is holding out his breath and he can only inhale once he crosses the exit door.
The light blinds him as soon as he gets out. Someone walks up the stairs, the sun behind them creating a halo of golden light. Minho starts descending, walking towards the right so as to not collide with the person coming up. He is minding the steps when a familiar voice calls his name, pulls him out of his head. He looks up, his eyes widening in astonishment. In front of his very eyes there is Changbin, in flesh and bone, alive. And warm, so warm.
“How? What?” Minho mumbles in astonishment. He freezes in place, not knowing how to act, what to do.
“I got transferred to a rehab facility after waking up,” Changbin looks at him sheepishly, rubbing on his neck. He has a crooked smile Minho notices. It makes the tears in his eyes swell up. “I’m sorry for taking so long,” Changbin said apologetically, looking him in the eyes. They are dark but hold a light within that makes Minho breathless. There are so many new details, so many mannerisms that he had failed to see. But now, he has so much time to record Changbin into his museum, to memorize his contours, now flesh and bone.
Minho reaches for him first but it is Changbin who pulls him into his arms, who holds him steady. Memories flash through Minho’s eyes, of endless nights walking endless steps, of melodies in the air, of friendship, of love. And now he has all that in his arms again, at the reach of a touch. They let go after a while, the sun painting their skin golden.
They walk down the steps side by side, shoulders touching, their shadows following behind.