Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the quiet stillness of her sanctuary, Lisa stirred awake. The faint aroma drifting up from the kitchen tugged at her senses — a comforting reminder of home, of Thailand, of roots that always called her back.

"Mom's up early," she thought, reaching for her wristwatch.

8:30 AM.

"Not that early, then," she muttered, setting it back down.

After rifling through her wardrobe for the perfect outfit, she stepped into the shared bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she emerged, freshly showered and dressed, the wristwatch snug on her wrist. Excitement coiled in her stomach as the smell from the kitchen grew stronger.

Lisa was a widely celebrated actress; her popularity was not just in Thailand but also in many other countries. She had been writing stories of her own, determined to one day create a film entirely hers. But so far, nothing felt quite right. It was as if an essential ingredient was missing— something she wouldn't even recognise until much later, when she looked back in hindsight. She wanted something meaningful. Something with depth, with flair. Something dark enough to stay with people long after the credits rolled.

She had even flown to Australia to talk about it with a childhood friend — Park Chaeyoung, known to the world as Rosé. Though Rosé's voice was celebrated across continents, she had also dabbled in acting. Not often, but enough to leave audiences spellbound whenever she did. Lisa had already decided that when she finally found the right story, Rosé would be the star of it.

But for that, she still needed a story — one with enough weight to carry everything she wanted to say.

~

Soon, the family gathered around the kitchen table. The meal Marco had prepared filled the air with warmth and spice, and Lisa couldn't stop herself from humming in delight as she took her first bite. Being away from home had been hard, but moments like this — the taste of familiar food, the comfort of family — reminded her how much she had missed it.

"How was your visit to Australia?" her mom asked, her tone casual but soft with concern. She knew how much Lisa had been chewing on her brain cells, trying to come up with the perfect storyline.

"It was fun, Mom. Chaeyoung was rather annoying, but she made the stay entertaining, as always," Lisa said, her tone measured.

"You'll come up with the perfect storyline, sweetie," Chittip said, taking another bite. "You're creative — you just need the right spark."

Lisa smiled at that, knowing she was a creative person. And that was exactly why she felt so confused. No matter how many people called her stories perfect, something always felt missing — the one spark that would make her first film truly hers. She hoped she found it soon, or she might just lose her mind.

"Anyway—happy anniversary, you two! What are your plans for the day?" Lisa asked, shifting the conversation away from her creative block and toward her parents' special day.

"We were planning on just going through the past once again," Marco said, his voice gentle and warm. "So many things have happened; we thought we'd relive the moments."

"I want in on that," Lisa said, her eyes sparkling.

"This was when we met," Chittip said, her fingers resting on a photograph of three people — Marco, Lisa's biological father, and herself. "I wasn't pregnant with you back then. Your dads used to play golf together."

"Wow, you guys look so young," Lisa remarked.

"We were young, Lisa," Marco replied with a soft smile.

"This was when your dad divorced. Marco brought me food every day after he found out I was pregnant," Chittip continued, her voice gentle as she traced the picture of herself and Marco, her hand brushing over her baby bump.

"How many months along were you when this was taken?" Lisa asked, visibly in awe.

"I think about three months, almost four," Marco answered.

"Wow," Lisa whispered, unable to think of anything else.

"You were a miracle, Lisa," Chittip said, her voice trembling as she lost herself in the memory. "On the day you were born, another woman died. We named you after her."

"Pranpriya?" Lisa asked, and both her parents nodded solemnly.

"When your mother went into labour, I was driving her," Marco said. "Her screams were loud, and she was struggling. I was trying to calm her and focus on the road. Then, out of nowhere, a woman was standing in the street — beaten and bleeding. I didn't see her in time, and... I hit her. I rushed her into the car as best I could and drove to the hospital, but...she didn't make it. You were born, and she...she died."

Lisa felt a subtle shift within her at the revelation. She had been named Pranpriya at birth. But when she was thirteen, her name was legally changed to Lalisa. Someone had warned her mother that the name Pranpriya was destined to bring misfortune — a prophecy, perhaps, that now seemed impossible to ignore.

"Did you know who she was? How did you find out her name?" Lisa asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"We didn't find any family," Chittip replied, her tone gentle but serious. "Nothing at all. The only clue was the name 'Pranpriya' tattooed on her arm... right where you have that birthmark."

Lisa looked at her arm, where she could make up something that looked like a burn rather than a birthmark. Everything about what her parents had revealed felt absurd. She felt bad about the death of the girl, whom she had never seen.

"How did she look?" Lisa asked, her curiosity tinged with unease.

"We don't know, Lisa," Chittip said softly. "She was burned, badly beaten, and had lost a lot of blood. Her face... it was almost unrecognisable."

Lisa could only wince at that. She felt a pang of sorrow for the woman—but, strangely, it felt almost personal. As if she had lived it herself. The intensity of her empathy for someone she had never truly known made her feel as though she were losing her mind.

They all fell into casual chatter once again, but Lisa couldn't shake the tension she felt in her bones ever since she heard the tragedy of Pranpriya.

"Lisa—this may sound ridiculous, but do you know Kim Kai?" Marco asked,

"Yes, Dad. The well-known South Korean film producer?" Lisa replied.

"Yes, that one," Marco said.

"He visited our hotel recently. Complimented the dishes I'd introduced there and said he wanted to meet me. Then he mentioned he's interested in making a film with you."

"That's sudden," Lisa replied, a flicker of unease in her voice.

"He asked me to give you his business card," Marco said, handing her a neatly printed card.

"Thanks, Dad. I'll go upstairs for now," Lisa said, examining the card.

"Lisa, just so you know," Chittip added, "he's one of the top producers we met during our stay in Korea." Marco nodded in agreement.

"I'll think about it," Lisa replied, slipping the card into her pocket as she made her way back upstairs.

She locked her door behind her and let out a long sigh.

It didn't sit right with her. She had never even met him, yet everything felt far too convenient—as if Kai had sought her out deliberately. Tracked down her father, visited his hotel, and orchestrated every step to lead to this moment. It felt less like a chance and more like the opening scene of a film where the audience already senses something is about to go terribly wrong.

If it had been anyone else, Lisa might've brushed it off. But something about this gnawed at her.

She pulled out her laptop and began to research him—she couldn't resist. Up until now, she had barely paid attention to Kai's work. As she scrolled through his portfolio, she found most of his movies were undeniably successful, even good. But for someone considered the most famous film producer in South Korea, the list wasn't very long.

"Interesting," Lisa thought, her fingers absently fiddling with the business card her father had given her earlier.

Back in 1997, Kai had been about to begin filming a movie when the set mysteriously burned to the ground. Even more enigmatic was the disappearance of its star actress, Jennie Kim—she had vanished without a trace.

And it only got more suspicious from there. Kai received over a million won from the insurance company, and not long after, he married Krystal—the daughter of a powerful and influential figure at that time—and was gifted a studio of his own.

Each revelation only deepened Lisa's suspicion—and her unease. She couldn't explain why, but something about Kai unsettled her. A strange resentment simmered within her, one she hadn't even known existed until now.

The film he had abandoned intrigued her—it was called Falling Petals. A simple, almost generic title, but something about it gnawed at her. She couldn't place why, but it felt like there was more to the story than the press releases from 1997 ever revealed.

She had made up her mind. She would respond to Kai—but first, she needed to see the locations where the old set had once stood. Lisa had never felt this drawn to an abandoned project before. Something about it tugged at her in a way she couldn't explain, a pull she couldn't ignore.

"Chaeyoung-ah, is it possible for us to go to Korea? Preferably as soon as possible. There are some places I need to check." She could only call Rosé her rock—her relentless source of strength and support.

"I think I could arrange something and get a vacation. But... why so suddenly, Lisa?" Rosé asked. Truth be told, Lisa didn't have an answer to that herself.

"I just found an interesting place," Lisa said, letting the lie slip easily. "You know how I am—a sucker for motivation. I'll need a translator."

Rosé's tone feigned offence from the other line, "Oh, so you only want me for my translation skills? I see how it is."

Lisa huffed in frustration. "Chaeyoung-ah, I can understand Korean! You don't need to be my translator," she said, exasperated but firm.

"Chill, Lisa," Rosé laughed. "I'm just joking."

Lisa was never one to get annoyed. If anything, it was Rosé who got frustrated—to the point of threatening to start a hate club against her if she didn't stop being annoying. Lisa knew, of course, that Rosé would never actually do it.

And that's when she realized.

She couldn't tell anyone the truth, not yet. She needed to understand why she felt so inexplicably drawn to this place—and why her emotions were suddenly all over the place.

~

Days passed quickly, and Lisa and Rosé had finally landed in Korea. Lisa had arrived first; Rosé followed shortly after. They booked a hotel room and rented an SUV for their stay.

Now, Lisa was behind the wheel, navigating through the winding roads, while Rosé gave directions. The further they drove, the lonelier the roads became. Trees towered on either side, and houses grew scarce. There was something enigmatic about the scenery, a quiet, almost uncanny familiarity.

Rosé glanced up from her phone, shivering. "Lisa—are you trying to kill me? I was joking about that hate club, I swear."

"For the love of life, Chaeyoung, stop it," Lisa muttered through clenched teeth, her jaw tight.

Everything felt familiar. The winding roads, the dense trees, the air itself... too familiar.

Soon, they arrived at enormous gates, their sheer presence commanding attention—even a gate seemed to radiate an aura of its own. Security guards opened them for the SUV, and they drove onto the set.

The remnants of the old production lay before them—charred, scarred, but somehow still standing. Lisa's mind spun as she tried to take it all in. Every detail, every shadow, felt hauntingly familiar. Her heart thudded in her chest as a strange sense of déjà vu washed over her.

Before she could brace herself, Lisa froze in the middle of the set, clutching her head with both hands as a low groan escaped her lips. Alarmed, Chaeyoung dashed back toward the car, rummaging for the painkillers she was certain she had packed. 

Meanwhile, Lisa could barely breathe. Voices echoed all around her— distant, overlapping, fractured. Fragments of laughter. Whispers that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

And then... eyes.

They weren't real, but they felt vivid—too vivid. At first, those eyes shimmered with happiness, pure bliss captured in a fleeting moment. Then came the shift— desperation, heartbreak, and pain that clawed through the air. 

Lisa's pulse raced as her head throbbed harder with each passing second. The voices grew louder, tangled together until she could no longer tell one from the other. Two women. Their tones were familiar, their words burning into her mind like echoes from another lifetime. 

"You'd be a superstar! A rockstar!"

"The only thing between you and success is your name—Pranpriya!"

"What's so bad about that?"

"The name is not bad... but it's not good either."

"Jennie Kim—the dream girl, she is."

Her head spun, the words looping endlessly like a broken reel of film. The air around her seemed to hum.

And then—everything went dark.

Lisa collapsed, her body hitting the charred ground with a soft thud.

Chaeyoung, who had just grabbed the painkillers from the glove compartment, dropped everything at the sound. "Lisa!" she screamed, sprinting across the cracked lot. The sight of her friend motionless on the ground sent cold panic rushing through her veins. 

With the help of the security guards, Rosé managed to carry Lisa into the SUV and drive her back to their shared apartment. Lisa's body remained limp the whole way, her head resting against the seat, her breath shallow but steady.

FLASHBACK - 1997

A voice—deep, raspy, and excited—echoes through the air. 

"The press premiere for Dreams and Girls is happening today!"

Another voice followed, bright and eager—so much like Lisa's, but not quite.

"I know! And Ms. Jennie will be there! I wish we could've been successful actresses too... maybe then we could've watched the premiere for real."

Her tone dimmed slightly, almost wistful.

"That's exactly why I, your best friend Kim Jisoo, went through hell abusing my social connections to get these."

She raised two tickets triumphantly, her grin wide.

"Ta-da!"

"Unnie!! How did—what did you even—I love you!!"

"Yah, don't lie to my face! You don't love me—you love Jennie! So much that the villagers think you belong in an asylum, not—"

Jisoo waved her arms vaguely, gesturing at their tiny, cluttered apartment. 

"Listen, I know the jumper," Jisoo said, her tone slipping into something protective. "Just try to smile, act less suspicious, okay? We'll make it in somehow."

The sound of laughter—familiar, warm—echoed faintly through Lisa's mind, like static from a distant memory she wasn't supposed to remember. 

And just like that, the laughter faded, but before Lisa could grasp the silence, another scene began to unfold—hazy, flickering, like an old film reel struggling to stay in focus.

Now, the sounds of music, camera flashes, and murmuring crowds filled her head. 

"We actually made it in," Jisoo whispered, clutching her ticket stub like it was gold. "Try not to act weird, okay? Just... blend in."

Pranpriya—younger, hopeful, wide-eyed—sat stiffly in her seat, unable to believe she was really there. The red carpet shimmered under the lights, and there, just ahead, Jennie Kim stepped out of the car—radiant, smiling, her gown trailing like liquid gold. 

Pranpriya's heart pounded. She leaned forward, her eyes glistening, her lips parting as if to call out—

"She's even more beautiful in person," she whispered. 

Jisoo elbowed her. 

"Keep your voice down!"

But it was already too late. As the host began introducing the cast, Pranpriya's emotions spilled over. Her vision blurred with tears. Jennie's speech echoed through the speakers, every word striking too close to her heart. 

Then came the sob—loud, raw, uncontrollable. 

Heads turned. Cameras paused. Jisoo buried her face in her hands. 

"Oh my god, Priya, not now—"

The "jumper," the security man Jisoo had bribed to let them in, stormed over with an exasperated look. 

"That's it! Both of you—out!"

"Wait—please! I wasn't—"

"You're disturbing the premiere!"

Dragged out into the crisp night air, Pranpriya wiped at her tears, embarrassed beyond belief.

Jisoo huffed beside her, arms crossed.

"You just had to start crying in front of Jennie Kim, huh?"

"I couldn't help it," Pranpriya sniffled, half laughing, half crying. "She's... she's perfect."

And inside the hall, Jennie—halfway through her thank-you speech—had paused for just a second. Her gaze flickered toward the exit where the commotion had been. 

Her lips parted, just slightly.

"Who was that girl?"

The image blurred, the sound distorted—the memory dissolving like smoke.

Light flickered again—the way old film reels catch and sputter before the next scene plays.

Lisa's body tensed even in unconsciousness. Her mind was no longer her own. 

The red carpet and flashbulbs faded into a sunlit set. The air buzzed with energy—people running cables, carrying tripods, shouting call times. The smell of hot lights and fresh paint lingered. 

"We actually got the job," Jisoo whispered, barely containing her glee.

"Supporting role and assistant camera—not bad for two nobodies."

"Not bad?" Pranpriya's voice trembled between disbelief and joy. "We're working on a Kim Jongin film, unnie. This is huge."

Jisoo snorted. "You mean, we're working near Jennie Kim. Don't think I don't know what's fueling you."

Pranpriya bit her lip but couldn't hide her smile. "I just... want to see how real art looks up close."

"Right. Sure. Art."

Their laughter dissolved as the booming call of a floor manager echoed across the set. 

"Camera team, prepare for test lighting! Let's move!"

Crew members scattered like ants, adjusting reflectors, positioning dollies, testing mics. Pranpriya clutched her clipboard tighter, heart pounding as she followed a senior operator's instructions. 

Kim Jongin was there—larger than life, yet not looking at her. His attention was fixed on the lens, the actors, the rhythm of the scene. Commands left his lips like music; everyone around him moved in sync.

He didn't even glance her way. And somehow, that made it worse. 

Because in that moment—surrounded by lights, cables, and chaos—Pranpriya realized how tiny she was in this world she adored. How invisible.

Jennie Kim arrived then, poised and radiant, her laughter rippling across the set as she greeted the director. The way Jongin looked at her—calm, calculating, reverent—told Pranpriya everything she needed to know about who really mattered here.

Still, as the clapperboard snapped—

"Scene one, take one!"

—She caught herself whispering under her breath, almost like a prayer. "One day... I'll make a film that outshines even this."

The lights flared white. And everything vanished.

The next vision didn't come softly. It tore through Lisa's mind like a scream.

Smoke. Screaming. The acrid sting of burning fabric. 

Lisa—no, Pranpriya—stumbled back, choking on air that felt too thick to breathe. The studio was chaos. Crew members ran in every direction, tripping over cables, shouting over each other. Flames licked the edge of the fabric backdrop, spreading fast across the wooden set walls.

"Get the extinguishers! Hurry!" someone shouted, voice cracking with panic. 

But the fire had already climbed too high. The sound of wood snapping under heat was deafening. 

Jennie was still inside. 

"She's trapped!" Jisoo screamed, pointing toward the heart of the burning set—the mock living room they'd been filming in. "Jennie's still in there!"

The doorway was swallowed by fire, orange and violent. 

No one moved. 

And before she could even think—before anyone could stop her— Pranpriya ran.

Her boots skidded across the studio floor as she threw her arm over her face and dove through the thick smoke. Heat clawed at her skin, her throat burning with every breath. 

"Jennie!" she shouted, coughing violently. "Jennie, answer me!"

A faint cry—hoarse, terrified—came from somewhere near the center of the room. Pranpriya followed the sound, her eyes watering so badly she could barely see. 

Jennie was pinned under a fallen prop beam, her ankle caught. Flames had already begun to eat through the fake curtains around her.

"Hold still!" Pranpriya yelled. She pushed at the beam—once, twice—before bracing herself and shoving with all her strength. The beam shifted just enough for Jennie to crawl free. 

Pranpriya caught her by the shoulders, pulling her up, and together they stumbled toward the nearest exit. The fire roared behind them, smoke curling like living things. 

"Almost there, Jennie—just keep moving—"

A section of the ceiling cracked and fell. Sparks cascaded over them. Pranpriya screamed as pain flared down her right arm, searing through the skin. 

Still, she didn't stop.

She threw herself forward, pushing Jennie through the exit just as the doorway collapsed behind them.

The world outside exploded into light and sound—people shouting, sirens wailing, hands grabbing at them both. Jennie was sobbing uncontrollably, her face streaked with soot and tears. 

"She—she saved me!" Jennie gasped at the others. "She saved—"

But Pranpriya couldn't hear her. Her vision blurred. Everything felt muffled, like she was underwater. 

The last thing she saw before collapsing was Jennie's terrified face framed by the flickering flow of fire—and the reflection of her own arm, burned and bleeding, where a faint, flower-shaped scar began to form. 

Then—darkness.

The haze lifted, and Lisa found herself standing once again on the same set. But this time, it wasn't burning. 

The chaos was gone—replaced by a lazy afternoon hum of routine. Crew members moved around casually, chatting and laughing as they set up the next shoot. The a faint smell of coffee mixed with the familiar scent of dust and paint.

Pranpriya sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a tangle of camera cables, her fingers deft but impatient. A stubborn strand of hair kept falling into her eyes, and she blew it away with an irritated huff.

"If this cable shorts again, I'm quitting," she muttered under her breath.

"That would be a shame," a soft voice said from behind her.

Pranpriya froze. Slowly, she turned. 

Jennie Kim stood in that doorway—one hand gripping a crutch for balance. Her ankle was bandaged beneath the hem of her dress pants, and though her face was bright, her steps were careful. The fire hadn't claimed her, but it had left its mark. 

"Ms Jennie—oh! You shouldn't be walking around yet," Pranpriya said quickly, scrambling to her feet. 

Jennie smiled, the corners of her lips lifting into something gentle. 

"I'm fine," she said softly. "I had to come back. I... needed to see you."

"See me?" Pranpriya asked, blinking in confusion.

Jennie nodded. "To thank you."

The words landed heavy in the quiet space, cutting through the low buzz of equipment and conversation. A few crew members looked up curiously, but Jennie paid them no mind. She took a slow step closer, the faint click of her crutch echoing faintly. 

"They told me what happened," Jennie continued. "You ran in before anyone could stop you. You could've died."

Pranpriya looked down at her bandaged hand, flexing her fingers slightly.

"I didn't think," she admitted. "I just heard that you were trapped. I couldn't... not help."

Jennie's eyes softened. She reached out, brushing an invisible speck of dust from Pranpriya's shoulder, her touch light and fleeting. 

"You're braver than more people I know," she said quietly. "Including myself."

Pranpriya laughed, a little awkwardly.

"Brave? Maybe just stupid."

Jennie's smile deepened, the kind that lit up her whole face. 

"Then I'll thank you for your stupidity."

They both laughed—the sound breaking the stillness of the room in a way that felt achingly alive. 

Jennie studied her for a long moment before speaking again. 

"You had told them that you wanted to produce films someday, right?"

"Yeah," Pranpriya replied, tucking that stubborn strand of hair behind her ear. "But I think I'll be stuck fixing these for a while before that happens," she gestured vaguely at all the cables around her feet.

Jennie tilted her head, thoughtful.

"Don't underestimate yourself. Sometimes, the ones behind the camera see the truth better than those in front of it."

Something about the way she said it—steady, certain—carved itself deep into Pranpriya's mind.

Then, the scene began to fade, the world dissolving around her. The echo of Jennie's voice was the last thing that remained. 

"Don't underestimate yourself, Pranpriya."

The world shimmered again before settling. Lisa blinked as the blurred edges of memory sharpened into focus—a rooftop. Golden dusk poured over the city below, bathing everything in soft light. 

Pranpriya sat cross-legged near the edge, her camera beside her, a cup of instant coffee warming her hands. Jennie was beside her, wrapped in a blanket, her crutch resting against the wall.

They weren't supposed to be there—that much was clear from the way Jennie kept glancing toward the locked rooftop door, grinning like she was in on some secret.

"You know," Jennie said, her voice carrying softly over the hum of traffic below, "you never talk much about yourself."

Pranpriya tilted her head. "What's there to say? I hold cameras, tangle and untangle cables, and nearly die on film sets for sport."

Jennie laughed, a small, musical sound that made Pranpriya's heart skip.

"You make it sound so unglamorous."

"Because it is," Pranpriya said with a shrug. "But I like it that way. I get to see stories unfold—real or not—through my lens."

Jennie looked at her then, truly looked, eyes reflecting the amber of the setting sun. 

"That's poetic," she murmured.

Pranpriya smiled shyly. "I guess I'm not as dull as I sound."

"You're not dull at all," Jennie replied, and something in her tone made Pranpriya freeze.

The air between them thickened—delicate, fragile, and... electric. Jennie turned back to the skyline, missing how Pranpriya's gaze lingered on her instead of the sunset.

Days bled into weeks after that. 

They ate lunch together between takes. Shared secret jokes that no one else understood. Jennie would often find Pranpriya hiding behind a monitor and pull her out just to sit with her on the grass.

It became a routine. Comfortable. Dangerous.

And somewhere between laughter and lingering glances, between soft "goodnights" and stolen moments, Pranpriya realized she had crossed a line she never meant to.

She was in love.

Not with Jennie Kim, the dream girl, the star everyone adored—but with Jennie, the person who laughed too loudly, unapologetically, who drank too much iced coffee, who said "thank you" like she meant it every single time. 

She tried to deny it, to bury it beneath professionalism, but it grew heavier with every shared look and every late-night talk. Until one evening, she couldn't hold it back anymore.

~

They were sitting in the dressing room after a shoot. Everyone else had left, leaving behind a faint haze of perfume and fading laughter. Jennie sat at the mirror, removing her makeup, while Pranpriya packed the camera equipment in silence. 

"You look tired," Jennie said softly, meeting her reflection's eyes.

"Maybe," Pranpriya replied. Her voice was quiet, but her heart was deafening.

Jennie turned, concern flickering across her face. "Yah, are you okay?"

Pranpriya inhaled sharply. "I—I need to tell you something."

Jennie stilled. "Okay," she said carefully. 

The words caught in Pranpriya's throat, her pulse pounding against her ribs. "I don't know when it happened, but I can't pretend anymore."

"Pretend what?" Jennie asked, almost whispering.

"That I only admire you."

The silence that followed was crushing.

Pranpriya forced herself to meet Jennie's eyes. "It's not a crush, Jennie. I love you. I think I've loved you for a while now."

Jennie blinked—her expression unreadable. Surprise, confusion, maybe even fear rippled across her face before she quickly masked it. 

"Priya..." Jennie began, her tone gentle, uncertain. "You don't mean that. You're just—caught up in the moment."

"No," Pranpriya said firmly. "This isn't the first time I've felt it. And it's not going away."

Jennie stood there, her crutch scraping lightly against the floor. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because people like us don't get happy endings," Jennie whispered. "Not here. Not in this world."

For a moment, Pranpriya thought Jennie might cry—but instead, she offered a bittersweet smile and turned away, leaving Pranpriya alone with the weight of her confession.

Lara's breath hitched as the vision dissolved into smoke. The ache in her chest lingered, raw and deep—as if it wasn't just a memory she had seen, but a heartbreak she had once lived through. 

The world had changed, but the set remained the same—a familiar chaos of cables, cameras, and half-finished sets. 

Pranpriya moved quietly, deliberately keeping her distance from Jennie. Every laugh, every smile Jennie directed toward her once felt like sunlight; now it felt like a wound. An angry wound. She avoided eye contact, kept her conversations clipped, and volunteered for tasks that kept her far from the actress she loved. 

Jennie noticed. She always noticed. But every time her gaze lingered on Pranpriya, her chest tightened with something she didn't understand. Every step Pranpriya took away from her felt like another weight pressing down.

"Pran... you've been avoiding me," Jennie said one afternoon, in a corner of the crew room.

Pranpriya looked up briefly, her expression calm, professional—almost colder than she felt inside.

"I'm just busy with my work," she said lightly, hiding the storm beneath.

Jennie opened her mouth to argue, to protest, but closed it again. Words would betray both of them. The world, Jennie knew instinctively, was against this kind of love. Against the kind of love that dared to cross boundaries between star and crew, expectation and desire. 

Days passed like this. Jennie tried small gestures—a shared coffee, a quiet smile—but Pranpriya always slipped away. Heartbreak sat heavily in Jennie's chest, too, but she said nothing. And Pranpriya? She decided she would be the friend Jennie deserved.

"If I can't love you openly," Pranpriya whispered to herself one evening, staring at Jennie from across the set, "then I will silently love you anyway. Without expectation. Without claiming anything. I will just... protect your happiness as best I can."

She swallowed her feelings, shoved her heart deep into the confines of her chest, and set about her duties with an almost mechanical precision. The love she carried became a secret shield, a quiet devotion no one could see.

But fate, cruel as ever, had its way.

One afternoon, Pranpriya wandered into the empty hall outside the director's office. She froze, seeing Jennie standing with Jongin. The air was taut with tension. She couldn't hear all the words, but the fragments that reached her cut deep. 

"You promised him, didn't you? The agreement with Minister Jung?" Jennie's voice was sharp, trembling, a mixture of fear and anger. 

"...I—" Jongin started, but Jennie continued, voice breaking. "I'm pregnant. With your child!"

Pranpriya's heart lurched violently in her chest. She had known, in some shadowed corner of her mind, that this day might come, that the world would wedge itself cruelly between them. But hearing Jennie confess it—seeing her vulnerable, desperate, raw—made something inside her crack. 

She stayed hidden, a silent observer, clutching her camera bag. Tears threatened her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

This was the moment that solidified her choice: she could not claim Jennie, could not defy fate or society. But she could love silently, care silently, and protect Jennie from afar.

She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and turned away. Jennie's heart belonged to another now, and no amount of longing could change that.

And yet... Pranpriya could not look away completely. 

After her quiet declaration of love for none, Pranpriya carried on as if nothing had changed. She no longer lingered on Jennie's every word, let herself hope for moments that could never be. 

But she stayed close enough to care.

She made sure Jennie ate her meals, never letting her skip breakfast or lunch. She offered smiles, gentle reminders to rest, and small touches that spoke only to those who knew her well—to ensure Jennie and her unborn child were healthy. Jennie noticed the change; something about Pranpriya's composure, her serene dedication, felt almost unnatural. 

"Why are you so... careful?" Jennie asked one afternoon, curious.

"Because you matter," Pranpriya replied simply, brushing back a stray strand of hair, "and because you need to stay healthy for yourself," and for the baby.

Jennie smiled, sensing the depth behind the words but choosing not to pry. The warmth of their renewed friendship—honest, unbroken—mattered more than the oddities she couldn't understand. 

~

That night, the set had emptied, save for a few trainees left behind to finish packing. Pranpriya had been ordered to stay, making sure everything was organised. The rest of the crew had long departed, leaving the work to her. 

Her legs moved on autopilot, pulling her toward the edge of the lot. She hadn't meant to watch, but something inside her guided her steps—curiosity, instinct, the faint echo of her heart that refused to rest.

She arrived just as Jennie and Jongin approached the brand-new set for Fallen Petals. The air was tense, charged with authority and excitement. Pranpriya hid in the shadows, clutching her camera bag, her breath quiet in her chest.

"I've decided," Jongin said, his voice firm but smug, "that we're cancelling this film. The set... it will be our wedding venue."

Jennie froze. Her eyes widened in disbelief. 

"What?" she asked, voice tight. 

"Everything will happen here, in front of everyone," Jongin continued, his tone unwavering. "We'll marry on this set. This film is cancelled, but nothing else matters more than us being together."

Pranpriya had forced herself to stay at a distance that night. Her heart ached, heavy and raw, but she allowed herself one last glance. Jennie's face, lit by the soft flow of set lights, shone with happiness.

Jongin had decided to make their relationship public. To marry her in front of everyone. Jennie's eyes sparkled, her smile radiant, and for a brief moment, Pranpriya almost forgot her own pain. She felt a surge of joy for Jennie—a joy laced with unbearable longing.  

But that joy quickly turned to dread.

Pranpriya turned away, retreating silently, her footsteps inaudible on the empty lot. Her chest tightened as she heard Jongin's voice rising above the distant crew chatter:

"I've dreamt of becoming the most famous, the most successful film producer in Korea," Jongin said, his tone calm, almost chilling. "That dream... It's bigger than anything else. Bigger than Jennie. Bigger than anyone. And if it stands in my way... I will burn it all down."

Pranpriya froze, a cold dread gripping her. She knew instantly what he meant—the set. The film. Jennie. Everything was at risk.

She spun back toward the set just in time to see Jongin leave. Flames began licking the edges of the wooden structures; smoke filled the air. Panic rippled across the lot. Jennie's eyes widened as she tried to push open the glass doors—the flames growing, the heat intensifying.

"Jennie!" Pranpriya screamed, running toward her beloved. 

Jennie slammed against the glass, tears streaking down her face, her voice drowned out by the roar of fire. Pranpriya's heart shattered at the sight. 

She grabbed a loose brick from the ground, preparing to smash a window to reach Jennie—but then three large men, Jongin's enforcers, appeared behind her. They struck her brutally, fists and sticks raining down, until she collapsed to the scorched ground. Pain screamed through her body; she could barely rise. 

 For a moment, she thought it was over—that she couldn't save her. But then she remembered Jennie's face, her desperation, and with trembling, burning arms, she crawled toward another side of the set.

Brick in hand, Pranpriya smashed the window open. Smoke choked her lungs, fire roared around her, and just as she reached toward Jennie, an explosion ripped through the structure. 

The force of it threw her out violently, rolling her across the dirt and onto the road. She tried to rise, coughing and gasping, smoke stinging her eyes. 

Through her haze, she could only think about Jennie—trapped inside, flames consuming her, screaming, crying against the glass.

Pranpriya's legs moved automatically; she lunged forward, ignoring the pain, only to collide violently with the hood of a car.

Marco's car had appeared in the chaos, bringing him and Chittip rushing to help. The impact knocked the wind out of her, sending her sprawling onto the asphalt. Her vision blurred, and for a moment, she feared she would never rise again. 

When she finally lifted her head, she saw it: the fire had consumed everything. Jennie was gone—burned beyond recognition.

Pranpriya's scream tore through the night, a sound of grief so pure and unbearable that it seemed to echo into eternity. 

With a sharp, ragged gasp, Lisa awoke. 

Her chest heaved, sweat soaking her hair, and the echoes of fire, screams, and brick-striking fists still rattled in her mind. The memories—or visions—flooded her senses, sharp and unrelenting. 

Chaeyoung was crouched beside her, eyes wide. Her expression was a confusing mix of shock, fear, and something that almost looked like betrayal.

"Lisa...what—what happened?!" Chaeyoung whispered, her voice trembling.

Lisa tried to speak, but only a hoarse, broken sound came out. Her hands instinctively clutched her head, as if trying to hold together the fragments of a life that felt both hers and not hers.

"I... I saw..." Lisa gasped, struggling to form words. "...Jennie...fire..."

Chaeyoung's eyes softened slightly, but the fear remained. She didn't know what Lisa had just gone through, but the intensity in her friend's gaze, the raw pain behind her eyes, told her this was more than a smile fainting spell.

Lisa's vision blurred. The faces of Jennie, Pranrpiya, and the chaos of that night flickered behind her eyelids. Her heart pounded painfully, each beat echoing the screams she had heard, the flames she had tried to fight, the desperate girl she had wanted to save.

She took a trembling breath and met Chaeyoung's gaze. "I remember everything. The gut feeling I had when Kai was mentioned—it all makes sense now... He killed someone. He killed the person I loved."

Chaeyoung remained still and silent, simply staring. For the first time, Lisa understood the magnitude of what she had just gone through—not just in this life, but in another. It was now her responsibility to make sense of it all, to navigate through the themes of love, loss, and the justice that had been denied. The fire had claimed two lives that day, but it also awakened one of them that same night.

"What are you talking about, Lisa? Remember what?" Chaeyoung asked carefully, her voice trembling between concern and fear. She watched her best friend closely, afraid that one wrong word might push her over the edge. 

Lisa's eyes were unfocused, glassy with the weight of memories that didn't belong to this lifetime. Her lips quivered as she spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper. 

"I remember... everything, Chaeyoung. The fire. The screams. Jennie." Her breath hitched as she said the name, as though it burned on her tongue. "It wasn't just a nightmare—it was my life. My death."

Chaeyoung's heart sank. "Lisa, listen to yourself. You're scaring me. You passed out at that burned-down set, maybe you're just—"

"No." Lisa's voice was firm now, steady and cold. "It wasn't a dream. I was there. He killed her, Chaeyoung. Kai killed Jennie—and he was the reason why I died."

The room fell silent, weighed down by disbelief. Chaeyoung opened her mouth, but no words came out. For the first time, she didn't see Lisa—the grounded, playful, teasing girl she'd known all her life. What stood before her was someone haunted, someone carrying centuries of pain in her eyes. 

“Lisa… please,” Chaeyoung croaked, her voice trembling as she struggled to find the right words. “Explain to me what happened—I... I’m so confused.”

Lisa dragged a shaky hand through her hair, her pulse still racing as flashes of smoke and screaming filled her mind. “It’s like... I lived another life, Chaeyoung,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I wasn’t Lisa then. My name was Pranpriya. I worked on a film set—Kai’s set. Jennie was there too. She was everything to me.”

Chaeyoung blinked rapidly, her eyes darting between Lisa’s trembling hands and her haunted expression. “You mean... like, a past life?”

Lisa nodded slowly. “Yes. I saw it all. The fire. The betrayal. The way she screamed for help—and how he left her to die. I tried to save her, I really did…” Her voice faltered as her throat tightened. “But I couldn’t. And then—” She took a shaky breath. “And then I died too.”

The words hung between them like smoke, thick and suffocating.

Chaeyoung’s eyes glistened with disbelief and fear. “Lisa… that’s not possible.”

Lisa met her gaze, steady but sorrowful. “It shouldn’t be,” she said softly. “But it is.”

“What will you do about it? Didn't Kai ask you to film with him? More like he gave your father his business card and expressed interest, but anyway.”

Chaeyoung's question sliced through the heavy silence. 

Lisa looked up, her expression unreadable for a moment. "He did," she said finally, her tone low, almost detached. "He wants to work with me—just like he once worked with Jennie."

Chaeyoung frowned. "Lisa, don't tell me you're actually thinking about saying yes to him after—after everything you just told me."

Lisa's lips formed a bitter smile. "Oh, I’m going to say yes," she said, her voice trembling with quiet resolve. "But not because I trust him." Her eyes hardened, and the softness was replaced by something sharper and colder. "I need to ensure that whatever really happened that night is known by the whole world. Every lie he buried and every secret he’s still hiding must be exposed under the spotlight so that everyone realizes a demon had been walking among us in human form."

Chaeyoung's breath hitched. "Lisa, that sounds dangerous."

"I know," Lisa replied, standing slowly with her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the room. "But I’ve already experienced death once; I won’t cower at the thought of facing it again. That unfinished story will be written anew—but the ending is mine to create this time."

Chaeyoung sat uneasily as Lisa gathered her coat.

"Where are we going now?" She finally asked, watching Lisa's movements like someone trying to catch up to a storm.

Lisa's voice was steady, but her eyes were elsewhere—far away, "There's someone I need to see," she said. "An old friend."

Chaeyoung blinked. The only friend Lisa had in Korea was herself, so she just assumed it was someone from her past. 

Lisa just grabbed the car keys and went to the door, followed closely by Chaeyoung. 

 ~

The drive was quiet except for the occasional hum of the GPS and the muffled sound of the city life fading behind them. As they moved further out, the streets narrowed, the buildings aged, and the air grew heavier—as if it still carried the echoes of old lives.

Finally, Lisa pulled up before a small, worn-down complex. The sign above the entrance was half-rusted, the paint chipped away. The stairwell smelled faintly of mildew and dust. 

"This is it," Lisa said softly, staring at the second floor.

Chaeyoung followed her, hesitant. "Lisa, how do you even know this place?"

"I just do," Lisa murmured, her hand brushing over the peeling wall as they climbed the stairs. "I can still remember where the light used to flicker, where Jisoo would leave her shoes, where I..." she trailed off, as if the words got caught between her past and present selves. 

They stopped in front of a faded blue door—number 204. Lisa's hand hovered just above the knob. "This was our apartment."

"Lisa, this building looks like it hasn't been rented in years," Chaeyoung said, glancing at the taped-over electricity meter and dusty windows. 

Lisa didn't seem to hear. She pushed the door, and to their surprise, it creaked open. 

The room inside was small, cramped—barely big enough for two people. A single window let in silvers of light through yellowed curtains. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching the sunlight.

Lisa stepped in slowly, her breath unsteady. "We had a small stove here," she said, pointing to the corner. "The wallpaper was pink... Jisoo hated it, but we never had the money to change it. I remember..." Her voice broke off as she knelt by a corner of the floorboards, brushing off the dust. 

There, carved faintly into the wood, were two letters: P + J.

Chaeyoung crouched beside her, her voice barely above a whisper. "Lisa... are you sure this isn't—"

"It's real," Lisa interrupted, her fingers tracing the carving. Her throat tightened. "We used to joke about it... said no one would ever know what it stood for."

The air grew heavy between them. Chaeyoung looked around the cramped space—at the empty corners and hollow echoes of laughter long gone.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked softly.

Lisa exhaled, standing to face the door again. "Find out how much of the past still lives in the present." Her eyes lingered one last time on the initials before turning away. 

As they climbed the last few steps of the narrow stairwell, the air grew thicker—stale with age and something unspoken. Lisa’s heart pounded in her chest; each step felt heavier than the last. Chaeyoung, walking a half pace ahead, glanced back every so often, unsure if her friend was following or floating through memories only she could see.

They reached the landing just as a door at the far end creaked open. A woman stepped out, holding a bag of groceries close to her chest. She looked to be in her early fifties—her hair streaked with gray, her face marked by years but still strikingly familiar in ways Lisa couldn’t explain.

“Excuse me,” Chaeyoung said politely, shifting to the side to let the woman pass.

But the woman didn’t move. Her gaze flicked briefly over Chaeyoung, dismissing her as a stranger—until it landed on the figure half-hidden behind her.

Lisa froze under the weight of that stare.

The woman’s expression faltered—her eyes widened, her lips parted, and for a moment, it looked like the entire world stopped breathing with her. The grocery bag slipped slightly in her hands.

Her voice came out cracked, disbelieving, trembling. “...Pranpriya?”

Chaeyoung turned immediately, startled. “Wait—what did you just—?”

But Lisa couldn’t answer. Her breath hitched, her stomach dropped, and her knees nearly gave out. The sound of that name, spoken aloud by someone else, sent chills down her spine.

The woman took a hesitant step forward, her eyes glistening with tears. “It is you... It has to be.”

Lisa’s mouth opened, but no words came. Every part of her screamed to deny it—yet deep down, some part of her knew. The tilt of that voice, the gentleness that trembled even through shock—she knew it.

“Jisoo…” she whispered, barely audible.

The grocery bag fell to the floor. Apples rolled across the stairwell tiles as the older woman clutched at her mouth, a sob escaping before she could stop it.

Chaeyoung looked between the two, her confusion deepening by the second. “Lisa… who is she?”

Lisa didn’t answer. Her throat burned, her eyes blurred. All she could do was stare at the woman before her—the same one from her visions, the one who used to share laughter and cramped dinners, whose warmth had once been her entire world.

Only now, Jisoo wasn’t in her twenties. She wasn’t her roommate. She wasn’t the girl who carved initials into the floor.

She was in her fifties, trembling, and staring at a ghost who had come back wearing someone else’s face. 

Because Lisa wasn't just similar to Pranpriya.

She was her mirror image—down to the curve of her hair, the line of her jaw, the same eyes that once looked back at Jisoo through the flicker of film lights. 

And for the first time in twenty-two years, Jisoo was staring at the impossible made real.

Jisoo’s lips quivered before she suddenly lurched forward, fists striking weakly against Lisa’s shoulders and chest.

“Where the fuck did you go?!” she cried, her voice breaking as she hit her again—light, frantic blows that carried no real strength, only years of buried grief. “You left me alone, you stupid idiot! Do you even know what it was like? I waited for you! I waited and waited—and they said you were dead, but I didn’t believe them!”

Her words came out between sobs, tangled with fury and disbelief. Each hit grew weaker until her hands just rested against Lisa’s arms, trembling.

Lisa didn’t move, didn’t flinch—she let Jisoo’s pain spill over her like a tide she knew she deserved.

“Unnie…” Lisa whispered, voice cracking.

Jisoo shook her head violently, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Don’t—don’t call me that. You’re not—” She faltered, eyes sweeping over Lisa’s face again, taking in every feature, every echo of the past she thought she’d buried.

And then, in a whisper so small it almost broke her, she said,
“…you can’t be her.”

Lisa stood still, her throat dry as Jisoo’s tears fell freely. The air between them felt thick — like time itself had folded in on them, dragging 1997 into the present.

She took a shaky breath. “Unnie… It’s me. It’s really me.”

Jisoo froze, every muscle in her body tensing. Her expression hardened, as though bracing for another cruel twist of fate. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t you dare say that—”

“I remember everything,” Lisa interrupted, her voice trembling but sure. “The old set. The smell of burnt film. You and I sneaking into that premiere because you wanted to make me laugh. I remember how you used to braid my hair when I was too tired to keep my eyes open after shooting. I remember saving her—Jennie—from the fire. And I remember… dying before I could save her again.”

Jisoo’s lips parted, soundless. The tears she had tried to blink away spilled down her cheeks instead.

“I was reborn as Lalisa Manobal,” Lisa continued, each word sounding foreign even to her. “Different name, different country… but the same soul. When Dad—Marco—hit me that night, I was already gone. Jennie was gone. But somehow, I came back.”

She swallowed hard, her voice breaking. “And I didn’t remember anything… until now. Until I stood on that same ground again.”

For a moment, all Jisoo could do was stare at her, eyes darting across Lisa’s face as if searching for a lie — or maybe, for the truth she’d prayed she’d never find.

Lisa’s gaze softened. “You called me an idiot once, remember? Because I said I wanted to be like Jongin. You told me dreams like that would eat people alive. You were right, unnie.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Finally, Jisoo let out a shaky, bitter laugh — the kind that hurt more than crying. “You… you even sound like her.” She wiped at her eyes, trembling. “God, if this is some cruel trick—”

“It’s not,” Lisa whispered, stepping closer. “It’s me, unnie. I came back… but she didn’t.”

That was all it took. The last of Jisoo’s strength broke. She reached out, gripping Lisa’s wrist as though afraid she’d disappear if she let go.

Her voice cracked like glass. “Then why now, Priya? Why come back now?”

Lisa’s answer was almost a whisper.

“Because this time, I’m not letting him get away with it.”

Jisoo wiped her tears with the back of her trembling hand, her gaze hardening as she looked up at Lisa.

“What are you planning on doing?” she asked quietly — though her tone carried the edge of fear.

Lisa exhaled, her eyes distant, as if still lost somewhere between past and present. “Kai… Kim Jongin,” she began slowly, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. “He’s taken an interest in me. He came to my father’s hotel and said he wanted to make a film with me, out of nowhere. He sought me out, unnie.”

Jisoo’s expression shifted from grief to alarm. “You’re not saying—Lisa, you can’t possibly think of working with him. Not after—”

Lisa interrupted her. “That’s exactly why I have to do this,” she said, her voice calm but icy, with each word carefully chosen. “If I walk away now, I’ll never find proof of what he did. He killed Jennie and me. He built his empire on tragedy and lies. And now… he’s come looking for me. It can’t be just a coincidence, unnie. I believe this is fate giving me a chance to seek justice.”

Jisoo shook her head, disbelief and dread mixing in her eyes. “This isn’t a movie, Priya. You don’t have to play the hero again.”

Lisa gave a faint, bitter smile. “Maybe I don’t. But this time, I’m not walking into the fire to save someone.”

She looked up, her gaze steely. 

“This time, I’m walking into it to burn the truth out of him.”

~

She'd sent the email in five minutes of quiet fury and careful phrasing—interested, available, eager to discuss creative possibilities. The reply came back in an hour: Wonderful! I'm also in Korea. Let's meet and talk. Short. Polished. Dangerous.

The café smelled faintly of roasted coffee and warm pastries. Lisa sat near the window, hands wrapped around a mug, watching the city blur past. She'd accepted, but her mind was anything but calm.

When he arrived, Kai moved through the café like a predator dressed as a business—charming, composed, untouchable. Sliding into the chair opposite her, he smiled. "Lalisa. Thank you for coming."

Lisa met his smile evenly, though her fingers tightened around the mug. "I read about your interest in collaborating on a film," she said. "I'll join you—on one condition."

Kai raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"You restart Falling Petals," she said, voice steady. "Every set, every scene. I want to know why it stopped, and this time... I want to make sure it finishes."

A flicker of amusement crossed Kai's face. "You mean that old project? Honestly, Lalisa... there's no ending. No real climax. It's just fragments, unfinished and chaotic. I don't see the point in reviving it."

Lisa leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Fear not. This time... I will write the ending." Her voice was soft, almost casual, but carried the weight of someone who had already lived through every possible consequence. 

Kai studied her for a long moment, a small smile curling on his lips. "Ambitious— I like that," he finally said, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled, his expression cool but businesslike. "You have two months," he said, finally. "Two months to figure out a location, write the plot, and have something concrete to present. After that... we proceed, or this ends."

Lisa nodded, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. Two months. That was more than enough. She already knew where she'd start. 

Within the week, she discreetly wired funds to the production team to begin repairs on the burned set of Falling Petals. She watched in quiet satisfaction as charred beams were replaced, scorched walls reconstructed, and debris cleared. Within three weeks, the abandoned set looked as good as new—eerily pristine, ready to house memories, and maybe... rewrite them.

The auditions began quietly. Lisa, Jisoo, and Chaeyoung sat behind a long table, scripts and notes in hand. One by one, hopeful actresses came forward—mostly fangirls of Lisa and Chaeyoung, waving resumes and trembling with excitement. 

Jisoo pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head at the endless parade of over-enthusiastic amateurs. "Seriously? Do they think staring at Lisa makes them act?" she muttered under her breath.

Lisa tried to stay patient. She wanted someone with talent, with depth, someone who could embody Jennie's spirit without being starstruck. But as the hours dragged on, frustration mounted.

Finally, Lisa stood, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. "Audition's over," she declared, voice leaving no room for argument. "Thank you for coming."

A soft, hesitant voice stopped her mid-step. "Aw... I wanted to meet Lisa..."

Lisa turned. 

Her breath caught.

Standing before her was a girl—not Jennie, of course, but it was as if time had sculpted the same face again. Same sharp eyes, same delicate features, same unplaceable aura that pulled at Lisa's chest. 

"Rubyjane Kim," the girl introduced herself, bowing slightly. "I came from New Zealand. And... I am your biggest fan."

Lisa stared, mesmerized. Every other audition, every false hope, vanished in that instant. This girl—this Rubyjane—was the mirror of Jennie Kim in every way, down to the smallest expression, but unmistakably herself. And Lisa knew: this was the one. 

Lisa and Jisoo exchanged a glance, eyes locking in silent agreement. Chaeyoung tilted her head, eyebrows raised, sensing something unspoken.

Lisa’s voice cut through the room, sharp and decisive. “You’re picked for the role.”

Rubyjane’s eyes lit up, sparkling with excitement. “Really? Me?”

Lisa nodded. “Yes. Welcome to Falling Petals. But… don’t get too comfortable yet.”

The first attempt at acting began immediately. Lisa handed Rubyjane a short scene to read, expecting the spark she had seen in auditions to translate into performance.

It did not.

Rubyjane’s delivery was flat, stilted. Her expressions were exaggerated in the wrong moments, and every subtlety Lisa wanted was lost. In some ways, she was worse than the other auditions that had come before — a walking, talking fangirl cliché.

Jisoo pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, God… we’re going to need a miracle.”

Chaeyoung crouched next to Rubyjane, trying to demonstrate a simple gesture. “No, see, it’s not about waving your hand like you’re greeting an idol. You have to feel it. Like this.”

Rubyjane mimicked awkwardly, her wrist stiff, her smile unnatural.

Lisa sighed, pacing behind the table. “She’s got the face, yes. The presence, yes. But acting… none of it. We have two months. This is going to be… intense.”

Jisoo muttered, “Intense is one word for it. Torture is another.”

For the next few hours, the trio took turns coaching Rubyjane. Jisoo demonstrated expressions, Chaeyoung corrected posture and speech patterns, and Lisa tried to instill a sense of timing and emotional depth.

Rubyjane’s attempts were clumsy, stumbling over words, misreading emotions, and looking as if she had no idea what the scene demanded. Yet, there was a rawness about her — an unshaped, untamed potential that reminded Lisa of someone she once knew.

“Okay,” Lisa said finally, clapping her hands. “You don’t get it yet, but you will. We’ll start from scratch. Speech, movement, eyes, everything. We have time, and I will not let you waste the gift you’ve been given.”

Rubyjane nodded, earnest and eager, unaware that the woman in front of her wasn’t just a director. Lisa saw more than a student — she saw a vessel to reclaim a story that had been stolen decades ago.

And somewhere deep down, Lisa felt the flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time — hope.

~

Days passed in a blur of frustration. Rubyjane's acting remained painfully awkward, her gestures stiff, her delivery monotone. Chaeyoung tried patiently to teach her, demonstrating expressions and dialogue with exaggerated care, while Jisoo flitted between gentle corrections and sharp critiques.

But nothing seemed to stick.

Finally, after another disastrous run-through, Lisa's patience snapped. She slammed her hands on the table, eyes flashing with exasperation. "No! That's not it! You have to feel it, Rubyjane! You have to become her!"

The room fell silent. Rubyjane's wide eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and before Lisa could stop her, the girl bolted outside, seeking refuge from the storm of frustration.

Jisoo's voice cut sharply across the room. "Lisa! You can't expect her to understand the character when she knows nothing! You need to tell her the truth! Now go after her."

Lisa exhaled, her chest tight, guilt gnawing at her. Reluctantly, she pushed herself out the door and followed Rubyjane to a quiet corner outside, where the girl sat with her knees drawn up, silently crying.

"Rubyjane..." Lisa started softly, crouching down to meet her gaze. "I need to tell you something. This story... It's not just a film. It's... my life, or rather... my life before this one. And the character you're playing—Jennie—she was someone I loved, and failed to protect. I expect a lot from you, yes. But it's because this story matters to me. More than anything."

Rubyjane sniffled, tilting her head. Lisa continued, her voice trembling with the weight of memory. "I don't think anyone would believe it if I told them. Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction itself."

Rubyjane's eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. "Even if you told me that you were the secret love child of Kim Kardashian, I'd believe you," she said quietly.

Lisa blinked, a mixture of surprise and relief washing over her. For the second time, she felt a fragile spark of hope. Maybe—just maybe—Rubyjane could carry this story forward, if not with perfection, then with heart. 

~

The next morning, the air in the rehearsal room felt lighter. Rubyjane approached with a tentative confidence, still awkward, but determined. Lisa watched her carefully, offering small, encouraging nods.

“Remember what we talked about yesterday,” Lisa said gently. “It’s not about perfection. It’s about feeling her. You’re telling her story, not just reading lines.”

Rubyjane nodded, biting her lip in concentration. Chaeyoung and Jisoo stood nearby, ready to guide her if she faltered.

The first few takes were shaky — Rubyjane still stumbled over words, misread cues, and overacted at odd moments. But each time, Lisa offered calm feedback. “A little slower here… try to imagine how she’s feeling… yes, that’s it.”

Gradually, a shift happened. Rubyjane’s expressions softened, her voice carried emotion, and small, nuanced gestures started appearing where once there had only been stiffness.

Chaeyoung clapped quietly. “Finally, we’re seeing a spark.”

Jisoo raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She’s learning fast. Maybe she will pull this off.”

Rubyjane looked at Lisa, eyes bright. “Thank you… for trusting me.”

Lisa returned the smile, warmth spreading through her chest. “You’ve got this. I knew you could do it. We’ll figure out the rest together.”

It was a simple, quiet understanding — no need for grand speeches, no heavy past-life revelations. Just trust, patience, and the beginning of a genuine friendship forged over shared goals and mutual respect.

For Lisa, it was enough. Finally, she felt a sense of relief, of hope, and even a little excitement for the story they were about to bring to life.

~

Lisa sat cross-legged on the studio floor, the blueprints of the set scattered around her, illuminated by the dim glow of a single desk lamp. The night outside was heavy with rain, each droplet tapping softly against the window. 

Across from her, Jisoo, Chaeyoung, and Rubyjane watched her with varying degrees of curiosity and exhaustion.

"So," Jisoo began, "What's the plan, exactly? You've been staring at those papers like you're plotting a heist."

Lisa finally looked up, her expression sharp yet calm. "Am I not?"

She exhaled slowly. "Chaeyoung—you're going to be the star. The story will revolve around you, the way it should. But..." her gaze drifted toward Rubyjane, "there's something else I need to happen. Something outside the script."

Rubyjane tilted her head. "Outside the script?"

Lisa nodded. "Kai thinks this premiere will be his big comeback—his redemption arc. I'm going to give him that... until it turns into his downfall."

Jisoo frowned slightly, intrigued. "And how, exactly?"

Lisa leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt more like a vow. "During the premiere, Rubyjane, you won't just act. You'll haunt him. Not literally—at least not yet. But you will move like Jennie, speak like her, be her. Every glance, every gesture. Enough to make him see the ghost of who he buried.

Rubyjane's eyes widened. "You want me to scare him?"

"Not scare," Lisa said, her lips curling into a faint, dangerous smile. "Remind him."

Jisoo crossed her arms. "And me?"

Lisa looked up at her, the lamp light flickering across her face. "You'll play the shaman—you will warn him that she's still here. That the fire didn't end her story. That she's been waiting all this time... to watch him fall."

A hush fell over the room.

Chaeyoung let out a low breath. "Lisa, this is insane."

"Yes, yes, it is," Lisa replied, her tone steady. "But for once, this isn't about fame or art. This is about justice."

Her voice softened as she looked toward the script again, fingers brushing the words she'd written at the top—Falling Petals: A Love that Never Died.

"This time," she said quietly, "the ending is mine to decide."

~

When Kai arrived at the rebuilt Fallen Petals set, he stopped at the gates and stared.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

The place looked exactly as it had in 1997 — the towering façade, the intricate carvings, even the faint scent of charred wood buried beneath the paint. It was as though time had folded in on itself.

“This…” he muttered, voice low, almost reverent. “You rebuilt it perfectly.”

Lisa smiled faintly. “Perfection’s the least I could do for the man whose film I’m reviving.”

He gave a short laugh — smug, unbothered — but his eyes were sharp, flicking over every detail. When they reached the actress waiting near the staircase, his grin broadened.

“And who might this be?”

Lisa stepped beside the woman and introduced her smoothly. “Rose. She’s playing the lead — the heart of Falling Petals.”

Kai’s gaze lingered on Chaeyoung a little too long, his tone dipping into something that made Lisa’s stomach twist.

“Rose, huh? Beautiful name. Beautiful face.”

Lisa didn’t flinch, though her nails dug crescents into her palm. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

The first day of filming passed without a hitch—at least, for everyone except Kai.

He sat behind the monitor, arms crossed, watching Rose move through the scene: soft lighting, flowing gown, the perfect tragic muse. The camera panned — and for a fleeting second, he blinked.

The girl on the screen wasn’t Rose anymore.

She turned her head, hair catching the light. Her eyes — deep, wistful — sent a jolt straight through him.

Jennie.

Kai’s breath hitched. He leaned forward, squinting. The shot flickered — and just like that, it was Rose again, delivering her next line flawlessly.

“What—what was that?” Kai snapped.

Lisa, standing beside him, blinked with feigned confusion. “What was what?”

“That shot—” He gestured at the monitor, agitation creeping in. “The actress—she changed. Who was that?”

Lisa tilted her head slightly, all calm professionalism. “Changed? I don’t think so. Maybe you caught a reflection. The lighting’s tricky here.”

“I know what I saw,” he muttered. “Play it back.”

“Of course.”

Lisa motioned to the technician. The footage replayed — smooth, seamless — and there she was again: Rose. Only Rose. Not a single frame of Rubyjane anywhere.

Kai stared at the screen, his frown deepening. He rubbed at his eyes, then let out a shaky breath. “Huh. Must’ve been seeing things.”

Lisa smiled, calm and untroubled. "As we grow older, the mind can play strange tricks with time," she said.

Kai chuckled weakly, but something in his eyes had shifted—unease creeping in, a faint crack in his arrogance. 

Behind him, unseen, Rubyjane watched from the shadow of the corridor—quiet, still, her reflection ghosting faintly in the mirrored set glass.

~

The Falling Petals premiere was everything Kim Jongin had ever wanted—grand chandeliers, velvet curtains, water flowing like champagne. The hall gleamed in gold and glass, every guest draped in black and silver. 

The centerpiece of the evening was the theme: a masquerade ball.

Laughter mingled with the low hum of a string quartet, masks shimmered, and secrets floated through the air like perfume.

Lisa stood near the back with Jisoo and Chaeyoung, all three disguised just enough to blend in. She kept her eyes on Kai. The man was in his element—charming, smug, untouched by the weight of his crimes. 

Across the room, Rubyjane moved like she belonged there. The silver gown caught the light, and her hand gripped a black lace mask on a thin gilded stick. Each step was deliberate, each breath measured. 

When she stopped beside Kai, he barely looked up at first—until she spoke. 

"Enjoying the spotlight again, Jongin?"

Her voice was soft, melodic, but something in it tugged at an old, buried memory. 

Kai turned—and froze. 

She smiled faintly, tilting her head, and then, with a graceful flick of her wrist, lowered the mask. 

The music kept playing, but everything around them seemed to still. Kai's glass slipped from his hand and shattered, the sound far too loud in the silence that followed. 

Jennie Kim's face stared back at him.

Or something impossibly close.

Kai stumbled back, color draining from his face. When he blinked—she was gone.

He shoved through the crowd, panic setting in as he searched for that same silver dress weaving through the dancers and guests. Every glimpse sent him reeling further into dread.

"Come back!" he barked, voice cracking. "What do you want from me?"

Rubyjane didn't answer—she just kept moving, fast, vanishing into the corridors beyond the ballroom.

Kai followed, heart pounding, fury laced with fear. When he cornered her near the service hallway, she turned sharply—and the sudden movement was too sudden. Her arm grazed a shard of a broken display, blood blooming bright red across her pale skin. 

Kai stopped cold.

Blood.

Ghosts don't bleed.

Before he could mutter anything, a loud gasp echoed from the ballroom.

The massive screen behind the stage—meant to showcase scenes from the Falling Petals— had frozen on the tribute slide.

Jennie Kim (1972 - 1997)

Forever our first fallen petal.

The image wasn't supposed to stay that long. It was meant to fade out and transition to the new cast. But instead, the photograph of Jennie lingered, the projector light flickering faintly. 

Then—without cue, without any technician touching a button—the edges of the photograph began to burn.

Jisoo's eyes went wide. "That's—that's not supposed to happen."

The flames crawled inward, slow and deliberate, devouring Jennie's smiling face. The crowd gasped as the portrait turned into a halo of fire, until only a white-hot flash remained—like the camera capturing one last frame before death.

Screams erupted. 

And then, chaos.

Kai bolted down the staircase, shouting orders, confusion written all over his face. Guests scattered in panic. The chandelier above the hall began to creak—groaning like an old wound reopening—before crashing down with a deafening shatter.

~

When the dust cleared, Kai lay unconscious beneath twisted crystal and splintered gold.

Lisa stood frozen at the top of the stairs, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. Everyone else had run. Only she remained. 

Slowly, she descended, heels echoing against marble, until she stood before him.

As Kai stirred, groaning, she crouched down, voice low and steady. 

"You thought you got away, didn't you?"

Kai blinked, blood dripping from his temple. "Wha—Lisa?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she stared at him with eyes that weren't entirely her own. "You killed her. You burned the set, left her to die. You thought no one saw. But there was another pair of eyes watching you that night."

His eyes widened. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The life you burned alive," Lisa whispered. "The one you left under this very chandelier, even when she begged you not to."

Kai's expression flickered—fear, recognition, then mockery. She barked a laugh, hoarse and disbelieving. "This isn't a movie, Lisa. Stop with the dramatics."

He pulled a pistol from his coat pocket, aiming it at her. "You really think this ghost story will make me confess? You're insane."

Lisa didn't flinch. "Maybe. But at least I'm not a murderer."

Before Kai could respond, a voice echoed through the smoke-filled air—soft, melodic, familiar.

"That night, you came back," it said. "After you set it all on fire... to make sure she was gone."

Kai's hand trembled. "Who's there?"

The shadows shifted. Rubyjane stepped out—yet something about her was different. Her movements too fluid, too knowing. The air around her shimmered faintly, as if it couldn't decide whether she was flesh or memory.

"She wasn't dead yet, Kai," the voice continued, though Rubyjane's lips barely moved. "She was breathing. Barely. You buried her alive beneath this chandelier."

Kai stumbled backward, panic breaking through the arrogance. "No—no, this is- this is a setup!"

Lisa moved forward, fury and grief blazing in her eyes. "No setup, Kai. Just the truth finally catching up."

He lunged toward her, but she sidestepped—and drove her knee hard into his groin. Kai collapsed with a strangled cry, the pistol skittering across the marble floor.

He gasped for breath, curled in pain. Lisa stood over him, shaking with adrenaline and something older—righteousness, maybe.

The air turned cold. 

"Lisa!" Jisoo's voice rang out as she ran into the hall, Rubyjane trailing behind her, looking pale and frightened. 

Lisa's gaze flickered between the two—and froze.

Rubyjane was there, trembling beside Jisoo. But in front of her, standing within the faint light, was another Rubyjane. Or rather... Jennie Kim, her form flickering like the last spark of a dying flame.

Jennie turned toward Lisa. Her eyes were soft, grateful—free.

For a moment, the world went quiet. Then she smiled. 

"Thank you," she whispered.

And just like that, she faded into the shadows—leaving only the faint scent of smoke and lilies behind. 

Lisa stood frozen, staring at the empty space where Jennie had been. 

At her feet, Kai groaned—broken, beaten, and finally terrified. 

Lisa exhaled slowly. "Looks like the curtain's finally down, Kim Jongin."

~

By dawn, the chaos had subsided. Police cars surrounded the ruined set, lights flashing against the blackened wood and glass. Lisa stood beside Jisoo and Rubyjane as officed taped the area off, their faces pale but resolute.

When the investigators began digging beneath the chandelier's wreckage, they found what the past had hidden—the skeletal remains of a woman, burned. Jennie.

Kai, already trembling under questioning, broke the moment he saw the evidence. His calm facade was shattered. He confessed everything—the insurance scam, the fire, the murder of Jennie Kim, and how he'd silenced the ones who witnessed it by paying them off. 

The confession spread like wildfire across the media. Within weeks, Kai's empire crumbled, and the court's verdict was merciless: death sentence. 

For Lisa, the day of his sentencing felt like the end of a lifetime lived twice. She stood by the ocean that evening, watching the horizon burn gold and crimson—a fire that didn't consume but cleansed. For the first time, her soul felt quiet.

Rubyjane found her there, hesitant. "You got your justice," she said softly. "But... do you really love me, or the ghost that wears my face?"

Lisa smiled faintly, turning toward her. "I loved someone who taught me what it meant to feel. And I love you because you make me want to live."

Rubyjane blinked, tears shining in her eyes—then she laughed, softly, like sunlight through glass. 

In the years that followed, Lisa and Rubyjane stayed together—creating films that spoke of love, loss, and redemption. Jisoo occasionally teased that Lisa still carried the dramatics of two lifetimes, and Chaeyoung claimed their story could have been a movie itself. 

Sometimes, when Lisa walked past a mirror, she swore she caught a glimpse of Jennie's reflection smiling back—peaceful, proud, and finally free.

And this time, no fire followed. 

Just light. 

~

In another lifetime, their love had been silenced by fire and by fear. But in this one, it bloomed from the ashes—patient, fearless, and timeless. Maybe that was what it had always meant to be—a love ahead of its time.