Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ivy had grown thick along the outer wall, curling through the iron, like it had been waiting for Kim Juhoon all this time.

Saint Elys Academy stood before him in its usual solemn grandeur. It’s weather-stained stone walls glowing faintly gold in the California sun, its windows catching the light and scattering it like pieces of broken glass. The bell tower, which was still crooked at the peak, cast a long shadow that stretched across the campus courtyard.

Juhoon stood still, the toes of his shoes brushing the gravel edge of the path, and for a long time, he didn’t move, not because he didn’t want to, but because some quiet part of him hadn’t yet decided if returning was a mistake.

He'd left for New York in 2013. Spent almost a decade there, including undergrad, grad school, and a few adjunct positions. He'd sworn he'd never come back to California. However, teaching jobs in New York dried up, and suddenly he took positions wherever he could find them: Berkeley, Los Angeles, and Monterey. Everywhere in California except Santa Barbara.

Until Saint Elys came into his radar again.

It was meant to be behind him. That was the whole point.

At one point, he thought of leaving this place altogether and go find a job in Seoul or Daegu instead. Finally starting over somewhere where no one knew his name. But then one night, the interview email from Saint Elys came, and he didn’t delete it. The final offer came, and he didn’t refuse. And now he was standing here, on the edge of a campus he once swore he’d never walk again, dressed like a poor memory of himself – jacket faded by the sun, headphones looped around his neck like an old habit he couldn’t break, fingers already twitching for a pencil that wasn’t in his hand.

It wasn’t even that he hated this place. It was that it never really let him leave.

The trees were still the same, tall and sharp against the coastline, eucalyptus bark peeling. The air smelled of salt and dry earth, of jasmine and something faintly antiseptic, like old dormitories with too many mites and not enough fresh paint. Somewhere beyond the east quad, the sea was speaking, its hush steady and ancient, like a secret being repeated for the thousandth time.

Juhoon scanned his eyes around the campus. The students passed by in clusters – blazers loosened, neckties slung low, skirts catching on the breeze, and Juhoon watched them steadily like a visitor in a dream he wasn’t sure was his. They looked too young, all of them, or maybe he just felt too old.

Ten years shouldn’t feel this long. Juhoon let out a scoff at himself. It was ridiculous, really. To be back in his old high school, as if no time had passed. He used to be seventeen, roaming around the halls. Now, at twenty-seven, he was teaching The Iliad to seniors who scrolled under the desk and called him “Professor” with a mix of irony and boredom.

He adjusted his bag, suddenly conscious of the weight of it. Inside, he had textbooks, a laptop, and a copy of The Secret History he kept for reasons he no longer questioned. Tucked somewhere near the bottom, still wrapped in a sheet of crumpled tracing paper, was his sketchbook: tide lines, blurred faces, half-finished frames that had followed him from one coast to another.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. It was just a job. Just a few months here, but he knew better.

Something in him had shifted the moment he saw the name – Saint Elys Academy – and it wasn’t curiosity or sentiment or even longing. It was a kind of ache like salt on an old wound that should have closed by now.

The wind picked up, brushing cold fingers against the back of his neck, and he shivered despite the sun. A bell rang faintly in the distance, tinny and off-pitch, as if the metal had warped over time.

Juhoon continued to walk inside the campus. Eventually, he reached the faculty wing, bracing himself for another day of work. Three weeks back on campus, and it still felt like walking through a preserved version of someone else’s adolescence.

Some things had changed: keycard entries, campus-wide WiFi, a new arts building with suspiciously empty studios. However, some things remain: the same wooden benches under the same trees, the same low buzz of wealth and expectation. Even the salt in the air tasted like a memory.

Juhoon arrived at his desk quietly. No one was around at this hour. He came here early deliberately, to avoid the morning crowd. 

“Mr. Kim,” came a voice – dry, familiar, just slightly amused. “I thought I saw your name in the faculty memo.”

He turned. Dean Abbott stood beneath the door like some resurrected memory. Older now, of course, but still iron-spined, with that academic air of someone who once quoted Yeats during detention. Abbott used to be Juhoon’s teacher. Now, he was the headmaster. 

“You haven’t changed much,” Juhoon said, which was a lie.

Abbott raised a brow. “And you still can’t lie convincingly.”

They shook hands. Abbott then gave him a cup of take-out coffee, and Juhoon mumbled a quick thank you.

“How’s your third week treating you?” the dean asked as he motioned for a walk outside, both falling into step with their coffees in hand.

“Depends,” Juhoon said. “If I say ‘it’s going great,’ do I get a raise or just more committee work?”

Abbott laughed. “Still the charmer, I see.”

Charm’s just armor, Juhoon thought. But sure, let’s call it that.

They walked past the courtyard, where seniors lounged in uniform polos and secondhand ennui. Juhoon was too tired to make conversation this early. The sun hadn’t fully cleared the chapel roof, and already he felt frayed at the edges. He was sleep-starved, brittle, and one more half-smile away from retreating into silence.

He didn’t have much energy for small talk. Juhoon rarely did. However, he was new here, which meant he had to perform civility and exert effort, at least – the soft choreography of not seeming rude. 

So he braced himself.

“Didn’t think I’d made the watchlist this early in the term.”

Abbott offered a faint smile. “You haven’t. I’m just checking in. Seeing how you’re adjusting.”

“Nothing’s caught fire yet,” Juhoon said. “Which I’m taking as a win.”

They walked across the courtyard through the east quad, where the sea comes into view in companionable quiet. The wind slid off the sea in prolonged gusts. Students passed with iced coffees and sleep-deprived eyes, the low hum of their playlists leaking from earbuds. A few nodded politely as they passed.

“Feels strange being back?” Abbott asked.

Juhoon’s lips tugged upward – not quite a smile. “Just a bit. The muscle memory’s annoying, actually. I still avoid the stairs by the admin wing because it squeaks.”

“That’s the thing about this place,” Abbott said. “It tends to stay in your memory.”

Juhoon made a sound, something between an agreement and a dismissal. He couldn’t tell if that was meant as comfort or caution. The air sharpened, and somewhere above them, a gull screamed into the sky. Juhoon looked up briefly, then back toward the chapel, where light was beginning to touch the stained glass.

“I heard they gave you the senior lit class,” Abbott said.

Juhoon nodded. “The Waste Land last week.” He let the title hang in the air a moment longer than necessary. “Felt fitting.”

Abbott chuckled under his breath. “Glad to see the cynicism’s still intact.”

Juhoon smiled, barely. The kind of smile that knew better than to stay on his face too long. They reached the edge, where the trees bent slightly in the sea wind.

“We’ve been trying to bring some energy back to the students,” Abbott said finally. “The arts are fading – literature, film, the whole lot. Our students are stretched thin, and the board’s more interested in AP scores than anything else… but I think it still matters.”

Juhoon raised his brows, confused on where this was going.

Abbot finally looked at him. “I think you might be the kind of person who could help anchor it again.”

”What do you mean, sir?”

”I want you to start reviving the old film club.”

Oh?

Juhoon exhaled slowly.

“I only just figured out the copier,” he said. “It’s kind of a stretch to start inspiring the kids, don’t you think?”

Abbott’s smile didn’t waver. “It’s not about inspiration. Maybe just presence. Someone who can guide the students.”

Juhoon’s gaze drifted toward the sea, where the horizon shimmered – a pale line dissolving into heat.

He didn’t want the responsibility. He didn’t like the noise of memory or the dust of old film reels. But Juhoon was new, and in places like this, saying no too early left a lasting impression.

“Let me see. Maybe I’ll keep it small,” he said at last. “Workshop, maybe. Film screenings, if anyone’s interested. No promises.”

Abbott nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

A silence settled between them, not uncomfortable.

“Did you ever think you’d come back?” the dean asked.

“Not really,” Juhoon replied. “But here I am.”

Abbott seemed satisfied by that. He gave a short nod, then turned, the hem of his coat catching briefly in the wind. Juhoon watched him go, the man’s figure slowly swallowed by sunlight and sea spray.

He sipped what remained of his coffee.
It tasted like cardboard and regret.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

The light had softened and turned into a pale gold, the kind that made everything feel older than it was. The windows in his classroom were cracked open just enough to let in the air. Juhoon leaned against the edge of the teacher’s desk.

His final class had just spilled into the hallway – the last of three that day, all senior lit, all manageable enough. The bell had rung ten minutes ago, but the room still held the afterheat of youth: stray pencil taps, the scent of cheap cologne, papers stuffed haphazardly into bags.

He didn’t mind the teaching.

Literature was the only subject that had ever made any sense to him, even when nothing else did. He liked the quiet violence of a well-structured sentence. The way metaphor could gut you without raising its voice. In college, he’d tried majoring in other things. He dabbled in psychology, philosophy, even one dismal semester of economics, but it always came back to story and language. To the ways people ruin and resurrect themselves in fiction.

He taught Nothing Gold Can Stay today as if it were a puzzle meant to remain unsolved. He left blank spaces in his lectures where students could insert their own thoughts and feelings about grief. They never noticed, but it comforted him, somehow, to teach collapse as something sacred.

The classroom had nearly emptied when he heard the shuffle of feet again.

“Professor,” said a voice. “Got a sec?”

He looked up.

Two boys stood by the doorway like they belonged there – the kind who never raised their hands but always had something to say. These boys always lingered around his classrooms the moment he started teaching here. He didn’t know why the kids liked him. Maybe because he didn’t talk too much, or perhaps because he didn’t try too hard to be liked, they’d learn disappointment soon enough.

James – tall, forward-leaning, always half-grinning like he was in on a joke the world hadn’t caught up to. Seonghyeon, quieter, but no less present – thoughtful in a way that felt rehearsed, like he was always translating his thoughts for other people. 

Juhoon raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“We heard about the film club,” James said, walking in like the room was still his. “Is it true?”

Juhoon blinked. “Heard from who?”

“Hallway talk,” Seonghyeon said, flopping into a chair backward. “You know how Saint Elys is. Secrets don’t stand a chance.”

“It’s not a secret,” James added. “It’s just that no one ever made it past the planning stage, right?”

Juhoon leaned back against the desk. Of course, the rumor had gotten out even though the headmaster offered this to him just a few days ago. This place had always been allergic to silence. 

He folded his arms. “Nothing’s official.”

“So there’s a chance,” James said. “Cool.”

“You two want in?”

Seonghyeon grinned. “Obviously. Beats doing a mock trial in ADS.”

“ADS?” Juhoon asked, glancing up.

“Academic Discourse Society,” James supplied, already sounding like he was halfway through a PowerPoint. “We run debate tournaments and mock trials. It’s fun, but kind of exhausting. Too many kids who think they’re future senators.”

Seonghyeon rolled his eyes. “It’s fun until you’re cross-examining someone over cafeteria food budget reallocations.”

Juhoon huffed a faint laugh. “Sounds intense.”

“It’s all pretend,” James said. “But, you know. Some of us take it a little seriously.”

“Too seriously,” Seonghyeon muttered, nudging James with his shoulder.

The way they bickered was sharp yet easy, and familiar. Juhoon recognized the kind of bond these two had.

“Well, film sounds better,” James added. “Less judgment, more story.”

“Right,” Juhoon said mildly. “Stories are safer than facts.” Neither of them caught the edge in his voice.

“We’re not saying we’re good at film or anything,” James said, “but we’re interested. That counts, right?”

Seonghyeon nodded. “We’ve been talking about it since last year. You’re the first person who doesn’t treat it like a joke.”

That made Juhoon pause. He hadn’t realized how quickly the idea had grown legs or that it still mattered to anyone.

“Professor?” James asked. “You okay?”

Juhoon blinked. He hadn’t realized how long he’d gone quiet.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just surprised you’re interested.”

“We’re not the only ones,” Seonghyeon said. “Well – actually, we might be.”

James leaned forward. “We asked around. Some people were into it until they heard the board was iffy about it before. Like they shut it down a few times way back?”

Juhoon’s jaw tightened. “That’s true.”

“Why? Have they told you anything, Professor?”

He hesitated. There were theories, of course — the usual lines about funding, student priorities, and academics. 

“Some things here have history,” Juhoon said. “The club was one of them.”

The boys exchanged glances but didn’t press.

Seonghyeon shrugged. “Look, we're not looking to make a masterpiece. We just wanna shoot stuff. Try something. It doesn’t have to be deep.”

Juhoon almost laughed. That’s what we said, too, he thought.

He looked at them. They had the mix of eagerness, charm, and that wide-eyed belief that the world would bend for them if they just pointed a camera at it. It made something twist, uncomfortably, in his chest.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s make it happen. We’ll meet Thursdays after class. Room 5A’s free.”

“Seriously?” James lit up. “That easy?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Seonghyeon smiled. “No promises.”

The boys stood, all energy now, tossing their bags over their shoulders and practically vibrating out the door.

Seonghyeon glanced back before leaving. “Thanks, Professor. For giving it a shot.”

Juhoon offered a faint nod. “We’ll see.”

The door closed behind them. The room fell quiet again. He looked down at the empty desks, at the chalk dust still clinging to his fingers.

We’ll see, he repeated silently.

He didn’t know why he’d said yes. Perhaps he wanted to believe in the possibility of something new beginning. 

Juhoon sat for a while, his hands folded on the desk, watching dust climb the golden air above him. The late sun fell in long bars through the window slats, casting uneven light on the walls. It was quiet enough to think, which was both a blessing and a curse.

He leaned back in his chair. The wooden frame creaked. For a moment, he just stayed there suspended in that dull, amber light, trying to steady himself against the slight, persistent unease crawling at the base of his ribs.

He wasn’t sure why the idea of the film club unsettled him. It shouldn’t have. It was nothing – an afterthought of a conversation between students who didn’t know any better.

He gathered his bag and stood slowly. The sound of his shoes against the tile echoed down the empty hall. He passed by the bulletin board that had bright papers pinned against faded cork, announcements about debate tryouts and campus recitals, a yellowing flyer from last semester’s play.

When he reached the faculty wing, it was nearly empty. He passed rows of desks until he reached his own. He sat and folded his arms. He quietly watched the light turn cooler as the day began to thin.

It would’ve been easier if the boys hadn’t looked so sure of themselves – so certain that reviving the club would be simple, even possible. That kind of certainty belonged to people who hadn’t yet learned what things cost. He reached for his mug, found the coffee cold, and drank it anyway.

Revive the film club.

He turned the phrase over in his head. It was absurd. The thing had died a long time ago – quietly, without ceremony, the way small, beautiful things often did.

He had been there when it ended.

Back then, the film club had been his whole world. Juhoon had been seventeen – all nerve and caffeine, a camera always dangling from his wrist, notebooks full of storyboards and scripts that never quite made sense but always felt like they could. The club had been everything: their afternoons, their inside jokes, their excuses to stay after hours and watch the sun fall off the cliffside through the lens of borrowed camcorders.

He remembered how the air used to smell – salt, varnish, a little bit of sweat. How they’d argue about lighting and framing like it mattered, how every mistake felt like a revolution. He used to think it was the beginning of something.

It wasn’t.
Or maybe it was, and he’d ruined it.
Or it had never really existed the way he remembered it.

Memory was unreliable that way. 

For Juhoon, it had ended naturally – people graduated, schedules clashed, priorities shifted. But sometimes, when the light hit a certain way, he remembered fragments that didn’t fit that version. Someone’s voice – he couldn’t remember whose – said, 'Keep rolling.'

Then nothing. The rest of it blurred like overexposed film.

He left for New York the following year. Said goodbye to the coast, to the school, to everything familiar. It was what people did. He found a new city to get lost in, new classrooms, new faces, a new way to pretend he was becoming someone else. For a while, he believed it.

He learned to love literature in the same way he once loved film – as a language for what couldn’t be said. He studied the way words could fracture and still hold light, the way sentences could ache. He wrote essays, taught lectures, watched entire years fold quietly into each other like pages.

It should have been enough.

But sometimes, in the pauses between classes, in the brief hush after laughter, something still tugged at him – the memory of a voice half-lost to wind, the flicker of a frame gone white. He told himself it was nothing. Just nostalgia. Just the past doing what the past always did – resurfacing when you least needed it to.

He exhaled, long and slow, pressing his thumb against the grain of the desk.

He thought about the boys from before – the ones he hadn’t spoken to in years. Their faces drifted through his mind like silhouettes. He could remember the cadence of their laughter, the texture of their voices, but not the specifics. Time had smoothed them out, made them indistinct, like water washing over names carved into stone.

He wondered where they were now. Whether they ever thought of this place. 

Probably not. People forgot. That was what made them lucky.

He stayed like that for a long time – unmoving, watching the world outside fade into the silver hush of evening. He tried to convince himself he was only tired – that the ache in his chest was nothing more than habit, that whatever pull he felt toward the past was just the mind’s cruel trick.

He looked out the window until the horizon blurred, and for a moment, it almost felt like the light from a projector beam. Somewhere, deep inside that fractured space between memory and denial, something started to stir.

Something he thought he had buried for good.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

It had been a week since Juhoon said yes; an unremarkable yes, really, soft and offhanded, tossed out like a shrug. He hadn’t expected much to come of it, and for the most part, he was right. No one else had joined.

Now it was only them: James and Seonghyeon. Two students with too much curiosity and not enough sense. They’d done their best to recruit others, even those from ADS. Posters, morning announcements, and a slideshow no one listened to. The results were predictable. There were a few polite maybes and a few shrugs. Abbott had been right. The arts had become a dying language here, spoken only by those too stubborn to forget.

Still, the boys persisted. “We’ll do it anyway,” James said that morning, voice bright and assured. “Just us. It’s fine.”

Juhoon didn’t argue. He rarely did.

The old film club room sat at the far end of the west wing. It was at the original building of Saint Elys, abandoned but still standing, like a monument no one wanted to claim. The corridors smelled of dust and sea brine; their high ceilings creaked with age. 

It had been years since Juhoon last stepped in this room, and somehow the dust had learned to settle differently. It was softer, as though aware it was being watched.

Inside, the room was worse than he remembered. The shelves slumped under the weight of forgotten equipment. Brittle old reels lay like relics across the counter. The folders had yellowed shut, and a thin film of salt had crusted over the windows from years of ocean air.

James whistled low. “This place is ancient.”

“Feels haunted,” Seonghyeon muttered, brushing cobwebs from an old tripod.

Juhoon didn’t answer. He was kneeling near the cabinet in the back, his hand wrapped around the handle that stuck slightly when turned. The metal gave, exhaling a small cloud of dust that caught in the light.

He didn’t tell them that he’d stood in this exact spot once a decade ago, same hour, same light slanting through the glass. That he remembered the echo of laughter bouncing off these same walls, the rustle of script pages, the grainy static of a camera warming up. He remembered how alive the room had felt at the time. How did it not anymore.

The boys worked quickly, filling boxes with old gear: light meters, storyboards, scrap notebooks that flaked apart when touched. They were talkative, their voices softening the weight in the air.

“Look at this,” James said, pulling out a stack of newspaper clippings – ink-smudged, dated back to the 1960s. “There were film festivals back then. Like, real ones. Saint Elys had a whole department for this.”

Seonghyeon crouched beside him. “You think the school just got bored?”

“Maybe,” James said. “Or someone got in trouble.”

Juhoon kept his head down, sweeping the floor with a rag. He could feel their curiosity circling him like small waves, lapping against the edges of what he wasn’t saying.

He’d told himself this was harmless; they were clearing out an old room – a ritual, nothing more. But the smell of film – that sour, metallic scent of acetate and time – was starting to wake something.

He reached into the lowest drawer, the one half-buried under a collapsed shelf. His hand brushed against something cold.

It was a metal-sided box, dented along the edges, with a label nearly peeled away from it.

When he lifted it, the dust slid off in sheets. Here, written in faded ink, still visible beneath the grime:

APRIL 2012.

For a moment, he didn’t breathe.

Behind him, James kept talking – something about how strange it was that the board never mentioned any of this in the archives. The words barely registered. Juhoon was staring at the box as if it might move.

He turned it over slowly. The seal was rusted, but the lid still shut tight. Inside, he knew, there would be reels – probably blank by now, or decayed. Maybe nothing at all.

But the date, April 2012, landed somewhere deep in his chest.

“Professor?” Seonghyeon said. “What’s that?”

Juhoon blinked, realizing how long he’d been holding it. “Nothing important,” he said lightly. “Old storage.”

“Really? It looks kind of recent.”

“Does it?” He smiled faintly, the way teachers do when they mean to end a conversation. “Let’s just move it with the rest.”

James frowned. “Wasn’t the club still running around that time?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Juhoon said too quickly.

He turned, placing the box carefully on the desk, like one handles something breakable or dangerous. His hands lingered on it a second too long before he pulled away.

The boys returned to their discoveries, leafing through notebooks and laughing over sketches of half-finished scripts. The noise filled the room again, thin but warm.

Juhoon stood by the window, his eyes on the sea.

It was overcast now, waves breaking in slow, deliberate rhythm. He could almost hear them from here, that heavy, sucking sound of water hitting stone. For a second, it felt too close, as if the sound was coming from somewhere inside the room itself.

He turned away.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough for today. Bring what you can to the new room. I’ll finish up here.”

The boys obeyed, arms full of relics and laughter, their voices trailing down the hall.

When they were gone, the silence came back. Juhoon looked again at the box on the desk. The letters seemed darker now, though he couldn’t tell if it was the light or memory playing tricks on him. He reached out, tracing the faint curve of the A in April with his thumb.

He told himself it was nothing. Just an old reel, mislabeled like the rest. He told himself he’d throw it out later, or maybe donate it to the archives, or – just perhaps – open it once.

The air in the room felt colder. He could hear the gulls outside, their cries sharp as laughter. Juhoon swallowed, shut the cabinet, and turned off the light. But as he left, closing the door behind him, the sound came again unmistakably:

The faint click of film shifting in its canister.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

Juhoon sat in the living room of the house he never should have rented.

It was too large, too hollow, too neatly landscaped for a man who spent most of his evenings with the lights off and his laptop open to half-marked essays and unread emails. A two-story colonial, pale stucco with blue shutters, perched on a gentle slope just fifteen minutes from the academy by car. It was the kind of house people pointed to in real estate brochures.

He didn’t need the space. He had no family to fill it, no pets, no guests, no one to care if the silence stretched too long between footsteps. He could have lived in one of those downtown apartments – a one-bedroom, minimalist, and efficient space. But something about this house, with its expansive windows and polished oak floors, had called to him. He told himself he chose it for the quiet. That was easier than admitting it felt familiar.

The furniture was sparse but curated: worn leather armchairs, shelves lined with paperbacks dog-eared into oblivion, a record player that didn’t always work, and an old upright piano he told himself he’d fix eventually. Most of the art on the walls was black and white – film stills, mostly, framed in cheap glass. He hadn’t arranged them in any particular order, but looking at them now, he noticed a pattern. There were too many windows, mirrors, and water. Things that reflected but never revealed.

The April 2012 box sat on the desk by the far wall.

It had been there for days, untouched.

He wasn’t sure why he brought it home. He’d told the boys he was archiving it, that the reels were fragile and needed proper humidity. They had nodded, not questioning it. Teenagers rarely did when adults moved with certainty. But the truth was, he hadn’t wanted to leave it behind at the academy. It had felt exposed there, like someone might open it unintentionally, or it might open on its own.

He hadn’t lifted the lid, not even once. He told himself it was because he didn’t have the time, or because it would only contain dust and disappointment, but the truth was that he didn’t trust himself to look. He was afraid of what might come out of it – not literally, not ghosts or monsters, but something worse. 

Memory.

The human mind was mercifully selective. That was something he used to teach; that memory functioned like editing, where the brain chose which frames to keep and which to discard. Sometimes he thought his own mind had been generous with him. It had blurred the edges of his teenage years until they felt distant, colorless, unreal.

When he tried to remember the boys, their faces came to him in pieces: a flash of teeth in sunlight, the sound of running feet, a hand holding a camera steady against the wind. But the images never stayed. They dissolved as quickly as they formed, just like negatives that were dunked in water too soon.

There was no real reason for the dread. He didn’t even remember much from that year. Not clearly, anyway.

Sometimes he told himself it was because high school was uneventful. A blur of classes and deadlines and cheap cafeteria lunches. He remembered outlines: film club, rainy afternoons, the sound of laughter echoing down chapel corridors. But the details were soft around the edges, the kind of smooth that comes from water damage.

There had been a stretch of years when New York had numbed that feeling. College had been fast, bright, and artificial. Everything was new, but even then – even under the fluorescent lights of the university library, or curled on a futon in some apartment overlooking the Hudson, he felt it – the tug.

California was still pulling at him. It was the coastline. He didn’t come back because he missed it. He came back because there was something he could never put a name to.

Now, in the hush of the house, the box sat like an altar – inert and watching. He stood slowly, crossing the room with the quiet of someone approaching a coffin. The box was cold to the touch. He peeled the lid back carefully, half-expecting the smell of mildew or old paper, but it smelled like nothing at all.

Inside, the tapes were stacked like bones.

Not DVDs nor digitized files. They were a mix of VHS and film rolls. Old school.

Of course, they had filmed on these media. They’d romanticized everything back then, even the way they documented their own boredom. Even the way they documented each other.

He reached inside and lifted the first VHS tape, then closed the lid. There was no label or any handwriting. He still had an old VHS player buried in a box in the hall closet, a relic from a short-lived attempt to teach media history through analog technology. He hadn’t used it in years, but it still worked.

The tape slid into the machine with a heavy, mechanical click. The screen trembled as if the air inside it had turned to water.

For a long moment, there was nothing – only the soft, gray hum of static, the television breathing like a sleeping thing. Then the image stuttered awake.

Blue sky. The sound of wind tearing through a cheap microphone. Boys laughing somewhere offscreen. The camera was handheld, unsteady – a blur of white uniforms, salt-white cliffs in the background, the sea glinting.

Someone yelled something – maybe a name, perhaps just noise. The lens swung clumsily toward the waves, catching a splash of water, a boy’s arm mid-throw. The frame lingered too long on the horizon. You could hear breathing. You could listen to the ocean swallowing its own echo.

Juhoon leaned forward before he realized he’d moved. His stomach turned from the sensation of being looked at from the wrong side. He tasted salt, inexplicably. Breathing – louder now. It wasn't the tape’s now. It was his own.

It was strange, watching it. Everything looked both too real and slightly wrong, as though memory had borrowed someone else’s eyes. He felt a pull at the back of his mind – the sensation of almost remembering something, but not quite. The image quivered, went white for a heartbeat, then returned to normal.

The laughter thinned. The wind grew louder. The camera turned, too fast, toward the cliffs. For a fraction of a second, the lens caught movement there – something pale, a figure perhaps, facing away.

Then the tape cut to static. The sound filled the room, sharp and crackling like the ocean gnawing at stone. For a moment, the hiss almost shaped itself into syllables.

Juhoon’s thumb hovered over the power button. He told himself it was only interference, a ghost of sound, nothing more. But the noise seemed to breathe with him – inhale, exhale, a low rhythm in sync with his own.

He pressed stop. The screen went black.

He leaned closer, though he hadn’t meant to. His fingers curled tight around the edge of the desk, nails pressing into wood. Silence settled in the house, heavy and damp. The air seemed different now, colder, as if the sea had crept closer. He sat still for a moment, waiting for his heart to slow.

Then came a sound – faint, from the television. A pop, like static, trying to wake.

He looked up. The screen remained black, but the reflection on the glass had changed. He could see himself seated at the desk and behind him, in the dim space near the window, something else. 

It was a smear of white. The shape of someone standing, head tilted, just out of focus. He turned, but the room was empty.

When he faced the screen again, the reflection was gone.

He exhaled, slowly, told himself it was just light, just fatigue. But then he heard it – a laugh. The same laugh from the tape, or something close enough to be cruel. He told himself it was the sea – the wind dragging its teeth along the glass. But the sound lingered. It was salt-wet and familiar.

He looked at the box.

The lid was wide open now. 

Inside, something shifted – a tape unwinding, slow and deliberate, though no hand touched it. The thin strip of film spilled over the edge of the desk and onto the floor, curling like something alive.

Juhoon didn’t move.

He only watched as the film continued to unravel, silent and endless, the tape glinting like wet hair in the dark.

Chapter Text

The fan above them coughed through the heat, blades shuddering, the sound halfway between a sigh and a groan. Dust hung in the air like mist, visible in the shafts of light falling through the old stained windows of the Saint Elys film club room.

Juhoon ran down the hall, late again, the slap of his sneakers echoing against the corridor tiles. His shirt stuck to his back; the afternoon smelled of salt and rain trapped in concrete. He slowed only when he saw the door – its paint chipped, its nameplate barely clinging to one screw.

Inside, two boys looked up.

Martin Edwards sat cross-legged on a desk, storyboard paper scattered around him, pencil in his mouth. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, hair a mess of cowlicks and graphite smudges. There was something permanent about his energy – loud even when he wasn’t speaking, a kind of restless charisma that filled the room.

Beside the cabinet, half-hidden behind a tripod, was Ahn Keonho. The youngest, all wide eyes and jittery hands, fiddling with the camera cables like they were puzzle pieces only he could solve. A slight grin broke across his face when he saw Juhoon enter.

“Hyung! You’re alive!”

Keonho’s voice rang out before Juhoon even crossed the threshold. He brushed the dust from his palms and launched himself forward, locking Juhoon into a messy half‑hug, half‑tackle. The two stumbled, laughing – grappling like boys who’d never learned how to greet each other properly without bruises.

Juhoon dropped his bag with a thud and pushed back, matching Keonho’s energy for once, their laughter sharp and breathless in the hot air.

From the far end of the room, Martin didn’t even turn. “Barely,” he said, pencil between his teeth. “He probably sprinted here again.”

Juhoon pulled away, panting. “If you scheduled meetings after class, I wouldn’t have to.”

“Punctuality builds character,” Martin replied, finally glancing up. His grin was too pleased, his tone mock‑serious.

“Then you should try it sometime.” Juhoon flopped onto the couch with a groan, hair damp against his forehead.

Keonho laughed, bright and boyish. “He’s got you there, hyung.”

Without missing a beat, Martin flicked his pencil toward him. It missed spectacularly, bounced off the table leg, and rolled under a stack of scripts.

“Mutiny already?” Martin said, feigning outrage. “From my own recruits?”

“Recruits?” Juhoon echoed, eyes half‑lidded with amusement. “Pretty sure no one voted you president.”

“I’m self‑appointed.” Martin leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Democracy doesn’t work for art.”

Keonho threw his head back, laughing, a sound that cracked open the quiet room. “You sound like my dad when he’s losing an argument.”

Martin pointed a marker at him, mock‑threatening. “Watch it, rookie. I can still demote you to prop master.”

“You can’t,” Juhoon said, unbothered, as he pulled a crumpled pack of crackers from his bag. He popped one into his mouth, chewing with the slow satisfaction of someone who hadn’t eaten since lunch. “He’s the only one who actually knows how to use the boom mic.”

“I learned last week!” Keonho snapped, already half-tangled in cable wires as he crouched near the gear bag.

“You also fried it last week,” Martin shot back from the desk, still sprawled across three chairs like a king without a kingdom.

“That was one time!”

“It sparked, dude.”

Keonho pointed at him with the mic head. “That was static!”

“That was smoke.”

“Static looks like smoke sometimes!”

Martin narrowed his eyes. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“I do, and I sound correct!” Keonho said.

Juhoon leaned back in his chair, munching lazily, eyes half-lidded like a housecat watching two birds fight over a breadcrumb. 

He has seen this exact argument five times already. The bickering was its own choreography – familiar, circular, never fierce. Martin always led with snark. Keonho always tripped over his rebuttals with flair. Juhoon stayed somewhere in the middle: the reluctant referee with snacks.

Martin stretched with a yawn, arms flopping over the backrest of his chair like a bored cat. “Alright! Attendance. Three out of three.” His eyes swept across the half-lit room, landing on the empty chairs. “Could be worse.” Martin shrugged. 

“Could be better,” Juhoon said through a mouthful of biscuit. Crumbs clung to his lip like punctuation.

The quiet crept in just enough to feel the echo of what used to be – seven people, the buzz of too many voices, the half-finished projects collecting dust on the shelves.

Keonho shifted, constantly the one to fill the silence first. “I miss our old members.”

His eyes slid to the snack in Juhoon’s hand like a cartoon character following a pie. “They used to bring snacks.”

Juhoon was oblivious, chewing like the world was ending tomorrow.

“They also refused to edit,” Martin said flatly. “Swore Premiere gave them migraines.”

“Still,” Keonho said with a hopeful tilt of his head, “the cookies were good.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “You’d follow anyone holding Oreos.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“I have standards.”

“Lies,” Keonho snorted. Juhoon, still unbothered, finally caught the stare boring into his food. Without a word, he handed the rest of the pack over.

Keonho let out a triumphant noise that was half squeal, half gasp. “Hyung, I take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about you.”

“You said like twelve today,” Juhoon replied.

“I meant them with love.”

Outside, the campus stretched quietly and golden. The chapel bell rang once in the distance, its chime bleeding into the breeze, soft and ghostly. The afternoon was beginning to fold.

Martin clapped his hands once, jolting the moment. “Alright, creative geniuses. Let’s at least pretend we’re productive today.”

“Pretending’s what we do best,” Juhoon muttered, lounging deeper into the couch like a cat soaking up the sun.

“Speak for yourself,” Keonho said, mouth half full of biscuit. “I actually do things.”

“Yeah?” Martin said, already rising. “Then start by fixing that light stand before it electrocutes us all.”

Keonho shot up and saluted with dramatic flair. “Aye, captain.”

By late afternoon, the air in the film room had turned heavy and slow. The fan spun weakly overhead, its blades wobbling on their axis, pushing more noise than air. 

The boys had been tinkering for nearly an hour – testing cables, rewinding tapes, pretending to troubleshoot just to keep themselves busy. When the noise died down, the silence that followed was soft and awkward.

Martin broke it first. “Alright,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Meeting time.”

It was a generous term, for there were only three chairs, a dying fan, and them – the last of the Saint Elys Film Club.

“Roll call,” Martin added dramatically. “Edwards, present. Kim?”

Juhoon raised an eyebrow from where he sat by the window. “Barely.”

“Ahn?”

Keonho straightened immediately. “Here!”

Martin grinned. “Good. A hundred percent attendance. Incredible. What a thriving organization!”

Juhoon’s laugh was short. “You sound like a principal trying to convince parents the school’s not bankrupt.”

Martin turned, arms crossed. “You think I’m joking, but this is serious. We’re hanging by a thread, and no one’s doing anything about it.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to do,” Juhoon said quietly.

The words landed like a drop of ink in water – small, but enough to tint the whole mood.

Martin’s head snapped toward him. “That’s your problem, man. You’ve given up before we’ve even started.”

“I didn’t say I gave up,” Juhoon replied, voice calm but clipped. “I said maybe forcing it isn’t helping.”

“‘Forcing it?’ We’re trying to save this club. You think it’s going to fix itself?”

“I think you’re scaring away what’s left of it,” Juhoon said. “Look around.” He gestured to the empty chairs. “There’s no audience, no members. Maybe ease off before you burn out the rest of us, too.” Juhoon didn’t like how harsh it sounded, but he didn’t take it back. Let Martin bruise on it. 

Martin blinked, visibly reining himself in. His laugh came out strained. “Right. Sure. Let’s just sit here until someone else saves us. Great plan, man.”

Keonho’s eyes darted between them, unsure whether to speak. The tension wasn’t loud – it wasn’t shouting or raised voices – but it was there, pulsing under every word, an invisible tug-of-war between two kinds of love: Martin’s fevered, reckless devotion to something already fading, and Juhoon’s quiet loyalty wrapped in restraint.

Keonho finally spoke, voice too soft for the space. “I think... maybe you’re both right?”

Both older boys turned to him at once.

He winced. “I mean, I still believe we can do something. Like, people used to love the club, right? Maybe it’s just – maybe we need to remind them.”

Martin’s expression softened, only slightly. “Exactly. That’s what I’ve been saying.”

Juhoon sighed. “We can’t remind anyone if we burn ourselves out trying to look alive.”

“I’m not burning out.”

“Martin –”

“Stop talking like it’s already dead!”

The outburst startled even him. His voice echoed off the walls, and for a moment, no one moved.

Martin’s shoulders lowered, shame bleeding through the frustration. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to shout.”

Keonho busied himself with the camera cables, pretending not to have heard. His hands trembled slightly as he looped the strap.

Juhoon leaned back, tone gentler now. “You care too much. That’s not the problem. But you talk like it’s your burden alone. It’s not.”

Martin rubbed his temple. “I just –” He stopped, searching for words. “I hate watching something good disappear.”

The silence that followed was tender, almost fragile.

“Yeah,” Juhoon said at last. “Me too.”

The bell rang then – sharp, merciful.

Keonho jumped up first, relief flickering across his face. “That’s... that’s my next class,” he said, too quickly. “I’ll, uh, lock the cabinet later!” He hoisted the gear bag and slipped out before either of them could reply.

The door swung shut behind him.

Martin groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face. “I freaked him out again, didn’t I?”

“Probably,” Juhoon said, standing.

“Kid’s too sensitive.”

“He’s sixteen,” Juhoon replied. “He’s supposed to be.”

They walked out together, the light changing from gold to pale amber in the corridor. The air smelled faintly of sea salt drifting from the cliffs beyond the chapel.

Martin shoved his hands into his pockets. “You think he’ll quit, too?”

Juhoon shook his head. “Not yet.”

Martin exhaled, long and slow. “Good. I don’t think I could handle another member gone.”

It had always been like that, just the three of them. The last stubborn lights still flickering in a room everyone else had already left.

Once, the club had been crowded – seven names on the list, laughter spilling into the corridor, too many hands fighting over the same camera. But when the novelty faded, only the ones who loved it for reasons they couldn’t explain had stayed. Martin, loud and relentless. Juhoon, steady as a metronome. Then, late into last semester, Ahn Keonho — younger in age and in spirit, all nerve and brightness and too much heart.

Juhoon still remembered the day he joined. Martin had been sulking over another dropout, his usual brand of dramatic mourning, when the door opened and in walked this kid in oversized glasses and an old uniform jacket. He looked twelve. It amused Juhoon so much. He carried a borrowed DSLR as if it were a sacred text.

“You the president?” Keonho had asked.

Martin had scoffed. “Kinda.”

“Cool,” the boy said, unbothered. “I want in.”

Juhoon had tried not to laugh then. But the next thing he knew, Keonho was on the floor beside him, helping untangle the cables without being told where they went. Within the week, he’d shot a two-minute clip for the school fair – a single take following a teacher through the corridors, light shifting from pale to gold, ending in a perfect focus pull to the cross above the chapel doors. It had stunned them.

Even Martin, who thought nothing impressed him anymore, had leaned back and whistled. “Jesus,” he’d said. “The kid’s got an eye.”

He truly did. Keonho saw angles that the rest of them missed: the symmetry of shadows on tiled floors, the way the wind made glass shiver, the quiet beauty in things that everyone else considered empty. He was careless with rules but careful with light.

Juhoon, who had spent most of his time learning frame rates and shutter speed the hard way, watched with equal parts admiration and envy. The boy did it effortlessly, as if film spoke a language that only he could hear.

Sometimes, during editing sessions, Juhoon would catch him humming under his breath, tapping his pen against the desk in rhythm to a cut he hadn’t even made yet. When Juhoon looked over, Keonho would grin shyly, cheeks pink, and say, “You’ll see. It’ll make sense once it’s done.”

It always did.

He wished, sometimes, that he had that same kind of raw instinct. Martin had the fire, yes, but Keonho had the gift. And Juhoon? He had the discipline to keep them both standing.

That, he supposed, was what made them work: Martin dreamed too big, Keonho too bright, and he stayed somewhere between them, anchoring the madness before it swallowed them whole.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

The light bled slowly over the courtyard, curling against the moss-dark bricks and the damp iron benches. There was no wind, only the sound of birds calling into the open sky.

Juhoon stayed behind.

He sat cross-legged on the low steps near the old stone planter, sketchbook open in his lap, mechanical pencil between his fingers. Juhoon didn’t mind the quiet.

The sky was bruising purple, streaked orange near the sea, and he was sketching the same things he always did when his mind couldn’t settle – sunsets over water, shadows of bicycles, the outline of Saint Elys’ chapel cutting into a sky that never stayed the same color for long.

He didn’t have to wait long before someone called out for him – a driver, someone his parents had arranged to fetch him. They never came themselves. They hadn’t in years. Rich enough to pay for presence, but never enough to offer it. Juhoon had gotten used to it. He didn't mind waiting. He didn’t want to go back to that cold house, anyway.

Warmth, he’d found, wasn’t something you were born into. It was something you built like a film you edited frame by frame, until the story felt close to true. And here in this cracked courtyard with half-dead trees and fading laughter still echoing in the air was where Juhoon felt most like himself.

A long shadow stretched across his page.

“Let me guess,” came a familiar voice. “Sunset number thirty-seven?”

Juhoon didn’t look up. “If you’re here to ruin the composition again, I’m going to draw your nose longer than it already is.”

Martin dropped his bag with a dramatic thud. “That’s bold coming from someone who’s five foot seven at most.”

“I’m five-nine.”

“You’re lying.”

Juhoon finally glanced up, squinting at the boy in front of him. Martin always managed to look like he’d just stepped out of a film scene – windblown hair, slightly sweaty collar, dirt smudged where it didn’t need to be. Taller than necessary, louder than appropriate, and annoyingly golden in the light.

“You waiting for someone?” Martin asked, peering over his shoulder.

Juhoon made a vague gesture toward the gate. “My driver. I don’t know.”

Martin flopped down beside him, graceless as ever. His knees cracked. “You’re so spoiled.”

“I’m sitting on the ground with you.”

“Still. It must be nice. Paid rides, no curfew, imported pencils.”

Juhoon passed him a side-eye. “You want a pencil?”

Martin grinned. “No. I want your life.”

“Trust me,” Juhoon said, returning to his sketch, “you don’t.” There was a pause. The kind that felt lived-in, not awkward.

Martin tilted his head, watching the curve of Juhoon’s pencil. “That’s the coastline, right?”

“Mmh.”

“And that one’s me?”

“It’s a power pole.”

Martin laughed, loud and unbothered. “You’re hilarious when you pretend not to care.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You never not pretend.”

Juhoon said nothing. He just kept drawing – waves made of lines, islands made of silence.

After a while, Martin exhaled and leaned back on his elbows. “About earlier,” he said, voice lower now. “Sorry. I know I was a bit much.”

Juhoon paused, then nodded once. “It’s fine. I was a bit of an ass, too.”

Martin grinned, nudging him with his shoulder. “You’re always an ass. But today was, like, extra.”

“I take it back.”

Martin’s grin didn’t fade. There was something oddly pleased in his face whenever Juhoon showed even a sliver of emotion. Like it meant he’d cracked something open.

“But seriously,” Martin added, tone softer. “I just don’t want to lose this. It matters, you know?”

Juhoon closed his sketchpad, his voice even. “It matters to me too. But you bulldoze, man. Not everyone can keep up.”

Martin was quiet for a beat. “I know. I’ll –” He paused. “I’ll try to do better.”

Then, in the same breath, he added, “But also, I still think we need to push harder. Be louder. Shake the whole school if we have to.”

Juhoon exhaled, long and silent.

There it was again. The apology undone. The same rhythm.

He didn't argue. He didn’t have the energy. Instead, he simply nodded, vague and unreadable, a diplomat too tired to sign another treaty.

“Whatever you say, Martin.”

Martin didn’t notice the edge in his voice, or maybe he did and chose not to. They sat in silence a while longer.

Juhoon stared at the fountain. Thought about the club and letting it go.

Maybe they should’ve let it die with dignity – quiet, small, forgotten. What was the point of keeping something alive that nobody wanted?

But then he thought of Keonho. Thought of how the boy lit up behind the camera, how his hands moved instinctively toward light, how his mind bloomed into storyboards without ever needing to try. He thought of Martin, reckless and stubborn, dragging them forward with nothing but belief.

A sharp beep broke the silence. His ride had arrived.

Martin glanced up. “That your guy?”

Juhoon stood, dusting graphite from his palms. “Yeah.”

Martin peeled off first, saying he had detention to attend, and threw a lazy wave over his shoulder.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

Martin Edwards was seventeen, and everything about him said so. Seventeen, and already sharp-edged with vision. Seventeen, and already tired.

He was the kind of boy teachers loved – articulate, magnetic, with his hands constantly moving, his eyes always two pages ahead. He knew how to speak like he meant it, how to make mediocrity sound poetic, how to thread a camera strap through his fingers like a rosary and make it look holy.

Martin was brilliant. Everyone said so.

But brilliance was nothing if it wasn't challenged. And Martin? Poor Martin had grown bored.

The campus was deserted when he arrived. The main gate was closed, but the guard was half-asleep in the booth, his cap tilted over his eyes, his phone glowing weakly in one hand. Martin waved as he passed, and the guard – used to him, amused by him – buzzed him in without protest.

The old building creaked as he entered, a sound he was familiar with. He moved quietly through the first floor, shoes muffled against the linoleum.

He told himself he was there to retrieve his notes. Left them in the club room, probably under the old projector cart or tucked between pages of a storyboard he hadn’t finished. That was the official reason.

The real one?

He just wanted to be there. Alone, yes – but inside it. Inside the room where things once felt alive.

It had been days since he had a good idea. Weeks, maybe. He'd been clawing at the walls of his brain for something big, something brilliant enough to matter. He could feel the weight of the club shrinking under his watch. Juhoon was beginning to slip – showing up later, speaking less. Keonho, ever cheerful, ever golden, kept his distance in ways Martin didn’t quite understand.

He took the long way, past the courtyard, skirting the glow of the faculty wing where lights still burned behind glass. A few teachers stood outside, jackets over their shoulders, murmuring quietly.

Martin ducked his head and veered left, taking the narrow path toward the back of campus.

The shoreline loomed ahead.

Saint Elys had been built close to the cliffs – a decades-old architectural fantasy, a marriage of stone and sea. The kind of decision that looked romantic in pamphlets and felt terrible during typhoon season.

The sky was low tonight, thick with mist. The ocean breathed in the dark, slow and heavy, invisible beyond the edge.

Martin moved carefully. The grass bowed under his shoes, brittle from salt. The campus behind him had gone quiet, the world narrowed to the sound of his breathing and the slow hush of waves far below.

Then, a beep sounded. His phone lit up in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting nothing, but there it was.

To: Saint Elys Academy Film Club

Subject: Invitation to the Pacific Youth Reel: California’s Independent Film Festival for High School Creators

We invite your team to submit a short film to this year’s showcase…

For a heartbeat, Martin forgot to breathe. His eyes skimmed the message, then again, faster, like the words might vanish if he blinked too long. He could feel it – the thrill, the dizzy rush of validation. Finally, someone had seen them. The Saint Elys Film Club, buried under dust and irrelevance, had been given a way out.

He laughed under his breath. The sound startled even him. It came out high, almost manic, echoing faintly against the cliffs.

His fingers were trembling with excitement when his phone accidentally slipped from his hand.

“Shit –”

He lunged, fingers grasping empty air. The phone bounced once on the rock, then twice, before tumbling down the slope toward the shore below. The sound of it hitting stone was a clean, hollow crack – like a bone splitting in half.

“Stupid,” he hissed. “Stupid, stupid –”

He was already moving.

The path down wasn’t meant for students; it was just jagged limestone and slick moss, with the faint metallic smell of wet salt rising from below. His palm scraped against stone; his knee struck something sharp. The ocean breathed louder the lower he went. Wind clawed at his collar, tugging him sideways.

When he reached the bottom, his lungs burned.

The shore was black and slick, a long smear of rock and seaweed. His phone lay a few feet ahead, its screen cracked but still flickering weakly, light pulsing in and out. He staggered over and crouched to pick it up. 

A shiver crawled down his spine.

The tide was further out than he remembered. The dark stretched endlessly before him, the sea a flat mirror, no moonlight to break it. Through his peripheral vision, there was motion. A slow, circling ripple in the distance towards the cliffs, too deliberate to be wind.

Martin, who loved challenges too much, took a step closer. The air was colder here – wrongly cold. It bit through his sleeves and into his skin. The wind wasn’t howling anymore; it was breathing.

He heard it before he saw it.

A sound like a whisper, low and rhythmic, woven beneath the crash of waves. It wasn’t language. It wasn’t quite sound either, more like pressure, vibrating behind his eyes. His world tilted.

For a split second, everything blurred. The cliffs warped, bending inward like teeth closing over the shore. The horizon pulsed. Beyond it, something surfaced.

It was a shimmer beneath the water, vast and serpentine, haloed by phosphorescent light. The outline of a woman? Or a wave? Or both?

He blinked, and it changed shape. A hand? No. The suggestion of one, reaching. His chest tightened. He stumbled backward, salt filling his mouth though he hadn’t fallen. The sound grew sharper – not whispering now but singing. Notes that made his ribs ache, familiar and terrible, like something from a dream he wasn’t supposed to remember.

He stumbled backward, chest heaving, mind unsteady. He didn’t remember climbing back up, only the sting of scraped palms and the taste of iron on his tongue.

When he finally reached the top, the school building loomed in the dark, comforting in its mundanity, its warm yellow windows like candles for the living.

He stopped at the door of the club room. His hand hovered over the knob. For a second, the smell of salt returned, sharp and invasive, even though he’d left the shore behind. He shook it off. “Get it together,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You’re just tired. That’s all.”

He told himself it was nothing. The sea, the light, and the whisper were all tricks of exhaustion. But when he turned the knob of the door, he noticed water dripping from his sleeve. He wiped it with his thumb.

Martin’s throat tightened. He didn’t look back. He didn’t go into the club room. He just walked away – fast, head down, breath quick – telling himself again and again that it was nothing. When he reached the gate, he swore he could still hear it, the low hum of the tide calling his name.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

It was the kind of noon that made you want to sleep forever. The kind that made even wind feel like memory – soft, aimless, gentle with its pressure.

The three boys sat in their usual spot, behind the school building, where the concrete gave way to yellow grass and smooth, salt-encrusted stone. The sea, just beyond the fence, shimmered like glass. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying into the sky.

This place was unofficially claimed, not assigned. It was quiet here and removed from the mess of classrooms, too far from the noise of first-year students or the sound of the chapel bell.

Keonho sat cross-legged in the grass, chewing fast through what had once been Juhoon’s lunch. The boy had no shame – already halfway through the second onigiri, fingers dusted with salt and soy. Juhoon didn’t mind. He always asked his maid to pack extras for him. 

Martin was perched beside him, back straight, hands fidgeting with the plastic lid of his iced tea. There was a small gash on his right wrist and another on his elbow. Neither boy seemed to notice.

Juhoon sat with his legs stretched, lazily peeling the label off a bottled drink. The breeze played with his collar. He looked half-asleep, like he belonged in a painting.

Martin was the first to break the silence.

“I have something.”

Keonho looked up, mouth full. “What, another tragic monologue about the state of modern cinema?”

“No,” Martin said, almost breathless. “An actual thing. A festival.”

Juhoon arched a brow. “What festival?”

Martin leaned forward. His eyes were gleaming – too bright, too fixed. “It’s the Pacific Youth Reel. California-wide, which includes student short films. Narrative, docu, experimental. Winners are streamed on an indie platform and included in a shortlist for internship picks. The deadline is in a month.”

He let it hang there.

Keonho blinked. “No way.”

Martin handed them his phone, the email open.

Juhoon took it first, scrolling slowly. He read every word. Keonho read faster, eyes jumping, face lighting up.

“This is real?” Keonho asked. “Like, we got this?”

Martin nodded. “It came a few nights ago. We’re listed.”

Keonho grabbed the phone from Juhoon, eyes scanning it at lightning speed. “Holy shit. This is like – legit legit.”

“We’re not even on the registry,” Juhoon said cautiously. “How’d they find us?”

“Probably from those old videos I uploaded,” Martin shrugged. “Or maybe we were nominated by a teacher. Who cares?”

Juhoon didn’t answer right away. He stared at the screen, then at Martin.

“You sure it’s real?” Juhoon asked quietly.

Martin stiffened. “It’s real,” he said, sharper now. “I checked the domain. I emailed them back, and they responded. It’s legit and it’s our only shot.”

Keonho, still riding the high, clapped his hands. “This is our comeback. We are so back!”

Martin laughed a bit too hard. Juhoon chewed, slower now. He didn’t like the look in Martin’s eyes – not that he could name what was wrong with it, just that it was too much.

“Okay,” Juhoon said eventually, wiping his mouth. “Let’s say we submit. What’s the angle? What are we even making?”

“Short film,” Martin said. “Could be fiction, docu, experimental – they said go wild.”

“But we can’t just shoot random shit,” Juhoon replied. “We need permits. Equipment. Post-prod. We don’t even know what we’re making.”

“Story first,” Keonho said, nodding like he was in a pitch meeting. “We’ll reverse engineer everything else.”

“We just need something unique or offbeat. It could be campus-based, so we don’t waste time scouting. But cinematic enough to stand out,” Martin said. 

Keonho paused, hands twitching with leftover crumbs. His smile curled slowly into something more mischievous.

“I may have something.”

Martin tilted his head. “Go on.”

Juhoon narrowed his eyes. “You always say that, and it’s never useful.”

“No, no. This time - this one’s good,” Keonho said, lowering his voice like he was about to narrate a ghost story to campers. “It’s perfect, actually. It’s weird and local.”

Juhoon sighed. “Just say it.”

Keonho grinned. “Do you guys remember that story people used to tell? Like, when people were freshmen? That dare thing.”

Martin’s knee stilled. Keonho leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “About the cliffs, and apparently, a ghost.”

“No,” Juhoon said immediately. “Absolutely not. Next.”

“No, listen!” Keonho said, sitting up straighter. His eyes were bright now, thrilled with his own drama. “You know how every school has some freaky myth? This is ours. It’s a classic.”

“Everyone already knows it,” Juhoon said flatly.

“But no one’s filmed it,” Keonho countered. “No one’s made it real.”

“What’s the story again?” Martin asked, voice low, trying to sound casual.

Keonho lowered his voice dramatically, like they were huddled around a campfire instead of sun-soaked concrete and grass. “They used to say there’s a ghost here. A girl. The Lady of the Saltwater. She appears right by the cliffs, only during high tide. She’s always alone and barefoot. Her skirt’s wet to the hem, and she’s just standing there, staring at the water like she’s waiting for something or someone. And if you see her –”

“You lose IQ points,” Juhoon interrupted.

“You get haunted,” Keonho finished, triumphant. “That’s the story they say. She doesn’t scream or appear in your dreams or anything. She just shows up until you crack.”

Juhoon snorted. “Sounds fake.”

“Obviously it’s fake,” Keonho said. “That’s why it’s perfect. No one’s seen her, but everyone knows someone who swears they have.”

Martin’s mouth was dry, but he said nothing. Juhoon playfully rolled his eyes.

“She’s basically the school’s initiation dare, like what I mentioned,” Keonho finished. “People used to dare each other to watch the cliffs at midnight and prove she’s not real.”

“You think a sea ghost is going to help us win an indie film fest?” Juhoon asked.

“Not the ghost,” Keonho said. “A mockumentary. We create fake footage, conduct real interviews, and incorporate lore. Campus rumors. Archival footage. We blur the line between reality and illusion. That’s the fun.”

Juhoon considered. “It’d be easy to make. All on-campus.”

“And creepy enough to get attention,” Keonho added.

Martin didn’t laugh. He was staring down at the ocean, the way it pulled in strange directions this time of day. Wind lifting off the water like breath. He thought about that night. The thing he almost saw.

It wasn’t real. Just a feverish trick of light. A story you tell yourself when you’re alone and tired and too ambitious for your own good.

Juhoon looked at Martin. “You in?”

Martin blinked. “Sure,” he said, slowly. “It’s a good hook.”

“Hell yeah,” Keonho whooped, throwing his arms up. “Mockumentary gold.”

Martin forced a smile. It sat wrong in his mouth, like something fermented.

He didn’t believe in ghosts or in myths. But he knew what he saw, or maybe he didn’t.

“Then it’s settled,” Keonho said, wiping his fingers. “Our Lady of the Saltwater, Saint Elys’ most cursed icon. Coming soon to a screen near you.”

The wind picked up, and the trees rustled overhead. Martin was the first to stand.

“Alright,” he said lightly, brushing grass from his sleeves, “let’s get writing soon. I’ll draft something tonight, and we’ll meet after class tomorrow.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, already walking ahead, the breeze catching the edges of his blazer as he moved toward the main building.

Keonho called after him, something teasing about being too eager, but Martin didn’t turn back.

He kept his pace measured, his steps purposeful, as though he wasn’t running from something. As though he hadn’t felt his stomach drop when Keonho recited the story with a little too much detail. 

No one else had seen it that night. No one else had stood near the shore with salt on their skin and felt the world slip sideways. Martin hadn’t told them. He would never.

It was just a myth, a shadow story passed down through bored seniors and superstitious first-year students. He wouldn’t reduce it to paranoia. He wouldn’t sabotage what might be their one chance.  

Let Keonho chase ghosts. Let Juhoon question everything. 

They said the Lady followed those who saw her – appeared in reflections, hovered in spaces, clung to the edges of vision until it split at the seams.

Martin didn’t believe that.

What would drive him mad wasn’t some water-logged spirit. It was this – the pressure, the ambition, the desperate want to make something that lasted.

If the price of that was a little madness, then so be it.

Chapter Text

“Every cut,” Juhoon said, “is an act of violence.”

His voice was low, almost conversational, but it carried. “You take two moments that once belonged to each other and decide which one survives. That’s what editing is. Choosing who lives.”

James blinked, pen frozen above his notebook. Seonghyeon, half-crouched beside the old camcorder, mouthed the words as if tasting them. Juhoon smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Too dramatic?”

The boys laughed, though Seonghyeon’s laughter faltered, uncertain if it was a joke. It was a Thursday today – their third meeting since the club’s revival. 

Juhoon leaned back, sleeves rolled up, pointer tapping rhythmically against the whiteboard where he’d scribbled Lesson 3: Continuity and the Cut.

“Film history’s full of people who broke the rules,” he continued. “But you need to know the rules before you ruin them. Eisenstein, Griffith, Pudovkin – cut for rhythm, cut for meaning. You guys ever heard of the montage theory? You make time fold.”

Seonghyeon raised his hand, then spoke without waiting. “So, like, jump cuts are just bad editing done right?”

“Exactly.” Juhoon grinned, teeth flashing briefly. “If you know what you’re doing, madness can look deliberate.”

James’ notebook was filled with cramped handwriting. His brow furrowed as he drew arrows between terms: shot-reverse-shot, continuity error, temporal ellipsis. He was the kind of student teachers dream of – obedient, hungry, and desperate to please. Every time Juhoon spoke, James looked like someone trying to memorize not just the lesson but the man delivering it.

Seonghyeon, on the other hand, moved like a moth in a jar. He was picking up cables, adjusting tripods, and half-listening, yet somehow managing to catch everything. His fingers fidgeted with the lens cap, clicking it on and off, on and off, until Juhoon gave him a look. He froze, then grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, Prof.”

“Film’s perfect for people like you,” Juhoon said dryly. “Short attention span means you think in cuts.”

The room broke into laughter. The noise echoed strangely against the high ceiling. When the discussion ended, Juhoon wrote something on the board. “Exercise for next week,” he said. “Thirty-second sequence. Tell me a story using only five cuts. I want no dialogue. Soundtrack optional. If I see one shaky handheld shot for aesthetic, I’m deducting points.”

Seonghyeon groaned. “But that’s, like, my signature move!”

“Then retire early,” Juhoon said, stacking papers. 

James laughed, the kind of laugh that cracked open easily. “He means it, bro. Last week you made me dizzy,” he chimed in.

“That was intentional motion blur,” Seonghyeon protested, clutching his chest. “It’s art!”

“Yeah,” James said, “like vertigo art.”

Their bickering was fast and harmless until Juhoon finally gave in and smiled. He let them go at it – a volley of jokes, exaggerated sighs, and mock insults – before clapping his hands once, sharp enough to slice through the noise.

“Alright, comedians. Stills from last week,” he said. “Let’s see if either of you managed to focus the damn camera this time.”

James straightened immediately, already flipping open his laptop like it was a defense exhibit. His thumbnails lined the screen – frames of the main hallway, light spilling across empty desks, one particularly striking shot of a windowpane fogged by someone’s breath.

Juhoon leaned in. “Nice. You’re starting to see the geometry in things. It’s not about perfection, it’s about what you meant to say.”

James smiled, bashful but pleased. “Thanks, Professor. I tried to, uh, emphasize negative space this time.”

“You did, and you didn’t overexpose it, miracle of miracles.”

Seonghyeon groaned theatrically from his corner. “Show-off! He edits like he’s auditioning for A24.”

“Better than whatever that cat series you’ve got going on,” James shot back.

“It was conceptual,” Seonghyeon said, already fumbling with his SD card. “You’ll see.”

He plugged in his own set and hit the spacebar. The first photo appeared – crooked horizon, half a shadow of his shoe. The second was an unintentional close-up of a doorknob. The third was a motion blur of a cat sprinting past the doorway, tail mid-whip.

“Avant-garde,” Juhoon murmured. “Very interesting.”

Seonghyeon groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Don’t bully me, sir. I swear I was drowning last week. ADS is eating my brain alive.”

“ADS?”

“Our mock-trial club,” he said miserably. “They’re making me write the next case. Last month, it was about cafeteria budget reallocations, and now they want something juicier, but the council has already fixed everything. There’s no school drama left! I might sue the cafeteria for emotional damage from overcooked chicken.”

James nearly choked laughing. “Bro, do it. People v. Poultry.”

Juhoon shook his head, suppressing a laugh. “You two should copyright this comedy routine. If film doesn’t work out, Netflix is always hiring.”

“I’d watch that,” Seonghyeon said, grinning. 

Juhoon sighed – long-suffering and amused. “Alright, Spielberg and Tarantino, that’s enough. Clean your lens, Seonghyeon. It looks like a toddler’s been eating peanut butter near it.”

The boy saluted, exaggeratedly crisp. “Yes, sir.” As if he weren’t that toddler.

They packed up in the soft quiet that always came at the end of their meetings. The afternoon light had thinned into amber, making the air syrupy and thick with the scent of dust. The stained-glass windows threw fractured colors over their desks. James coiled the camera cord with precision; Seonghyeon hummed under his breath, restless even in stillness.

“Same time next week?” James asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Same time,” Juhoon said, wiping the board clean. Chalk dust rose like smoke between them.

Seonghyeon was already halfway out the door when he called back, “If I survive ADS!” His laughter bounced down the corridor, bright and boyish. When the room emptied, silence returned like the tide. Juhoon lingered a while, gathering stray sheets of paper, aligning the chairs. The projector gave a soft mechanical sigh. Unplugged, but still alive enough to blink once – a pulse of ghostlight, gone as quickly as it appeared.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

By the time Seonghyeon had met James properly, he was already sick of him.

Not in a hateful way, but more like the way you’re sick of your own reflection when it starts speaking before you do. They had, in fact, known each other for years, but only in the peripheral way kids at adult parties do. Seonghyeon’s earliest memory of James involved a birthday party, a piñata, and a slow-motion disaster that would echo into family dinners for years.

James had swung the plastic bat with the wild, cinematic chaos of a child high on sugar and attention. The piñata–shaped like a giraffe, for some godless reason – had not survived the first hit. Neither did the porcelain vase behind it. Seonghyeon, standing beside him, had clapped loudly with no remorse. Then lied to both mothers and said it was some other kid who did it. That was the start of it: mutual survival through shared mischief.

Years later, not much had changed. James was still the walking embodiment of main character syndrome, and Seonghyeon was still the quiet accomplice with the secret knife. Their dynamic ran like an old film reel: messy, beautiful, and impossible to replicate.

James had always been the energy bomb between them. The one who could walk into a room and make three different cliques laugh in under five minutes. In ADS, he was terrifyingly good – mock trials, press cons, campaign videos, he ate it all like oxygen. He hyperfixated on the way some people fell in love: all at once, without warning, and completely unaware of the wreckage.

This time, the fixation was film.

“It’s Professor Juhoon,” James had said three weeks ago, in a voice that bordered on reverent. “Bro. You don’t get it. He makes Eliot sound like a rockstar. He explained ‘The Waste Land’ and I didn’t want to die. That’s never happened before.”

Seonghyeon, unimpressed, replied. “You’re literally quoting the man who made you guys read Zizek for fun.”

“Exactly!” James had insisted. “You have to come and join the film club. I need you. You’re, like, the vibes guy.”

“The vibes guy?”

“You know what I mean. You’re good at, like, colors and tone. And I can’t light for shit.”

So now, here they were: Saturday afternoon, sun a low burn in the sky, standing at the edge of the city’s skate park with a borrowed camcorder and thirty seconds of assigned narrative to shoot.

A chalky glare bleached the sky, hazing everything in soft gold, and the cracked pavement of the old skate park stretched out like a forgotten reel of film. It was dusty, echoing, faintly humming with the buzz of far-off cicadas and the hum of city traffic behind the fences.

Seonghyeon adjusted the camera’s settings, one hand shielding the viewfinder from the sun. He looked tired, but not in a dramatic way. In the way people looked when they’d been carrying a friendship for so long, it felt like an extension of their spine. James hovered behind him, hair disheveled from at least six failed takes. He watched the footage replay with the intensity of a film festival judge and the gait of a boy who hadn’t done leg day in years.

“I’m telling you,” James said, frowning as the frame glitched slightly at the edge, “the symmetry is off. The composition is not hitting. It looks like a toothpaste ad.”

Seonghyeon didn’t even look up. He walked over and was lying on the ground now, reflector board in one hand – cut haphazardly from an old cereal box, the brand name still visible.

“Maybe because you’re filming a drama in a damn skate park, dumbass,” he said. “What did you expect, La La Land?”

James scoffed. “We need more grit. This is too clean. I need suffering.” Seonghyeon let his head hit back onto the concrete, deadpan. “Then just film your face.” James kicked lightly at his shin, no real force behind it. A gesture they’d done since they were small enough to be still blamed for things their moms could fix.

“Shut up. Let’s reshoot the shot of me falling off the board.”

“You already fell. Like, six times.”

“Yeah, but I want the light to hit my shoulder when I land. That’s what Prof. Juhoon meant when he said 'pain with purpose.'”

“James, you’re literally wearing Uniqlo. You’re not Daniel Day-Lewis.”

“I could be if you'd just hit record properly!”

They dissolved into laughter at that – real, sharp, the kind of sound that didn’t need a punchline to keep going. The type that softened your throat without asking permission. When it faded, they were both still hunched around the broken tripod, breathless. It took a minute for either of them to recover. 

They stood in the middle of the park, surrounded by old ramps and cracked concrete tagged with the names of boys who probably smoked here in 2017. The sun had dipped lower, the sky bleeding pale pink across the horizon, and for a moment, there was a lull.

James wiped at his forehead with the edge of his hoodie sleeve, then squinted into the viewfinder again. “Okay. Last take. For real this time.” 

James tilted his head, mock-sincere. “You think Prof. Juhoon’ll hate it?”

There it was, the first real note of doubt. Seonghyeon didn’t answer right away. He scanned the horizon. The sun had dipped lower now, casting long shadows.

“No,” he said. “I think he’ll say it’s raw. Then give us, like, a four out of ten for focus.”

James made a face. “He likes you better anyway.”

“I’m literally the one who broke the mic last time.”

“Exactly. You’re tragic.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

They stood side by side, sweat drying on their sleeves, camera still rolling. There was no script anymore. Just them, the dying light, and the shaky belief that thirty seconds could hold something real.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

By late afternoon, the school was breathing its slowest. You could feel it in the floors – the way the tiles no longer echoed with footsteps. Saturdays on campus felt like visiting a body in recovery: familiar but changed, vaguely post-operative. Most classrooms were locked. The corridors glowed faintly, the kind of light you could only call hospice gold, and outside the windows, the swim team’s laughter sliced through the stillness in gleaming, chlorinated shrieks. The film club room was unlocked. No one else wanted it.

James kicked open the door with one foot, a balancing act of acai bowls and tangled cables in his arms. “If this film doesn’t win the Professor’s heart, I swear I’m transferring schools.”

“You say that like you have the GPA to get into another one,” Seonghyeon replied, trailing behind, arms full of snacks and existential dread.

The room welcomed them with dust and that lingering old-tech smell – warm plastic, soldered circuits, the faint metallic memory of reels. It had always smelled like a forgotten museum. James immediately claimed the central desk, setting up his editing rig with the care of a man reassembling an altar. Seonghyeon collapsed into the beanbag by the window, sighing like a martyr and prying the lid off his acai bowl.

“This shit looks like regret,” he muttered, inspecting the congealed top layer. “Twelve bucks and it’s giving me compost energy.”

“Just eat it,” James said, already hunched over his footage, scrubbing through frames like a man possessed. Seonghyeon scooped a sad glob of purple mush. “I am eating it. I’m also mourning my bank account. My parents are gonna kill me.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Also, ADS is ruining my life,” he said with his mouth full. James didn’t respond. He was too far gone, eyes glazed, fingers dancing over his keyboard in precise bursts. 

“I’m serious,” Seonghyeon pressed on, undeterred. “You know what they want me to write for next month’s trial? A case about parking violations. Parking. As if that’s the reason this school is rotting from the inside out.”

James hummed. “What is?”

Seonghyeon didn’t skip a beat. “Theater kids. Obviously.”

“Bold claim,” James muttered monotonously as he was still busy clicking away on his laptop, eyes focused as a laser.

“Council’s getting ridiculously stupid too,” Seonghyeon muttered. “Last week, they rejected my proposal on school email surveillance because apparently it was ‘too Orwellian.’ Who the hell says that these days?” Seonghyeon’s face contorted in a disgusted grimace. “I say good. Fine, then. Let’s go Orwellian. Let’s go full dystopia in this bitch.”

He stood abruptly, abandoning the beanbag mid-rant and starting to wander – the way he always did when too much electricity built up in his limbs. His brain had the rhythm of a microwave sparking in an empty room.

James hummed again, entirely unbothered.

“You know what? Why don’t you do it? You’re in the club. An officer, too. I’ll tell them you’ll do it for me this month. Pretty please?” Seonghyeon was now sitting on James’ desk, trying to steal his attention. 

James swatted him like he was a mosquito. “This one’s on you, bro. Sorry.” 

Seonghyeon scoffed and stood up from the desk. He walked over to the corner of the room instead.

“You ever open these?” Seonghyeon asked, already halfway through the first box stacked by the cabinet. It had been there for weeks – old, unlabeled, and sad-looking, ignored in the way a family heirloom often becomes clutter.

“Nope,” James said. “Could be cursed.”

“Perfect,” Seonghyeon grinned. 

He started digging.

The box coughed dust into the air like a smoker. Inside were storyboards, ink-faded and water-warped; rolls of yellowed film strips; expired DVD tapes marked with dates but no titles. Loose polaroids with nothing on the back. One of them showed a blurry hallway and a boy walking away from the camera, the back of his neck caught in a streak of sunlight. Another showed a birthday cake on fire.

“Okay, this is kinda awesome,” Seonghyeon said, holding up an ancient camcorder with a half-melted grip. “This thing looks like it filmed the invention of electricity.”

James, still not looking up, said, “Don’t plug it in, asshole. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Seonghyeon ignored him and kept going, cracking open a second box labeled in sharpie: ARCHIVES / SAINT ELYS / CLASS PROJECTS

Inside, he found news clippings, neatly filed and paper-clipped by year. It was the Saint Elysian Gazette. “New Headmaster Appointed.” “School-Wide Blackout Cancels Intramurals Finals.” “Chapel Renovation Approved.”

Then, tucked between two sheets of yellowing poster board was a photo album.

“James,” he said, slower this time. “Get over here.” 

James groaned. “What now?”

“History, my dude.”

That got James’ attention. He rolled over reluctantly, still chewing on the last bit of his acai bowl, and leaned over as Seonghyeon flipped through the album.

They found stained shots of old Saint Elys. There were shots of students in baggy uniforms and round glasses, leaning out of classroom windows. There was one shot of a milk cart by the gym. One even had a shot of posters for a production of Romeo and Juliet taped across a hallway.

They flipped to a section labeled ‘2011’ and froze. 

The photograph was wide, glossy, and perfectly centered. A group shot on the chapel steps – eighteen students, maybe more. Someone had a megaphone. Someone else had climbed halfway up the banister and was throwing a peace sign with both hands. There were clapboards and tripods and ridiculous matching jackets, all printed with the same wonky Saint Elys Film Club logo like someone’s older cousin had done it on Photoshop in an internet café.

The kids looked loud, full of sleep-deprived ambition and cafeteria sugar highs. You could hear the energy in it. The page almost buzzed with it.

James leaned forward. “Holy shit. They were huge.”

“There’s, like, more of them than our entire org roster combined,” Seonghyeon muttered. “And that includes the guy who shows up for snacks and nothing else.”

“Look at their gear,” James said, leaning in, reverent. “They’ve got booms, reel-to-reel setups, and an actual dolly. We can’t even afford another tripod.”

“They have matching jackets,” Seonghyeon muttered. “We don’t even have a group chat that works. I texted you last week, and it went to your iCloud email.”

“That’s on you for not checking if I got a new number,” James said. Seonghyeon gave him a dirty look. They turned the page. More photos – interior shots of the old clubroom, the desks arranged in a half-circle, every surface covered in storyboards and tangled wires. Someone had printed out a class list. The names were clean and neat, but a few were underlined. A few were erased, unreadable.

Seonghyeon traced the marks with one finger. “So organized. It’s almost scary.”

James nodded. “They look like they were about to unionize.”

Then they flipped to 2012.

Everything was… empty? No group photo. No candid shots. Just three images, all oddly sterile.

One: an overhead shot of the clubroom, lights off, nothing on the walls.
Two: a chair toppled sideways under the whiteboard.
Three: a closed door.

Seonghyeon blinked. “That’s weirdly abrupt.”

James frowned. “Yeah, what happened? They just vanished?”

“No. No way. You don’t go from eighteen jacket-wearing film bros to this in one year.”

James tilted his head. “Maybe they got shut down by the admin? That’s what they have been saying, right?”

“For what? Being too successful?” Seonghyeon gestured at the page. “They were thriving. Like organized thriving. I bet they had screening nights. I bet they used calendars.”

“Maybe they all graduated at once?”

“You ever seen eighteen seniors in one org? Come on. Be serious, dumbass.”

James laughed under his breath. “Okay, what’s your theory then?”

Seonghyeon leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. He looked at the ceiling, as if it might cough up answers.

“Alright. Hypothesis One: creative differences. Club split down the middle over a heated debate. Two factions emerge.”

James grinned. “Petty wars over frame rate?”

“Probably,” Seonghyeon chuckled. “They sabotage each other’s renders. One guy erases the final cut out of spite. Boom! Mass exodus.”

“Sounds like us, honestly.”

“Hypothesis Two,” Seonghyeon went on, warming up. “They were recruited. Like, all of them. Talent-scouted by some underground high school festival, whisked away to make experimental cinema for college apps. You never hear from them again because they’re busy winning regional screenplay contests.”

“That’s ridiculous, man,” James squints his eyes at Seonghyeon.

“I read an article once.” Seonghyeon shrugs once.

James rolled his eyes. “Of course you did.”

James flipped back to the 2011 photo. “What if they just got tired?”

Seonghyeon looked at him.

“No, I mean it,” James said. “Like they burnt out. Maybe they did too much. Tried to be perfect all the time. Maybe they just wanted to rest.”

Seonghyeon was quiet. “You’re projecting.”

“I am absolutely projecting,” James said, and took another bite of his acai bowl.

They looked back down at the last photo again – the door, closed, off-center in the frame. There was something final about it, but also unfinished. Like someone had taken a picture in the middle of a thought and never followed through.

“So what happened after?” Seonghyeon said eventually. “What, they just gave up?”

“Maybe,” James said. “Or maybe they were told to.”

“By who? The headmaster?”

“Maybe the school board has a personal vendetta against film kids.”

“Oh, definitely,” Seonghyeon said. “There’s nothing more threatening to society than teenage auteurs.”

“Exactly. One well-lit long take and suddenly everyone’s scared.”

They laughed again, though quieter this time.

The room felt still. 

Then James leaned forward, finger tapping the photo. “Okay, but real talk? This would kill at mock trial.”

Seonghyeon groaned. “Don’t start.”

“No, seriously. The Curious Case of the Vanishing Film Club. It’s a gold mine.”

“James. No one cares.”

“I care.”

“You’re biased.”

“You’re lazy.”

“That’s not – okay, yes. But still.”

“You have a case. You have evidence. You have a mystery. It’s better than parking violations.”

Seonghyeon stared at him, mouth open. “You’re saying this so I’ll stop complaining about ADS, aren’t you?”

James grinned. “And it’s working.”

“God, I hate you.”

“I know. Say thank you.”

“I’m calling it The Lost Tapes.”

“Of course you are.”

Behind them, the hum of the projector box shifted – just slightly, like a breath inhaled and held.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

Juhoon felt absurd.

Utterly, absolutely, astoundingly ridiculous.

He stood alone on the ragged edge of the campus shore. The wind coming off the water was unrelenting. It tugged at the hem of his jacket, slipped cold fingers down the back of his collar, and tossed his hair into his eyes until he could barely see what was in front of him.

Still, he stayed. Still, he held the damn box.

A plain metal box. The kind of object that looked ordinary until it didn’t. The marker writing along its lid had almost faded. But even now, in the gray daylight, he could make out the faint scrawl pressed into the surface like a scar: APRIL 2012.

That goddamn thing. He had sworn to himself, to the walls, to the spinning fan that witnessed too much, that he would keep it hidden. Locked away and buried, if that’s what it took. And for a while, he managed it. He’d shoved it into every dark corner of his house he could think of. Beneath the sink. Behind a stack of microwave manuals. Under the couch where the vacuum couldn’t reach. But every morning, without fail, it was back on the living room desk, dead center and perfectly placed, as if it had walked there overnight.

He would find it waiting, its shadow long in the slant of early light, the air around it heavy. Once, he thought he heard the faint crackle of film inside, the rustle of tape settling in its own box. Another time, he could have sworn he’d sealed it shut with tape, only to find it sitting open, lid askew, as though it had been rifled through. He told himself it was exhaustion, a coincidence. He told himself a lot of things, because the alternative, that something inside him was doing this, was far less reasonable.

He hadn’t been sleeping properly for weeks. His mind was a revolving door of lesson plans, grading sheets, and stacked essays. His students were in midterm season, his colleagues were irritable, and the only thing that broke the monotony was his own exhaustion. Every night he came home later, every morning he woke up earlier, and sometimes when he caught himself staring too long at his reflection, he barely recognized the man standing there.

He inspected the box. It was heavier than it looked. He weighed it in his hands, tilting it side to side, listening for any sound. Its silence felt deliberate, almost smug. He stared out at the water. The tide was low, the sea flat as glass, reflecting the dull light of the overcast sky. The edge of the world looked close enough to touch.

He could throw it now.

He could end this absurd ritual.

But what if it washed back to shore? What if someone else found it? What would he even say if anyone saw him?

The thought alone made him grimace. He exhaled sharply, the air leaving him in a visible puff. The wind changed direction, carrying the faint smell of the cafeteria from somewhere inland. He took it as a sign.

No. Not here. Not like this.

A soft laugh escaped him, unsteady, humorless. What kind of grown man came to the sea to talk himself out of throwing away a box? He ran a hand down his face, pressing his thumb against the hollow of his eye until lights sparked behind it. Then, slowly, he shoved the box into his bag.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered, half to the wind. “I’m absolutely ridiculous.”

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

During the late afternoon, the classroom had turned into something less like a learning space and more like a holding pen for fatigue. The windows cast long shadows across the scuffed floors; dust moved in the air like ash, visible only when the light caught it.  Juhoon picked up a marker anyway. His handwriting was quick, deliberate, all downward slant and pressure. He wrote it the way he always did, like someone setting a boundary.

APRIL IS THE CRUELLEST MONTH.

He didn’t offer context, not at first. The silence enveloped it, thick and humid. A few students looked up. A few didn’t. One girl near the window had fallen asleep with her head tucked into her scarf. Someone’s phone buzzed and was swiftly silenced. He turned, leaned against the desk, and crossed his arms.

“You don’t open a poem with a line like that unless you mean it,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. “Unless something in you needs to name it.”

He let the silence stretch again. He preferred it that way, the quiet where thinking lived.

“The Waste Land is not a kind poem,” he added. “It doesn’t offer comfort. It offers truth or something near it.”

In the back row, James groaned – not loud, just enough to be heard. “Didn’t we discuss this a few weeks ago?”

He flipped open his notebook with theatrical despair and began writing anyway:

april. april. april.

He underlined it twice and then boxed it. He scribbled a question mark beside it, as though he were filing a complaint. Juhoon glanced at him once, then looked away.

After class, the room emptied in the slow, defeated rhythm that only came with midterms. Students shuffled out like loose change. The girl with the scarf barely woke up. Papers were left behind.  Only James lingered, backpack hanging from one shoulder, wired earphones looped around his neck. He loitered the way students did when they were stalling for something – not approval, not quite. Recognition, maybe. He caught up to Juhoon halfway down the stairs.

“Okay,” he said. “So I have to ask.”

Juhoon didn’t stop walking. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” James said, jogging a step to match his pace. “Why April?”

Juhoon raised an eyebrow.

“I mean,” James continued, “You’ve had us reading that piece for, like, weeks now. You never unpack it. You just say Eliot meant it and move on. So? What’s up with that?”

Juhoon exhaled through his nose, just shy of laughter. “April’s a metaphor.”

“Sure,” James said. “But it also feels like something you have beef with.”

They passed under the arch that connected the Humanities Building to the east courtyard. The stone was still warm from the sun, radiating heat. Around them, the campus breathed slowly – student council kids hammering posters into boards, a lone guitarist strumming something melancholy on the benches.

“It’s spring. The month when things pretend to begin,” Juhoon said finally. “When the weather gets warm again. When everything’s trying to regrow.” He looked straight ahead, not at James. “But it’s all fake. The soil’s still cold underneath. The sun’s still thin. And half the time, the things that bloom just wither again.”

James was quiet for a beat too long.

Then, softly, he said, “Damn. That’s dark.”

Juhoon gave a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s poetry. It doesn’t owe you optimism.”

James let out a low laugh. “God, you’re such a film guy.”

“That supposed to be an insult?”

“It’s a compliment. Film people ruin everything with meaning. I love it.”

Juhoon shook his head, but his mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile. They walked in easy silence for a few more paces. Then James spoke again, quieter this time. “You know, I think you might be the first person who ever made me like poetry.” Juhoon looked over. James didn’t meet his gaze – just scratched the back of his neck, eyes fixed ahead. “I mean it. You don’t talk like other teachers. You don’t try to decode everything like we’re all idiots. You let us sit with the hard parts. You don’t wrap things up.”

“I don’t believe in neat endings,” Juhoon said.

James nodded. “Yeah. That’s the part I like. The way you leave space. Like in film. That thing you said last week? That editing is just a matter of memory with intention? I haven’t stopped thinking about that.”

Juhoon’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. A soft shadow passed through his eyes, like something had flickered behind the glass.

Memory with intention.

God help him. He couldn’t even remember what was real anymore.

“You’re a good student,” he said, eventually. “You ask better questions than you realize.”

James glanced over at him, looking surprised. Maybe even flustered, though he’d never admit it. “Thanks, sir.”

The wind picked up as they crossed the walkway toward the clubroom, sending leaves skittering across the flagstones. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The door loomed ahead, slightly ajar.

Inside, Seonghyeon had made himself at home. He was lying belly-up across the beanbag chair, one arm thrown dramatically over his face, the other clutching a bag of chips like a life support system.

“You’re late!” he announced the moment they entered, voice echoing off the linoleum. “Ten minutes! I’ve been decaying in this room like an unedited B-roll.”

Juhoon’s brow lifted – then, to everyone’s surprise, he laughed. Not a polite chuckle, not the tight exhale of a man playing teacher, but a quick, startled sound that cracked the air open. It was brief, but it was real.

James blinked. He didn’t realize until later that the sound made something twist faintly in his chest – something small and inexplicable. At the time, he only knew that he wanted to be the one who made Professor Juhoon laugh like that. He felt ridiculous for thinking it.

“Wow,” he muttered. “He laughs at your jokes? Unbelievable.”

Seonghyeon grinned. “Talent, my friend. Can’t be taught.”

“Neither can humility,” James said dryly, kicking the door shut.

They set up for the day’s critique. Juhoon sat on the edge of the desk, posture loose but eyes alert. The flicker of the screen danced across his face as the boys queued up their short sequences.

James went first – a five-cut video that had clearly taken him too long, each frame meticulous, every transition deliberate. It was nothing groundbreaking, but it was good. When it ended, Juhoon spoke after a pause. “You understand rhythm,” he said, tone even. “But don’t forget imperfection is what makes a frame breathe. Too clean and it starts to suffocate.”

James nodded. “Right. Got it.”

Juhoon’s mouth twitched. “Good.”

Then came Seonghyeon. The screen flashed: a mango, a mirror, a door that slammed too hard, too early, cutting the sound in half.

Juhoon blinked. “Explain.”

“Artistic expression,” Seonghyeon said solemnly. “A metaphor for lost youth.”

James groaned. “You dropped the mango, didn’t you?”

“It’s called found realism.”

Juhoon exhaled through his nose, half-smiling despite himself. “Found something, at least.”

The laughter that followed was easy and warm, filling the room until even Juhoon’s tiredness seemed to soften for a moment. Just as it began to fade, Seonghyeon suddenly sat up straight. His eyes lit up with mischief. “Wait! We almost forgot.”

He shot to his feet, crumbs scattering from his hoodie, and darted toward the cabinet in the corner – the old one that had been left untouched since their rummage last week.

Juhoon frowned. “Forgot what?”

“You’ll see,” Seonghyeon said, kneeling down. The cabinet door resisted for a moment before giving way with a groan. “We found this last Saturday while editing. Well, while pretending to edit. You won’t believe it.”

Juhoon felt his stomach twist before he even saw what it was. His hands, resting loosely on his knees, went still.

“What did you find?” His tone was careful, too calm.

“History,” Seonghyeon said triumphantly, pulling out the old box, and inside, a battered photo album and a folder thick with old papers. “The old Saint Elys Film Club. Like, old-old. We found reels, photos, and even printed club posters. It’s crazy.”

James straightened. “There were so many of them a decade ago. Eighteen? Maybe more. They had matching jackets and lots of gear. They looked like a legit production team.”

Juhoon’s fingers curled in on themselves. “Let’s see it,” he said.

They gathered around the table, the three of them leaning in close as Seonghyeon opened the album. The smell hit first — the soft, rotting scent of aged paper, the faint metallic trace of developer fluid. The pages stuck slightly when turned, each one revealing a window into a different time: the old room, cleaner, brighter; a wall plastered with film festival posters; handwritten notes in the margins of storyboards.

“2009,” Seonghyeon murmured, tracing a finger across a photo. “Wow, they looked so put together.”

James pointed to another image. “Damn, look at that camcorder.”

Juhoon forced a smile. His breath came shorter.

They reached 2011.

A single, full-page photo with the chapel steps, framed in sunlight. Eighteen students, arranged in imperfect rows, half of them mid-laugh. The shot was alive, unposed, almost cinematic in its mayhem.

James leaned closer. “That’s where we shoot our intro reels, right? The same spot.”

“Yeah,” Seonghyeon said. “Exact same framing. Holy crap, look at them! They look like a real club.”

Juhoon didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He stared at the photograph, his eyes searching every face, every tilt of the camera, every corner of light. His pulse thudded in his ears.

He wasn’t there.

That wasn’t possible, right? He had been in the club that year. He remembered the meetings, the schedules, the screenings. He remembered sitting on those steps. Or maybe he didn’t. His mind reached for the memory and came up empty.

Right. He had been sick that day. That was it. He had been sick. He nodded to himself, too quickly, as if agreeing with an invisible voice. 

“2011 was stacked,” James said. “They probably had screenings, maybe even competed.”

Juhoon swallowed, his throat painfully tight. “Probably.”

Seonghyeon flipped to the next page. 2012. The boys fell silent.

There were no faces this time. No laughter, no captions, no handwritten notes. Just three photographs. “That’s it,” James said, frowning. “Nothing else,” Seonghyeon said. “It just stops there.”

Juhoon’s blood turned to ice. He could feel his heartbeat in his palms. The edges of his vision were beginning to blur. He reached for a paper on the desk, anything to occupy his hands.

“Maybe they lost funding,” he said, too lightly. “Clubs end for all sorts of reasons. Graduations or administration changes. People lose interest.”

James raised a brow. “You’d think someone would’ve written about it, though. Like, at least a mention in the school paper.”

“Or maybe they got caught doing something dumb,” Seonghyeon said. “You know, like sneaking into the chapel after hours. I’d shut that down too.”

Juhoon forced a laugh. It came out brittle. “Possible.”

He realized too late that he was sweating. A thin sheen along his temples, down the back of his neck.

Seonghyeon’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Prof, you okay?”

Juhoon turned, his smile a fraction too sharp. “Just tired.”

James snorted. “Classic teacher excuse.”

“Overworked,” Seonghyeon added, grinning. “Mostly underpaid. Probably haunted.”

Juhoon blinked. “What?”

“By deadlines,” Seonghyeon said, laughing. “Midterms are evil.”

Juhoon exhaled a small, shaky laugh. “Right. Deadlines.”

James bent over the album again, teasing Seonghyeon about the 2010 haircuts; Seonghyeon was laughing too loudly, crumbs clinging to his sleeve, and Juhoon sat motionless in his chair, heart still beating fast. Why was he even nervous? There was technically no need to be, right? As he was about to walk over to the boys and call it a day, he shifted his gaze and saw a flicker of light along the desk.

The April 2012 box was sitting neatly beside his bag.

He stared at it, disbelieving. His brain refused to connect the dots. He had put it inside his bag earlier that afternoon – he remembered the weight of it, the dull scrape of cardboard against his laptop, the way the corner had jabbed into his thigh as he’d carried it across campus. He remembered deciding, very clearly, to keep it out of sight.

So how the hell was it sitting there now?

He hadn’t taken it out. Had he?

Juhoon blinked. Once, twice, a third time, but it didn’t vanish. The box sat innocently on the desk, its lid slightly ajar, with the old black marker scrawl "APRIL 2012" faint but unmistakable.

His pulse climbed slowly up his throat. Maybe he had taken it out. Maybe in the rush of unpacking – the papers, the folders, the endless movement between classes – he had forgotten. Yes. That was it. He was tired. He was running on caffeine and muscle memory.

Except…no. No, he hadn’t.

The realization landed in him like a bruise. He reached for a marker and toyed with it, forced his tone into casual indifference. “So,” he said, too brightly, “lighting. Remember what I said about using natural sources? It’s easy to overexpose your shot –”

Seonghyeon blinked, mid-sentence. “Huh?”

“Your hallway scene,” Juhoon said quickly, nodding at James. “Natural light’s tricky. You think it’s helping until it washes your subject. Next time, adjust your white balance.”

James, who has now broken up from Seonghyeon’s photo album prod, looked up from his phone. “Yeah. Sure.”

For a moment, changing the topic worked. The conversation flowed, the box remained unseen.

“Wait,” Seonghyeon said suddenly, squinting. “Is that –”

Juhoon’s stomach dropped. 

“Isn’t that the same box?” Seonghyeon pointed to the box.

Juhoon’s mouth went dry. “Which box?”

“The one we found way back when we were cleaning the old clubroom!” Seonghyeon said. “Seems like it came from forever ago.” He said as he came closer to the box.

Juhoon forced a laugh, the sound breaking halfway out of his chest. “Oh. Right. I was, uh, archiving it. Some of the film reels were fragile and required humidity control to prevent damage. It’s a preservation thing.”

Seonghyeon nodded absently, already leaning closer. “Cool. You said you’d store it in your place?”

“Yes,” Juhoon said too fast. “Yes, I did. I just brought it today to, ah – catalogue some of the contents.”

He was talking to fill the air, to stop thinking. The words barely made sense.

From across him, James pocketed his phone. “I’ve got to go. ADS meeting.” Seonghyeon moved his attention from the box and looked at James. Juhoon was mildly relieved. He thought of snatching the box quickly and returning it to his bag. But it was too risky. 

“What? How about me?” Seonghyeon said, fully turning to James now. 

Yes, please leave too, Juhoon thought. Fingers crossed in his head.

“Officers only. Sorry, bro,” James replied. He grabbed his things and looked at Seonghyeon. “Don’t break anything.”

“I’m not you,” Seonghyeon said.

James grinned at Juhoon. “Good luck surviving him.” He quickly left, the door clicking softly behind him. The quiet that followed felt wrong.

Seonghyeon turned back, already grinning. “Can I –”

“No,” Juhoon said automatically.

“Just a peek,” Seonghyeon teased.

“I don’t think –”

But the boy was already lifting the lid. Juhoon’s pulse spiked, breath catching. “Careful,” he said sharply. “That box –”

“Relax, Prof,” Seonghyeon said, laughing. “It’s just – whoa. Are these VHS tapes? And actual film rolls? God, this is ancient.”

“Put it down,” Juhoon said. He tried to keep his tone even, but it came out brittle, too thin around the edges.

Seonghyeon ignored him. “This is insane. Look at this handwriting. ‘Test footage: April.’ Holy crap.”

Juhoon’s stomach turned.

He wanted to take the box, to grab it, to end this, but that would look worse. He stood frozen, one hand gripping the desk behind him as if it could anchor him to the present.

“Hey,” Seonghyeon said suddenly, eyes lighting up, “remember that busted VHS player in the old clubroom? I fixed it last week. We can actually watch these.”

“Seonghyeon –”

But the boy was already crouched on the floor, wires clattering. “Let’s see what was being filmed. I bet it’s some cool project.”

“It’s not.”

“How do you know?”

“I –” Juhoon stopped himself. His voice had become too sharp, too knowing.

He forced his shoulders to relax. “I mean, those tapes are probably blank or degraded. Don’t waste your time.”

“Relax, Prof,” Seonghyeon said again, sliding the tape into the slot. “I’ll eject if it explodes.”

The machine whirred to life, its gears coughing after years of silence. The projector light flickered, a dull blue glow filling the room.

Static bloomed across the screen. Then, slowly, the image formed: a coastline, blurred and trembling, the horizon a fractured line between gray sky and darker water.

Someone was filming handheld, the lens drifting between focus and blur. The sound of the wind roared through the mic. “Wow,” Seonghyeon breathed. “This is actually gorgeous. Look at that texture.”

Juhoon’s stomach clenched.

He could hear his pulse, loud and uneven, drowning out the tape’s sound. His own breathing sounded foreign.

The camera swayed again. A voice entered, sounding faint and familiar. The cameraman spoke, laughter overlapping with wind. The person turned halfway – only the edge of a profile was visible. 

Juhoon’s skin went cold. Seonghyeon leaned forward. “Do you hear that? The voice?”

“Distortion,” Juhoon said quickly. “Probably mic feedback.”

Juhoon told himself there was nothing to hide, and yet his hands continued to shake.

He stood behind Seonghyeon, trying to look casual, the faint blue glow of the screen washing over both of them. His pulse was steady in his neck, too loud in his ears. The boy was crouched by the player, elbows on his knees, completely absorbed – his laughter soft and easy, like none of this was strange at all.

There’s nothing to hide, Juhoon thought again. There’s no reason to be nervous. They’re just tapes. That’s all.

But even as he repeated it, something in him recoiled because he didn’t know what was on those tapes, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The screen flickered again – a flash of coastline, the faint roar of wind caught in the mic, then a cut to someone’s back. A boy. Tall, shoulders squared, hair catching the light in a brownish gold. He was standing on the edge of the cliff, talking to whoever was behind the camera.

 Seonghyeon whistled. “Damn, look at this guy. Look at his haircut!”

Juhoon forced a smile, though his stomach tightened at the sight. The image felt like something pulled out of a half-remembered dream – familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.

He squinted at the figure, trying to remember.

Who was that again?

The name hovered at the back of his mind, ghostlike. He could almost hear it being spoken – a laugh, a voice, an echo of old banter.

Martin. Martin Edwards.

Of course. How could he forget?

The thought hit him like nausea. He remembered the way Martin used to fill a room without even trying. He was loud, magnetic, all sharp edges and golden light. Everything he touched seemed to burn a little brighter. Juhoon had been drawn to him once. Like orbiting something enchanting, the kind of brilliance that left afterimages when you looked too long.

He hadn’t thought of Martin in years, not properly. The memory made his throat close.

“Who is this guy?” Seonghyeon was saying. “He’s posing like he owns the place.”

Seonghyeoon nailed that one. Juhoon had always hated how Martin made things look easy. How he walked into a room like he was the king of the world. 

Juhoon exhaled slowly. “No idea,” he murmured before he could stop himself. 

A lie. He knew him very well.

The tape continued. The camera shifted, panning clumsily between frames – the cliffs, the sea, Martin’s laughter caught in the wind, the faint shape of another figure just outside the frame.

Juhoon could feel his mouth go dry. He didn’t remember this shoot. Not this angle, not this moment. Maybe he had forced himself to forget.

You’re overreacting, he told himself.

“Man,” Seonghyeon said, grinning, “they had style. Look at that jacket. Is that vintage leather? I’d kill for that look.”

Juhoon half-laughed, though it came out closer to a sigh. His nerves were so taut he could feel the tremor in his fingertips. The image cut again, an abrupt lurch of motion, as if the cameraman had turned too fast. The horizon swung sideways. And then, with unnerving precision, the camera caught focus.

A boy entered the frame. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie askew, the sun painting into the strands of his long, dark brown hair. He looked directly at the camera, mid-laugh, unguarded and bright. 

Juhoon felt his throat close.

It was him. A younger version, undeniably so, alive in a way he no longer was, smiling in a way that felt buoyant. His own laugh cracked through the static, echoing through the room like it had been waiting all this time. He sounded so different, so juvenile.

Panic surged in his chest.

Just in time, Seonghyeon turned his back from the screen and faced him fully, oblivious to the screen. Juhoon’s heart jumped as he was milliseconds away from being seen. 

“You know,” Seonghyeon said, as the screen displayed Juhoon’s tiny frame, the cameraman coming towards him, “there were more of them than I thought. Like actual members. In this clip, someone had a name badge, too. I think it said ‘Edwards’? You can tell they were organized, like really organized. But weirdly, none of them were in that album we found.”

Don’t turn back. Don’t look. Just stay with me. Please, please –

Juhoon forced a chuckle, desperate to keep the boy’s eyes on him.

“Feels like they were wiped out,” Seonghyeon went on, casually. “No names, no records, no full roster. Just gone like someone deleted them.”

Keep talking. Keep talking.

“That’s not uncommon,” Juhoon said, voice rising slightly with false interest. “Clubs die out all the time. Disorganization. Budget cuts.” As he spoke, he watched the screen over Seonghyeon’s shoulder.

Seonghyeon huffed. “Nah, this one feels different.”

Juhoon’s fingers curled into his palm. The camera shifted just in time.

Thank God.

It swerved, sudden and clumsy, spinning away from the boy and back to the horizon. The ocean flooded the frame, white-capped and harmless. The laugh vanished into the wind.

Juhoon exhaled.

Seonghyeon, oblivious about what just occurred, turned around again and tapped the VHS player. “Should I rewind it a bit? I think there was a cool shot –”

Damn it.

“No, no need,” Juhoon said smoothly. “The reels are fragile. Let’s not risk it.”

“Huh. Fair,” Seonghyeon said. He turned his attention back to the player, fiddling with the eject. “This stuff’s gold, though. Can’t believe it was just sitting here.”

Juhoon nodded, mouth dry. “Yeah.”

His smile was tight. “Some things are better off buried.”

But Seonghyeon wasn’t listening. He was busy cleaning up the setup and arranging the tapes back into the box. “Hey, prof – can I borrow the tapes?”

Juhoon blinked. “What?”

Seonghyeon leaned back, tapping the box now shut but still looming like an open secret. “Just for the weekend. I wanna comb through them.”

Juhoon turned his full attention to the boy, his voice measured. “Why?”

“For our ADS trial. We’re building the case from scratch – our mock trial topic’s about why the Saint Elys Film Club got shut down before.” His eyes lit up, full of something dangerously close to conviction. “And this box? It’s perfect. It can be a primary source. The records indicate that there is not much beyond 2011, but here comes a box full of footage from 2012. After that, nada.”

Juhoon hesitated. Then with a thin, polite smile, he said, “That’s ambitious.”

“It’s fun,” Seonghyeon shrugged.

“Also highly speculative,” Juhoon replied, tone clipped, careful. “You’re constructing a case on hearsay and old footage with no clear thesis. It’s flimsy.”

“But it won’t be.” Seonghyeon pulled out his notebook – half dog-eared, ink-smudged, filled with diagrams and color-coded post-its. “There’s a pattern to how clubs are documented here. Minutes, rosters, reports – except this one? Gaps everywhere. No full list of members, no photos in the yearbooks, no coverage in the newsletter after March.”

He flipped to a sketch of a timeline. “Then there’s that box. April 2012.”

Juhoon crossed his arms. “You’re drawing conclusions from absence.”

“No, I’m asking why the absence exists in the first place.”

That silenced Juhoon, if only briefly. Juhoon’s mind ticked like a metronome – measuring risk, estimating control. He tried to reach for neutrality again, that tone of adult distance, but even he could hear the slight crack in it. 

“Clubs fizzle out all the time,” he said. “Not every closed door hides something.”

Seonghyeon shrugged. “Sure. But this one left fingerprints.”

He tapped the VHS tape still warm in the player. “There’s a guy in the clip we just saw. Name badge said Edwards. He was clearly a member. Think he was president or something?”

Martin. Of course, it would be him.

Martin with the swagger and the slouched grin.

Martin, with the lens always turned to him, always talking like he was already in the script.

Martin, who could talk anyone into a corner – including Juhoon.

Martin, who – 

“I don’t know,” Juhoon said flatly. 

Seonghyeon raised a brow, unconvinced, but let it go.

Juhoon forced the next words out smoothly. “Even if you did trace something interesting, you’re still dealing with deteriorating media. These reels weren’t stored properly. They’re fragile. And analog footage, especially amateur analog, has no guarantee of context. You’re interpreting fragments.”

“Which is what trials do,” Seonghyeon said, annoyingly cheerful. “Interpret the fragments.”

Juhoon opened his mouth, then closed it.

God. He was just like Martin.

That same bounce in logic. That same tenacity. The thrill of the chase without thought for consequence. The past was clawing its way back in through a different mouth.

He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Look. I’m not saying no. I’m saying, let me digitize them first for preservation. Then you can have your copies. Deal?”

Seonghyeon paused. Then grinned. “Fair enough. I knew you’d get it.”

“Get what?”

“The thrill of uncovering something buried.”

Juhoon said nothing. The boy gathered his things, humming. “Man, I can’t wait to tell James. He’s gonna lose it when he sees this footage. Especially that Edwards guy – he’s got main character energy.”

Juhoon flinched so slightly it barely registered. “Don’t hype him too much,” he said under his breath. “He’d love that.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Seonghyeon offered a two-finger salute and made for the door. “Thanks, Prof. You’re kinda cooler than you look.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Juhoon remained perfectly still. Then, slowly, he turned back to the VHS player. The tape had stopped, but the screen still buzzed faintly, a pulse of white noise bleeding across the frame.

That name again.

Edwards.

It lingered like a wound reopened. Foul in the mouth. Sharp in the chest.

Some eager, sharp-tongued kid was stitching together a trial from ash and ghosts and playing detective with fragments he didn’t understand. Peeling back layers Juhoon had buried so deep, even he could barely remember where they ended and began.

He stepped back from the screen as if the flicker might bite.

Fine. Let them dig, if they must. Let them mistake shadows for story.

But they’d better pray the tapes stayed incomplete because Juhoon felt like he knew exactly what came next.

And some footage should never be played.

Chapter Text

Inside a small diner on Carrillo Street, the boys were hunched in their usual corner booth, their elbows grazing, papers spilling into ketchup smears. The table was a battlefield of pens, receipts, half-sketched shot lists, and one pencil-stained sketchpad featuring a stick-figure ghost with teeth.

The smell of grease clung to the vinyl booths. It coated the walls, the menus, even the light – that exhausted hour of late afternoon when the world turned hazy. Outside, the coastal sky had begun its descent into pink, bleeding soft pastel streaks across the windows. 

Martin spoke with the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts. 

"Okay, but listen. What if we start super dry? Like deadpan and academic. Static frame, girl with braces talking about sea curses like it's a science fair. Then, slowly – slowly –  it starts coming apart. The interviews contradict each other. Weird background noise starts creeping in. The mic glitches. Someone cries. The ocean becomes a character. It's subtle. It's unnerving. It's visionary!" 

He paused to breathe. His pen had already ruptured through the page like it was trying to escape. The paper was soaked, bleeding ink in jagged circles. His fingers moved as if they were orchestrating divine madness.

Across from him, Juhoon looked up like he was regretting every life choice that led him to this moment. "You used the phrase' saltwater epiphany' twice," he said, voice clipped, like he was reading a medical diagnosis. "And this line where the 'ocean glints like it's grinning at the camera' – I'm sorry, are you okay? Did you open Wattpad or something?"

Martin blinked. "It's called imagery, you dumbass."

"It's called fanfiction," Juhoon muttered, uncapping his pen and immediately beginning to redact the page like he was declassifying CIA documents.

"Wow," Martin said. "Do you talk to your mom with that mouth?"

"No," Juhoon replied, not even glancing up. "But she also didn't name me Martin and expect humility."

Martin put a hand to his chest like he'd been shot. "That's rich coming from you, Jju. God forbid we have a tone."

"It's a mockumentary," Juhoon said, dry as dead leaves. "Not The Shining. You're not Stanley Kubrick. You're a seventeen-year-old with a cracked phone and no backup files."

Martin froze mid-sentence, lips parting like he had a rebuttal. None came. His mouth closed again.

Keonho paused mid-sketch and let out a snort so loud it echoed. He folded into his hoodie like a collapsing tent, wheezing. His pencil dropped to the floor. "No 'cause that phone really be held together by prayers –"

Martin turned, slack-jawed. "Excuse me –"

"– and stupid tape," Keonho added, wheezing harder.

Martin slammed his pen down. "I'm surrounded by idiots."

He squinted his eyes at the two boys like he was trying to melt them with his mind. "You guys are so annoying," he muttered. "I hope your mic explodes mid-recording."

Juhoon didn't even flinch. "Okay, Kubrick."

This earned another wheeze from Keonho. He was losing it. Martin visibly clenched his jaw to keep from laughing. His mouth twitched. He pointed a very threatening highlighter at Juhoon. "Watch yourself."

He turned toward Keonho, narrowing his eyes. "What the hell are you even drawing?"

Keonho grinned and spun his notebook around. "You."

It was a horrifying stick figure: jagged hair, wild eyes, steam jets out of his ears, and a tiny label underneath: 'martin. do not feed.'

Martin stared as if it had cursed his bloodline. "I look like an overworked parrot."

"Art imitates life," Keonho shrugged.

"You're both lucky I'm the soul of this operation," Martin muttered. "Otherwise this would be a sad little PowerPoint with voiceovers recorded on a Nokia."

"Oh my god," Juhoon muttered. "You're insufferable."

"But," Martin said, gesturing to the messy pile of film club papers like it was a renaissance painting, "you still show up either way."

"Because if I don't," Juhoon said, "this turns into a student film where the ghost is a metaphor for puberty."

"That's kind of powerful, actually," Keonho said thoughtfully.

"Don't encourage him," Juhoon and Martin said at the same time.

There was a brief pause. Martin opened his mouth to fire back, probably to defend his creative integrity or suggest another overworked metaphor, but the kitchen bell rang before he could finish.

"Keonho!" A woman's voice carried easily over the clatter of plates and the hiss of the fryer. The boys turned at once.

Behind the counter stood Keonho's mom, framed by steam and fluorescent light. Her apron was creased, and her red kerchief was tied neatly over the escaping strands of her black hair. One hand balanced a tray stacked high with food; the other flicked a towel at the cook behind her. She was all motion and command, but when she saw the boys, her face broke open in a grin.

"There you are. I told them not to burn the fries this time," she said, marching over. "And you –" she aimed her tongs at Martin, "– eat properly today, okay? I got you your favorite lasagna. You're getting skinny again."

Martin gave her a cheeky grin. "Yes, ma'am."

She set down the tray. "Finish everything. I can see your ribs from here."

Her gaze softened as it landed on Juhoon. She reached out, brushing the hair off his forehead the way she might her own son's.

"Juhoon dear, you're paler every week. What is your housekeeper feeding you in that rich‑people neighborhood? I'll let Keonho bring you guys lots of banchan next time."

Juhoon ducked his head, trying and failing not to smile. "You don't have to, Auntie."

"I want to," she said. "You kids work too hard. And you –" she turned to her son, "– don't think I forgot about swim practice. Coach texted me; you skipped warm‑ups again."

"I had editing duty!" Keonho protested.

"Editing won't get you a slot in college," she shot back, though her tone was more fond than scolding. "If your grades drop, you'll be helping me wipe tables here for the rest of your life, understand?"

"Already do," he said under his breath, grinning. She gave him a look that was half‑warning, half‑affection, then turned back to the other two. "You see what I live with? Pray for me, boys."

She winked, collected an empty tray from the next booth, and disappeared into the kitchen, still calling orders in Korean. Keonho relaxed back into the booth, balancing a plate of fries like a ceremonial offering. He looked more relaxed now, like a hoodie finally unwrinkled. "She's like that with everyone," he said, tearing open a ketchup packet. "You should see her at church potlucks. Has a whole spreadsheet system for who brings what. People fear her."

Martin exhaled like he'd survived a small storm. "I love her. She terrifies me."

"Same thing," Juhoon said.

Keonho smiled into his fries. "She's been doing double shifts again. Diner's short‑staffed, so she closes most nights now. But she says it keeps her awake enough to watch the late‑night talk shows."

He nudged Martin. "You guys should come help my dad at the marina next weekend. He said we're gonna help him do boat repairs, real sea stuff. He'll feed you after."

"I've never fixed a boat in my life," Martin said.

"Perfect," Keonho replied. "He likes clueless volunteers. They're easier to boss around."

Juhoon arched a brow. "He'll drop a wrench in the sea in the first five minutes."

"That's why we need you," Keonho said. "To supervise this idiot."

Martin kicked him under the table. They laughed loudly. Between them, the plates steamed like offerings. Fries vanished by the handful.

On the table, a phone buzzed. Juhoon glanced at the screen: Mom.

He didn't move. Across from him, Martin noticed and said nothing. He drummed his fingers softly and absent-mindedly, as if acknowledging the moment without drawing attention to it.

"She's probably just checking if I fed the turtles," Juhoon said. The tone was casual, but something in his mouth tightened on the word probably like he wasn't sure she'd remember if they even had pet turtles at all.

Keonho looked up from his fries. "She knows you're here?"

"Doubt it." Juhoon's fingers grabbed and folded the napkin beside him. Half, then in half again. "We're not really on the same time zone."

"Figuratively or literally?"

"Both."

That was the most he would say about it. Juhoon rarely spoke about his family. He mentioned them the way you might mention a utility bill – like a line item or a background hum. But Martin and Keonho had picked up the details over time. His parents worked in tech, both too successful for their own good. His father lived half the week in Palo Alto; his mother flies in and out of the country. 

Their house, Juhoon once joked, had four bedrooms, three bathrooms, two pet turtles, one teenager, and zero conversation. He never said it with bitterness, but instead with resignation, as if that was the shape his world had always been, and reshaping it would only crack the glass.

Martin, for once, didn't try to fill the silence. He stabbed at his lasagna instead, chewing like he had something to prove. Then, voice quieter, not quite sardonic, he spoke. "My mom's been on her ballerina kick again." 

The others looked up.

"Both my sisters had a recital last month," Martin continued. "Standing ovation, roses, actual tears from some lady in the front row. Meanwhile, I come home with a regional math trophy and get a 'That's nice, sweetheart' while she's helping my sisters break their pointe shoes."

Keonho winced, then offered an apologetic, sweet smile. "That's still pretty good, though."

Martin snorted. "She thought the medal was a coaster. Said next time I should at least smile onstage. I was solving integrals, not pirouetting."

"Honestly, kind of iconic," Juhoon murmured.

Martin shrugged, but the gesture wasn't as careless as he made it seem. His mom had been a prima ballerina in Vancouver before settling here in Santa Barbara. Every photo of her still felt like a performance – hair perfect, shoulders back, and chin lifted. She loved Martin; he knew that, but she loved achievement more especially the form that she understood – with grace, and applause. Martin, with his abstract projects and film edits, didn't quite fit into that picture.

"She says I'm too cerebral," he added, almost as an afterthought. "Thinks I should do more with my hands like Dad, who builds roads and bridges for a living. I told her I literally built a DIY dolly. She wasn't impressed."

That made Keonho suddenly laugh loudly, from the belly. "You are kind of a nerd."

"And you're a swimmer who almost drowned in his own bathtub," Martin shot back.

"It was one time," Keonho said, grinning. "And I had the flu."

The boys broke out in a chorus of laughter. 

Martin shrugged, but there was a small, self‑conscious smile in it. "I guess everyone's the favorite somewhere."

"Not me," Keonho said. "My mom loves whoever brings her free pie."

"Then I'm absolutely winning," Juhoon said. Their laughter cracked open something warm again. The exhaustion slipped a little from their shoulders. For a moment, they were just three boys in a booth, elbow-deep in food and inside jokes.

Then, softer, almost like confessing to the table instead of them, Keonho spoke.

"If my GPA drops, I lose the scholarship." 

The others stilled. They had always known how Keonho got into Saint Elys, but no one is quite sure how to receive what he just said.

"My swimming varsity spot is what keeps it secure, right?" he continued. "It's merit-based, but that just means: keep up, or you're out. Sometimes I feel like I'm training more to stay at Saint Elys than to actually win anything." He reached for a fry but eventually saw that it was already consumed. He let his hand drop. 

He didn't go into the rest. The late-night practices, the crammed bus rides from their apartment in Goleta, the way his mom never said no when he asked for new goggles, even if it meant skipping groceries that week. He didn't explain how much rent took from their budget, or how often his dad came home with seawater still in his shoes. He didn't have to. It was all there. In the way he sat – straighter now, not out of pride, but out of habit like his body remembered what it meant to prove himself.

Martin blinked once, then leaned back slowly in his seat. He fiddles with his pen, eyes on the mess of pages between them. He wanted to say something light. That was always his instinct – a joke or a half-sharp comment. But nothing came this time, nothing that didn't feel too easy.

Martin was accustomed to ambition – accustomed to pressure, but not the kind that threatened to take things away. His pressure came from expectation, not survival. His parents expected excellence, too, but with a silk-lined net waiting beneath every misstep. If Martin failed, someone would catch him. If Keonho did, there'd be nothing but the concrete below. 

Then there was Juhoon. He hadn't looked up since Keonho spoke. His fingers rested still against the napkin he was fidgeting on, unmoving. He hadn't known that about the scholarship. He'd known Keonho worked hard; that was obvious. You couldn't be in three AP classes, swim varsity, shoot footage until midnight, and still joke through it all unless you were surviving something. 

But he hadn't understood it was this. It made something slow and sour curl inside Juhoon's stomach.

Juhoon had never worried about tuition. Never had to train at dawn or memorize formulas for fear of being replaced. His parents paid for private school, like they were just paying for Wi-Fi. He could skip meals, skip class, disappear for a day, and no one would call. No one would say, "If you don't show up, you're out." There had never been a deadline attached to his existence. No benchmark determines whether he gets to keep belonging.

Juhoon could feel something small and biting deep inside him. Because despite everything – the stress, the noise, the impossible balance – Keonho was good, stupidly good. He worked fast, clean, and emotionally precise – always knew when to cut to silence or let a shot breathe. He could color-correct in his sleep. His timing was cinematic without ever being pretentious. He was a crowd favorite; everybody admired him. And worst of all, he made it look effortless.

He wasn't performing. He just was. And the world, somehow, made space for that.

Juhoon had spent seventeen years building his own space inch by inch. He, who built everything slowly, who obsessed over composition and frame lines until his fingers ached, couldn't help but notice it. And sometimes, in his most quiet moments, he couldn't help but measure himself against it.

He glanced at Martin. The kid was all flash, rhythm, and fire, talking like he was already famous, dragging everyone into his gravity whether they wanted to be there or not. Juhoon liked Martin in theory, most days. But sometimes, like now, when Martin sat still for too long, when he looked at Keonho with that sharp edge of purpose – something in Juhoon bristled.

Keonho spoke again, lighter this time, like he was shifting the weight from one shoulder to the other. 

"I mean… who knows," he said, offering a tired half-smile. "If we actually pull this off, the winner from the festival gets streamed, right? And the internship program at Silverlight includes the winners in their shortlist."

Juhoon looked up then, slowly. Keonho was referring to the Silverlight Youth Film Conservatory internship program. Everyone in film circles knew it: ten students picked out of hundreds of nationwide entries, handpicked from shortlists built off festivals like the one they were submitting to. It was the program that funneled its kids into USC, UCLA, AFI – like a quiet promise that you were going to make it.

Martin, of course, echoed in, drumming his pen once against the open notebook. "Then we win," he said. "Simple as that."

His confident grin flickered across the table like a spark. The same grin he wore when arguing with teachers, when bluffing through a shoot with no permits, when stepping onto a stage he hadn't rehearsed for. But Keonho's didn't match his. 

Martin always meant it. That kind of promise was just the water he swam in – declarations with no weight on the back end. For Martin, pressure was a stage cue, something to rise to. For Keonho, it was gravity. It pressed down, slow and constant. Nevertheless, Keonho nodded at what Martin said.

"Yeah," Keonho said, smiling anyway. "We win."

He always said yes, even when he was drowning. That was the thing with Keonho: he could balance everything yet still be the one doing favors for others. As if pleasing people was his default setting, like exhaustion was just an afterthought.

Martin didn't see it or maybe he did and refused to name it. He only saw the outcome – sharp cuts, clean color grading, the speed at which Keonho's rough cuts became final versions.

"Would also look nice on our college apps, right?" Keonho went on, voice still light. The two other boys gave him an agreeing smile.

"It might actually get me out of Goleta." Keonho laughed softly and tiredly, as if he were trying to lift the air around them.

Juhoon didn't laugh. Not because it wasn't funny, but because it was too familiar. That brittle kind of laugh. He knew what it looked like to perform.

Martin leaned forward. "You'll get out," he said with all his bravado. He said it with so much certainty that it made Juhoon glance up.

Maybe Martin believed it – in that effortless way he believed most things, like the universe would bend if you spoke with enough confidence. But even then, there was something too smooth in the delivery. Something that made Keonho's jaw tick, barely, before he looked away.

This was Martin, too – the friend who handed you an opportunity like giving you keys to a car he forgot you couldn't afford to fuel.

"I mean," Martin went on, attempting a grin, "we are making the best damn film this school's ever seen. If we win, that's all three of us in the shortlist. Triple threat."

"Only one gets picked, though," Keonho said.

Martin raised a brow. "Still better odds than zero."

Juhoon glanced between them. He could already feel it, the undercurrent that wasn't being said. That is, if they did win and the shortlist was announced, the internship would go to the one who deserved it most. The one with the cleanest cut, the boldest voice, the natural eye.

And it wouldn't be him, Juhoon knew that all too well. He looked down at the page of his open notebook. His notes were neat, controlled, and every frame sketched with intention. For a second, he hated it.

"I'll take sound from now on," he said finally, quiet but firm.

Martin looked up. "Yeah?"

Juhoon nodded. "You're directing. Keonho's editing. Someone's gotta keep the mic from peaking."

"Aw, look at us. Like a real production team," Martin said, visibly relieved to break the mood.

Keonho chuckled, rubbing his neck. "Just don't give me bad audio again."

"You're never happy," Juhoon murmured, but the edge had worn off. What was left sounded almost like weary affection.

From the back, Mrs. Ahn's voice rose again –  a sharp bark in Korean followed by laughter. The bell on the door jingled. 

Martin leaned back again, arms stretched over the booth. "Alright. We win the festival. You get your scholarship. I get my prestige. Juhoon gets to avoid his mom's LinkedIn friend requests for another school year."

Juhoon rolled his eyes. "Low blow."

"And Keonho gets out of Goleta."

"Don't promise things you can't guarantee," Keonho said, but the smile was genuine this time. Small, unsure, but real.

Martin lifted his drink.

"To high-risk, low-budget dreams," he said.

They clinked glasses like kids playing at a toast, like everything wasn't quietly riding on this project. Maybe that's what made it hurt more. The knowledge that none of them could say, I need this the most, but each of them felt it differently, for a different reason.

After a tiring day of finishing their tasks, the boys walked in an uneven line down the street, past the shuttered boutiques and half-lit cafés, three shadows long on the pavement. Their bags slung over their shoulders, notebooks tucked under their arms, sneakers scuffing asphalt.

Martin's car waited two blocks up. It was a sleek black hand-me-down that still smelled faintly of leather and old cologne. Juhoon's bike was chained to a stop sign near the bus stop. And surprisingly, he didn't call up his driver today. Keonho, on the other hand, would be catching the bus down Goleta.

They all knew this rhythm by now, the slow taper after a work night, the lull before goodbye.

"Hey," Martin said, stretching his arms behind his head. "Keonho. Think you could help with the reshoot revisions by Friday? I wanna storyboard the cliff sequence this weekend."

Keonho glanced over, startled for a second. He recovered, smiling like he always did. "Friday?" he repeated, eyebrows lifting. "Uh… sure. I've got swim until seven, but I can probably squeeze it in after."

"Cool," Martin said. "I'll send you some files tonight."

Martin didn't notice the hesitation, but Juhoon did.

"Wait," Juhoon said, voice low. "Didn't you say you had a chemistry exam on Friday?"

Keonho shrugged, cheerful. "I'll survive."

"Bro," Juhoon said again. "Seriously."

Keonho swung his arms around Juhoon's shoulders, grinning now. "Come on. It's just sleep. Who needs it when you've got adrenaline and Monster?"

Martin snorted. "Exactly. That's the spirit."

Juhoon didn't laugh. "Seriously?" he said, flat and cold. "You heard what he just said back there, and your first instinct is to hand him a deadline?"

Martin turned, blinking. "I'm not chaining him to a desk. He said he could."

"He also said he's running on fumes."

Martin raised a brow. "Jesus, okay. Are you his lawyer now?"

"No," Juhoon said, eyes narrowing. "I'm someone who listens."

There was a flicker of something sharp between them, like glass catching light. Keonho noticed this and let out a forced, featherlight laugh.

"Hey. Chill. I'm good, promise. No need to start a custody battle."

Martin cracked a grin, but Juhoon didn't. They reached the corner. The diner's neon was a faint red flicker behind them now. Ahead, Martin's car waited beneath a streetlight, humming faintly. They stopped.

"Alright," Martin said, tossing his keys once in the air, catching them. "See you, losers, on Monday. Let me know when you finish that reshoot, bro."

Keonho gave a mock salute. "Aye aye, captain."

"Jju, bike safe. Don't run into traffic, okay?"

Juhoon said nothing at first. Then murmured. "Goodnight." 

Martin slid into the car, headlights flashing once before he pulled away, tires humming down the road.

Juhoon let out a breath that fogged in the cool air. It was a release he hadn't meant to let slip. "You don't have to say yes to everything he throws at you."

Keonho's head tilted, hoodie drawn up, the strings uneven. His tone was mild. "I don't say yes to everything."

"You do," Juhoon said, calm as glass. "You do it with a smile, which just makes it worse."

Keonho gave a soft, surprised laugh. "You say that like I don't do the same for you."

Juhoon blinked. "What?"

"Hyung." Keonho shoved his hands deeper into the front pocket of his hoodie. "You so much as tweak a sequence and I'm re-editing my entire cut. Last time, you said the soundtrack was slightly off, and I stayed up until three syncing footsteps to snare drums."

Juhoon opened his mouth, then closed it. His ears felt hot. "That's different."

"How?"

"Because I'm not Martin."

"No, you're worse. You don't even realize you're bossy." Keonho grinned, wide and bright. "You're like Martin with a user manual."

Juhoon gave a dry, reluctant huff. "I'm not bossy. I just… plan."

"Exactly," Keonho said, eyes gleaming. "Bossy with a spreadsheet."

They stopped beside the bus sign, where the flickering streetlamp stuttered to life again. The glow caught in the fray of Keonho's hair, outlining him in soft amber. He looked gentler like this. Less of the jokester. More of the boy who is trying his best not to let anyone down.

"But really," he said after a moment. "Thanks. For earlier."

Juhoon didn't answer right away. His fingers toyed with the strap of his bag, twisting it, releasing it, twisting it again. "For what?"

"For not acting like my whole life's a side quest in your indie coming-of-age project."

That startled a snort out of Juhoon. Keonho smiled, a little too fast.

"I mean it," he added, quieter now. "I know you think I let people walk all over me. Maybe I do. I just…I like being useful. But it's nice when someone tells me I don't have to be."

Juhoon didn't look at him. Instead, he watched the bus stop's route map, as if it had changed.

"You're not just useful, bro."

"You sure? Because I'm a killer grip guy and I make mean fried rice. Those are kind of my top two resume points."

"You forgot 'good friend'," Juhoon said softly.

That earned him a glance from Keonho. A grin fights its way through him. "You're sappy when you're sleep-deprived."

"You're worse."

"Yeah," Keonho said. "But you still put up with me anyway."

Juhoon shoved his hands in his jacket. "Don't make it weird."

Keonho bumped his shoulder with his own. "Too late."

The street hummed around them. A car passed. A moth danced circles around the streetlamp. Keonho's bus wasn't due for ten more minutes, but Juhoon still lingered, the way you linger when you don't want the moment to end but won't admit it.

Then, eventually, one went on the bike and the other on the bus.

No goodbye. Just that quiet, unshakable knowing that someone had heard you, really heard you, and hadn't left.

Well, not yet anyway.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

"It's Friday, Hyung."

His little sister's voice echoed through the phone speaker like a chime caught in a breeze – airy, sing-song, meant to sound innocent but tinged with performance. "They're looking for you. You know, dinner exists. So does the concept of coming home."

Martin exhaled through his nose and leaned back in the rickety film club chair, the headset slipping slightly off his ear. "I'm recording," he muttered. "I told you."

"Yeah, yeah, we know. You're narrating your little ghost movie or whatever. Mom says it sounds like a waste of tuition."

He smiled – the brittle kind, sharp at the edges. "Tell her to deduct it from the ballerina fund."

His sister gasped theatrically, but he could hear her grin. "You dick!"

He clicked end before she could finish the fake scandal. The room fell quiet again. One of the fluorescent lights overhead was flickering lazily, blinking like it couldn't decide whether to stay alive or give up entirely. Outside, the campus buzz had thinned; most students had already gone home.

But Martin? He stayed.

The film clubroom was beginning to look like theirs. Storyboards lined the back wall now, cluttered with yellow post-its and curling edges. The whiteboard was crowded with arrows, scenes, and scratchy notes on camera angles. In one corner sat a cluster of labeled folders: Permits/Receipts, Script, Schedule Version 2.0 (Use this one, dumbasses).

Martin rolled his shoulders and sat forward again, pulling the mic close.

"Take two," he said aloud, more to himself than anyone. His voice softened, shifting into performance. "Some say she drowned. Others say she jumped. Either way –"

He cut himself off, sighed. He sounded too stiff. He started again. "Some say she drowned. Others say she jumped. Either way, the sea took her."

He paused, listened back. Okay, better but still not great. He scribbled a time code on the yellow legal pad beside him and glanced toward the window.

The light had mellowed into that late-afternoon honey. Juhoon was probably still trapped in piano lessons, drilling scales with the intensity of someone being punished for being good at everything. Keonho had swim training after class, and Martin knew he'd ride his bike straight to the cliffs after – hoping to catch the sun at its most cinematic, some soft orange bleeding over jagged rocks, to take the shot revisions Martin mentioned last time.

They had agreed to divide and conquer this week. So far, it was working.

Surprisingly.

It had only been two weeks since they'd kicked off the project, but their mockumentary had begun to take real shape. They'd finalized the rough script, refined the voiceover beats, and completed a full storyboard, though Martin knew they'd end up redrawing half of it once the real footage came in. That was the nature of these things – pretend you're in control, then let the chaos carry you. He liked that part.

He opened their shared calendar on his laptop and checked the week's log. B-roll: check. Interview questions: check. Permits: not exactly legal, but passable. He'd even finished color-tagging each scene by emotional tone.

The timeline was sharp. He was proud. And right on cue – his phone buzzed.

Mom: Honey, come home for dinner. Stop wasting your time on that film. Your sisters are performing next weekend and still managed to finish their practice and homework.

He stared at the text. Then reread it. He locked the screen without replying.

There it was again, that dull punch to the gut disguised as feedback. He could memorize physics equations in a single night, win math competitions with one eye closed, and organize a film shoot on a shoestring budget with two other moody teenagers. But it wouldn't matter. Not when his sisters were pirouetting in unison, echoing their mother's youth with every perfect plié.

Ballet was legacy. Martin? Martin was deviation.

He leaned forward, mic buzzing slightly as he repositioned it.

"This is Saint Elys," he said quietly, reciting the opening line again. "A school built near saltwater and silence. And somewhere in that silence, they say she lingers."

His voice didn't shake, but something inside him did. Something small and tired and already rehearsing its apology.

He saved the last voiceover file and removed the headset slowly, fingers lingering on the soft padding of the earcups like he wasn't quite ready to let go of the quiet. A long breath escaped him, chest deflating.

Then, he rolled his chair back, its wheels groaning against the cracked linoleum, and turned toward the far table where their research lay like a dismembered body waiting for a coroner.

It was a web. Dozens of clippings, pages, post-its, and maps. Some were pinned to corkboard panels on the wall, others strewn across the desk like they'd been flung there mid-eureka. The edges curled under heat and age, fraying in a way that looked almost deliberate. Yarn had appeared, too, at some point. Red string, of course. Martin didn't know which one of them had started it – probably Juhoon – but now the strings ran like veins, from circled yearbook photos to printed headlines to the edges of burned-out polaroids they'd scanned off the faculty bulletin board.

He shifted his gaze to his right and saw an old box filled with archival items he had collected for their research on this film. It looked heavier now than when he first dragged it from the east wing basement. Martin knelt beside it, arms braced on either side like he might steady something that wasn't meant to be opened.

He then sat back in his chair and remembered the way Professor Abbott had looked at him when he asked for this box. The memory rose, slow and unbidden, the way all warnings do.

It had been a Tuesday. The halls had already begun to empty, and sunlight slanted through the blinds of Room A212 in tired gold. At the front, Professor Abbott arranged his papers with the same quiet precision he used in everything.

Martin had lingered, not out of hesitation, but habit. Abbott was his homeroom teacher, after all. They shared a certain rhythm – both meticulous, both fond of clean lines and tight arguments. Martin had always been one of his favorites, and he knew it. He was the type of student who annotated his readings without being asked. A prodigy in every sense, and Abbott treated him as such – not indulgently, but with a rare, quiet respect. 

So he felt no need to preface.

"Sir," he began, stepping lightly toward the desk, tone casual but sure, "do you happen to have access to the old Gazette archives?"

Abbott glanced up, not yet registering.

"Specifically," Martin added, "the editions before this year. Maybe earlier, if they go that far back."

Abbott's hands stilled. He paused as if his equilibrium had shifted, almost imperceptibly. "What for?" he asked, voice still mild.

"For this short film we're making," Martin said. "We're working on a mockumentary for the film club. We figured the school mythos might be a fun angle – you know, the Lady of the Saltwater. Thought the older issues might have something on it. Campus legends, sightings, anything we can source for structure.

He smiled a little – that practiced, boyish grin teachers couldn't resist. It usually bought him goodwill, a longer deadline, and the last word in debate. But Abbott didn't return it.

Instead, he studied Martin for a beat longer than usual. His gaze wasn't cold, but it had gone distant, as if it was moving through two timelines at once – one inside this classroom, the other somewhere far older and less well-lit.

"You're digging?" he said finally, his tone unreadable.

Martin tilted his head, only half-joking. "Yep. Isn't that the point of research?"

Abbott didn't laugh. He resumed sliding papers into his briefcase, slowly. "Funny," he murmured, "how this club always manages to run without an adviser."

Martin blinked, confused about where the man was angling. "That wasn't a problem last semester."

"It wasn't," Abbott said, too lightly. There was silence again. Martin had grown used to being indulged by faculty, even admired. He'd never been outright dismissed. But now, he could feel it, the strange chill of having stepped over some invisible line.

He frowned. "Is there something wrong, Professor?"

That got Abbott's attention. He closed his folder and met Martin's gaze. "It's just odd," he said. "That this of all things caught your attention. There are better stories on campus, worthier ones."

Martin didn't look away. "I don't think stories choose to be worthy, sir. They just persist."

For a moment, Abbott said nothing. Then he reached into his drawer, pulled out a key – the brass one with the faded blue tag – and wrote a note for the east wing librarian in tight, slanted cursive. He placed both on the table between them.

Before Martin could reach for them, Abbott spoke again softly, as if thinking aloud. "There are things this school chooses not to remember," he said. 

Martin hesitated. "Why, though? Cause there's truth behind it?"

"I'm messing with you, kid," Abbott said, adjusting his watch and letting out a chuckle.

Martin visibly relaxed his shoulders and returned the laugh. The old man really loved to kid around, especially with him. 

And then, quieter, as Abbott returned to stacking his briefcase, he said with a calmer tone. "Be careful what you decide to resurrect, Martin. Not every ghost enjoys the light."

Martin blinked back to the present. 

The air in the room had cooled; the hum of the old desktop filled the space like surf, steady and constant. Martin continued to unearth all the contents of the box. 

The Saint Elysian Gazette archives smelled like time. Not dust, exactly, though there was plenty of that, but something older and heavier. The brittle scent of aged paper and yellowed ink, of forgotten layouts and misaligned staples. Martin sat cross-legged on the floor now, surrounded by open folders and loose newsprint, each sheet marked with neat, serifed headlines and the thin, almost apologetic columns of school journalism.

He had sorted them by decade first. The 1960s yielded nothing – just May Queen winners and campus flooding. The 70s were worse. It included fundraisers, pageants, and the rise and fall of the volleyball team. 

But the 80s… the 80s had a gap.

He frowned, flipping through the 1985-1986 volume. There was no issue for May. No final publication. April's edition was thinner than usual, barely four pages, and its content sparse: a mathlete win, a library renovation, and an interview with the valedictorian. But on the last page, under Campus Updates, one line caught his eye: 

"Next week's flag ceremony will include a short private reflection for the senior batch. Attendance encouraged."

That was all.

Martin read it twice. The sentence looked harmless, as if it were routine, almost bureaucratic – the type of filler line editors used to pad the end of a column. Still, something in the phrasing snagged at him. A private reflection for the senior batch, not by them.

He tilted his head. Maybe it was nothing. Perhaps it was just a graduation rite, or an anniversary, or some offhand note about discipline. It could've been anything. But the tone was too careful, like the writer had chosen every word not to say what they meant.

He tapped his pen against the line, underlining it.

Private reflection – why phrased like this? Missing May issue?

The letters looked faint against the yellowed page. He leaned closer, frowning. The article mentioned exam results before it. The one after was a weather delay. There were no transitions. There was only an empty space between mundanity as though something had been cleanly excised.

He stared for a long moment, the silence of the room pressing close.

There was no mention of an award, a winner, or an event that might have warranted a reflection. Only the notice itself, and the careful distance of its tone, like a cough muffled behind a handkerchief.

Martin sat back, pen still between his fingers. For a second, he thought of Abbott again – of that look and the quiet that followed his words. "Be careful what you decide to resurrect, Martin. Not every ghost enjoys the light."

At the time, he'd laughed it off. But now, with the page open before him and a missing issue after it, the words no longer felt like advice. They felt like a warning.

He checked their script. In Act I, they had loosely established the myth's origin in 1987, citing "unexplained sightings" and "coastal whispers." Keonho had written the narration for that part – a moody voiceover about a girl in white on the rocks, the sea taking what it wanted. But this? This predated their claim by a year. Maybe more.

He scribbled a note in the margin.

"1986? Possible origin?"

He pinned the clipped article to their storyboard wall, beside a still of the campus from last week's shoot. The board was already a fever dream, and it helped him think more clearly. Helped him see things not just chronologically, but narratively.

Next to the 1986 gap, he added a note in blue ink: "Need to revise script. Do more research on 'private reflection'"

It didn't add up yet. One vague mention didn't birth a legend.

He dug further. 1988's edition had a poem, anonymous, published in the April issue:

"Her arms were reeds, her hair like rope

She called me where the tide runs deep."

Martin read it twice. It was oddly placed between a short story about freshman elections and a comic strip about canteen food. There was no context and no author. It was just those lines, and a title: She Waits Where the Water Breaks.

He clipped it and added it to the board. He was building something, but the shape of it kept shifting. Every time he thought he understood the outline, it changed. And still, something didn't sit right.

The clock ticked past eight before Martin realized the sun had gone. The windows were now black mirrors, reflecting the film club room inside like an aquarium of amber light. The overhead fluorescents were off; only the desk lamps burned, casting low, yellow pools of glow over paper and dust. The campus outside was quiet. 

He dragged another box closer, flipped it open. Yearbooks this time. They were thick, leather-bound, and gold-embossed. He ran a thumb over the spines. 1985. 1986. 1987. He pulled one free and let it fall open on the desk.

Faces smiled up at him – stiff uniforms, feathered hair, names printed cleanly beneath. Senior Batch, Class of '86. He turned the page. Clubs and Organizations. The same smiles, the same tidy captions.

He turned the page and stopped breathing.

The next spread looked wrong. The ink had faded unevenly, as if the press had choked mid-print. Faces were half-formed, their outlines bled into each other like watercolor left in rain. The captions ended mid-sentence. The paper itself felt damp under his fingertips, though the air in the room was dry.

He leaned closer.

At first glance, it looked like just a printing error – a cheap archival decay that made eyes blur and hands tremble after hours of searching. But then one of the faces seemed to shift. A trick of shadow, maybe. A trick of tiredness. The smile of the girl in the second row twitched, the corners of her mouth bending, ever so slightly, downward.

Martin blinked. The photo stilled.

He waited. Counted his own breaths – four, five, six – and felt the pulse in his throat start to climb. "Christ," he muttered under his breath, rubbing at his eyes. "I need to sleep."

He turned another page. That's when he saw it.

In the lower corner of a group photo, something didn't belong. A shadow on the wall behind the students. It was thin, human-shaped, with its edges soft and almost elegant. At first, it looked harmless, almost pretty, like the blur left by a camera flash. But the light was coming from the other side of the room. The angle was wrong. There should've been no shadow there.

Martin frowned. His pulse ticked faster. He flipped the page.

It was the same classroom and students, but in a different pose. There it was, the same shadow. It was closer this time, more defined.

His breath caught. He turned another page.

Another set of class pictures, but it was still there. The shadow had moved. It was longer now, taller, its head tilted toward the lens. It was more defined now, like a figure stepping forward through layers of fog.

He turned the page.

It was even closer now. The arc of hair is now visible, an outline sharper than it should be. The tilt of the head is no longer casual, but deliberate: a watchful gaze.

Another page. And there it was: the faint sweep of what could only be fingers grazing a student's shoulder. The student was smiling directly at the lens, oblivious to his surroundings. But the shape, the thing behind him, was no longer blurred. It was focused now. Present. Too present.

"No," Martin whispered, his voice papery in the quiet.

Then he slammed the book shut. The noise cracked through the room like a whip. The lamps trembled on the desk, and the sound of the book hitting wood seemed to echo longer than it should have. He sat there for a moment, both palms flat against the cover, the leather cold under his skin. The room felt tighter somehow, the air thicker. He told himself it was nothing. It was probably just cheap ink, an optical illusion, or exhaustion. He'd been here for hours, reading too long under bad light. That was all.

The longer he stayed, the silence around him felt weighted. He could almost hear it – the sea, the same soft hiss he'd heard that night on the shore. The hum of something just below the edge of hearing, waiting to be named.

He thought of Abbott's laugh again. That teasing voice, light and easy. "I'm messing with you, kid."

He almost smiled. Almost. Because suddenly, it didn't sound like a joke. Martin swallowed. His fingers twitched once against the book. The lamplight flickered – only for a second, but long enough to make the shadows in the corners move.

His pulse spiked. The air seemed to lean closer.

And then – 

The overhead lights flared on.

He gasped and turned.

It was Keonho, out of breath and wind‑burned, hoodie half‑zipped and clinging to his shoulders. He leaned the tripod against the desk, his backpack sagging where a wet towel lay folded across it. He hadn't meant to return so late – he'd finished swim practice, pedaled to the cliffs for the reshoot Martin had rattled off days ago, waited for the light, and lugged the footage back under his skin like an errand earned and paid.

"Jesus, man," he said, voice small in the lamp glow. "You look so pale. You okay?"

Martin looked at him. He tried to divert his eyes to the board, towards the flag of pins and red string. His laugh was thin. "Oh, I was, uh, diving into archives. Got super busy."

Keonho set the tripod down more slowly than necessary. He was watching Martin's face the way you watch someone you worry will break. "You really okay? You look off. Have you eaten?"

"I'm fine," Martin cut, not looking at him. The word had an edge. It sounded practiced.

"You sure?" Keonho persisted, which meant he was worried, and this worry led him to keep pushing even though he knew the answer Martin wanted to give. "You're shaking. Like, bad."

"I said I'm fine," Martin snapped, and the sound cracked in the warmth of the room.

Keonho flinched and swallowed. "Right. Okay." 

He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes and reached for his bag like it might steady him. He had pedaled hard across campus for this. He'd missed dinner, cramped his shoulders into a damp hoodie so he could meet Martin's deadline. He'd done the job Martin asked for, again, and felt small while doing it.

Martin finally glanced up, slow, deliberate. "Did you bring the sunset cuts?"

"Yeah." Keonho's hands were steady, but his voice wobbled. "All of them. I stayed for the golden hour like you said. I –" He paused, searching for the phrasing that wouldn't sound like pleading. "I did what you asked."

Martin tapped a pin into the corkboard, as if marking time. "Good. Next time, try to make the audio usable. The last takes were trash. We can't submit bad sound and pretend it's intentional."

Keonho's jaw tightened. "I used the new mic. The wind –"

"Then get a wind sock," Martin said flatly. "Problem solved."

Keonho's fingers closed on the strap of his bag, knuckles pale. He had a way of saying okay that folded inward as if acceptance might smooth over the teeth of someone's temper. He let the word fall out. "Okay. I'll do that."

Martin saw it, the way Keonho's shoulders gave, the way he compacted himself to fit the shape of the room's demands and chose no mercy. He was still strung out from earlier. 

"Tomorrow then," Martin said. "Earlier. I want the cliff sequence locked before traffic starts. Don't make me move the schedule again."

"For what it's worth." Keonho began, voice soft, the people‑pleaser's hedging, "I got off swim early to do the errand today. I biked to the cliffs like you asked. I waited. It was fine. I –" He stopped. He looked almost sheepish for stating it. "It's just a lot this week."

Martin's eyes slid to him like a chill. "Everyone's busy, bro. If you can't make it, say so. Don't –" He broke off, choosing a different bareness. "Don't make excuses."

The word landed hard. Keonho's face tightened in a look that mixed hurt and effort – hurt that Martin could be so blunt, effort to hide the flinch. He looked down, fingers propping the tripod, the only solid thing in his hands.

"Right," he said finally, voice brittle-lacquered. "I'll figure it out."

He said it like a promise and like a surrender at once. Martin didn't offer the grace of thanks. He leaned forward and tapped another pin into the board, and the lamp lit the small motions like files being filed away.

Soon after he finished returning the equipment he used for the day, Keonho left without a word. The door didn't slam; it simply caught the air and shut itself, quiet and decisive.

Martin stayed seated long after, staring at the space where the boy had been – the ghost of damp footprints evaporating into the linoleum, the faint smell of chlorine still clinging to the air. His body felt foreign, his heart stuttering in uneven intervals. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding himself until the silence returned and pressed, close and heavy.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. God, he'd been cruel. Not vicious, not intentionally, but careless. The kind of meanness born of fatigue. Keonho did everything exactly as he'd asked, and probably skipped dinner just to please him. And he'd sent the boy home with that managerial cold tone. He felt nauseous and irritable with himself.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He looked down. The yearbook lay where he'd left it, the lamplight caught on its glossy cover. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, almost against his own logic, he reached out and opened it again.

The pages were surprisingly fine. There was no warping, no shadow pressed into the print. The same group of smiling students stared out from the photograph, their faces fixed in that awful stillness peculiar to the long dead or the long graduated. The wall behind them was bare. 

He turned the page. The images were so static now, so stupidly still, that he wanted to laugh.

He must've imagined it, all of it. The shifting faces, the creeping outline, the thing that had reached for him through the paper. It was fatigue, nothing more. He'd been running on caffeine and instinct for days. His eyes burned from reading too long under bad light; his mind had started conjuring things out of boredom, out of the long echo of his own concentration.

Martin believed in exhaustion. In cognitive fatigue. In the sly betrayals of tired eyes and overworked nerves. He believed in bad ink, cheap paper, faulty binding – in all the ways a machine could hiccup and leave behind a smudge mistaken for meaning. He believed in flickering lamps and cracked lenses, in sleep-deprived synapses firing wrong.

He did not believe in the occult.

Whatever he’d seen, if he’d seen anything at all, was just a convergence of coincidences. The residue of too many hours hunched in archival dust. He wasn’t the kind of person who mistook metaphor for truth. He didn’t read poetry as prophecy. He didn’t chase shadows.

He was rational. That was the point of him. That was why the others followed. He couldn’t afford to unravel.

So whatever that was, that creeping shape, that smear of movement, that too-well-placed shadow, it hadn’t happened. 

He’d tell himself that. He’d keep telling himself that until the memory rotted into unreliability. Until it calcified into something harmless.

No one had to know.

Not Keonho, with his cartoon pencils and open eyes. Not Juhoon, who would notice something wrong even if Martin said nothing, who would see the edges in his voice and know.

They could never see him like this – not startled, not shaken, not even close to believing. He wouldn’t allow it.

He closed the book with slow, deliberate hands. Turned it facedown on the desk like one might smother something living. The yearbook was still cold, as if it had never quite warmed to his touch.

As he stood, hand hovering near the switch, he felt it again. That subtle shift in the air, an eerie cold that hadn’t been there earlier. He laughed under his breath, low and uneasy, and left the clubroom. 

Behind him, the shelves loomed quietly and watched.

Chapter Text

The sea crashed softly against the sand, all foam and apology, washing the shoreline over and over again.

Above it, the Santa Barbara sky yawned open into soft streaks of lavender and tangerine. The air smelled like sunscreen and salt and whatever perfume the wealthy wore in Montecito when they didn’t want to smell like they were trying. James dropped his backpack and kicked off his sneakers in one motion.

“You know what I realized today?” he said, squinting toward the sun with the kind of deep contemplation usually reserved for monks or guys on mushrooms. Seonghyeon didn’t look up. He was crouched over his windbreaker, focused on a stuck zipper with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. “That your birth was probably a clerical error?”

James paused mid-thought, blinking. “Okay? What the hell?”

Seonghyeon shrugged without looking up. “Just spitballing.”

“I was about to say something profound.”

“You always think that. And then it’s, like, underwhelming.”

James let out a scandalized scoff, bent down, and hurled one of his sneakers at him with the full force of someone who once came second place in a third-grade egg toss. It hit Seonghyeon squarely in the thigh and landed in the sand with a pitiful thud.

Seonghyeon didn't even flinch. He glanced down, then back at James, deadpan. "Was that a cry for help?"

James stormed over and snatched his shoe back. “This is why I don’t share my thoughts.”

“This is why you got benched in dodgeball.”

James stood there in stunned betrayal, hands on his hips, like a mom who had just been given attitude. “Wow.”

Seonghyeon finally looked up, face blank. “Go on then, genius. What’s the realization?”

James hesitated. “Actually, now I don’t want to say it.”

“Too late. You’ve set up the bit. Tell me,” Seonghyeon murmured. 

They were still in uniform, ties loosened, blazers stuffed into bags, both of them half-drenched in that post-academic haze where you weren’t quite a student anymore but not yet entirely yourself again. ADS had just wrapped up their weekly meeting, which, miraculously, hadn’t devolved into chaos or a passive-aggressive policy debate about whether or not a mock trial investigating a ten-year-old club was “mission-consistent.” To everyone’s surprise, it passed unanimously. Seonghyeon had fist-bumped James under the table so hard he almost sprained his thumb.

Now they were here, two boys with too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it, staring out at the Pacific like it might give them the answers to their latest obsession. The Lost Tapes, as Seonghyeon named it. An internal club investigation into the missing records, broken membership trail, and eventual collapse of the Saint Elys Film Club.

“Anyway,” James continued, brushing sand off his pants, “what I was gonna say is, I think we’ve peaked. Like, this is it. Everything after this? Downhill.”

Seonghyeon finally looked up, frowning. “Because the trial got approved?”

“No. Because we somehow convinced ten overachievers to greenlight a fake trial about a club that died before we were even born.”

“First of all,” Seonghyeon said, “you were born in 2005. Second, someone in that room was taking notes like it was the Supreme Court.”

James laughed under his breath. Then added, more quietly, “It’s kind of insane, right? That they let us do this?”

Seonghyeon shrugged. “It’s the Academic Discourse Society for a reason. Half of them are addicted to arguing. The other half are just bored.”

They flopped down onto the sand, shoes forgotten. The tide curled close enough to threaten, but not touch. Further up the beach, a couple was walking their golden retriever, its ears flapping like those of a cartoon character. James stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his hands, letting the sea breeze thread through his hair. He closed his eyes. Seonghyeon was scrolling through his phone, thumbs moving quickly. Probably already building the trial case document.

“You think they’ll talk?” James asked after a while.

“Who?”

“The film club people. The ones from before. If we decide to track them down.”

Seonghyeon’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “Depends. People forget on purpose, sometimes.”

James glanced at him. “You know what freaks me out?” he asked quietly.

“Besides your own reflection?”

“Bro, seriously?” James muttered in annoyance. He pushed himself upright, brushing the damp sand from his palms; the shift in his posture was sudden and intent. “I mean, if we end up finding something real. Not just forgotten paperwork or club drama. Something actually strange about the club. What are we supposed to do with that?”

Seonghyeon raised his brows in a way that tried to deflect the weight of the question. “We’re simulating a trial, James. Not conducting an exorcism.”

“I know.” James’s voice tightened slightly. “But what if something weird really did happen back then?”

For a long moment, Seonghyeon didn’t speak. The usual grin slipped from his face, replaced by something sharper, more attentive. The water continued to fold in on itself with a persistent rhythm. Somewhere behind them, a gull gave a jagged cry that echoed more harshly than necessary. When he finally spoke, Seonghyeon’s tone was quieter, almost thoughtful. “Then I guess we stop waiting for permission,” he said. “If something happened, we follow it. All the way down.”

Soon after, the boys had kicked off their shoes, changed, and left their uniforms in a pile beneath the lifeguard tower, then walked straight into the sea. The water struck with precise cruelty. It was colder than they remembered from the summer. James gasped as he went under, the brine slicing across his skin like a reminder. He surfaced with a sputtered breath, his lungs tight, his eyes stinging from the salt. His hair stuck to his forehead in messy clumps.

Seonghyeon was several paces out, blinking saltwater from his lashes, his movements careful and erratic. “Why does it feel like we’re swimming through a brewing storm?” he called, voice bright and too casual to be completely unaffected. James turned onto his back, arms spread wide as the ocean rocked beneath him. “Because maybe that’s exactly what we’re doing,” he said, his voice carrying just enough strain to betray how winded he already was.

The current was heavier than it looked. It didn’t pull in a direct way, but rather across, in long, diagonal shifts that made your muscles work harder without you realizing it. It dragged beneath the surface like a trick floor, subtle and deliberate, disorienting if you weren’t paying attention. You couldn’t just swim through it. You had to negotiate with it, and James was beginning to understand that it wasn’t particularly interested in compromise. They didn’t speak again for a while. The sea kept rolling around them, indifferent to their effort. Behind them, the long stretch of Butterfly Beach mainly lay empty. A few figures walked the shoreline, their silhouettes stretched thin by the sinking sun. The sky above had begun its descent into a dull pink, a tired color that bled gently into the pale blue at the horizon.

“I forgot how bad the storms get here,” Seonghyeon said finally, adjusting his position as another small wave pushed him sideways. “Like, not just rain. Actual, biblical flooding. Whole trees going horizontal, power lines snapping. I swear our garage floated once.”

James struggled to get upright again. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m serious. It was crazy.”

James let out a weak laugh, only for a splash of seawater to hit him in the mouth mid-breath. “We should do this more often.”

“Drown?”

“Swim, dumbass.” James attempted to splash a wave at Seonghyeon in annoyance.

Eventually, they turned back, working their way slowly to shore with the awkward, uneven rhythm of limbs that had not been in open water in far too long. Their shoulders burned with the effort of resisting the current, which never let up. By the time they reached dry sand again, both boys were breathless and clumsy with fatigue, their skin raw from salt and their lungs aching in that particular way only cold ocean air could produce.

They collapsed on the beach without speaking. James lay on his back, staring up at the sunset-spilled sky, while Seonghyeon sat with his knees drawn to his chest, arms draped lazily across them.

Around them, the beach had emptied further. A jogger passed in the distance, and someone’s dog barked, sharp and playful. The palm trees that lined the edge of the coastal road above swayed softly, their movement slow and rhythmic, almost like the gentle breathing of the sea.

Farther down the shoreline, a child shouted, his voice catching in the open air before disappearing. The plastic clatter of a shovel against a bucket followed, then the distant rhythm of small feet sprinting over dry sand. 

James sat up first. He brushed the sand from his elbows, squinting toward the surf where the light had begun to break apart into warm ribbons across the water. His body stilled.

“Wait,” he said, not loudly. “Is that –”

Seonghyeon turned his head lazily, not expecting much. But then he straightened, too.

Down the beach, a figure approached at a leisurely pace, accompanied by a golden retriever moving just ahead of him. The man wore a navy windbreaker and loose shorts, the sleeves rolled, his shoes held by the laces in one hand. His shoulders were slightly hunched from the wind, and the dog beside him moved with the untroubled rhythm of someone who had never known the concept of stress.

James blinked. “That’s Professor Kim.”

Seonghyeon narrowed his eyes. “No way.”

“It is. That’s literally him. I didn’t even know he walked places.”

“I thought he just materialized between the faculty lounge and Room 5A.”

The boys stared in quiet disbelief, watching Juhoon approach from a place neither of them could define. It wasn’t a surprise, exactly. It was more like witnessing a side character break the fourth wall. There was something different about him out here. He looked lighter in a way that didn’t fully register until you noticed it. His face still looked tired; there was no hiding the weight beneath his eyes, but there was ease in the way he walked. 

The dog, Choco, as they would soon learn, reached them first. He stopped beside James and gave a polite sniff, then lowered himself into the sand like he had done this hundreds of times before. His tail made small arcs through the grit.

James gave a stunned laugh, eyebrows high. “Hey, buddy.”

Juhoon stopped a few steps away, blinking as he recognized them. His expression tightened for half a second, that momentary flicker of alarm that crossed a face when solitude was interrupted by someone who knew your name. He recovered quickly.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone from campus,” Juhoon said, his smile catching the dying sunlight.

“Hey, Prof! Uh, actually, we went for a swim,” Seonghyeon replied. “Barely made it out alive.”

“The current was borderline homicidal,” James added, petting the dog, who was happily leaning into his hand. 

“You two should not be in the water this time of year,” Juhoon said, not sharply but with a gentle firmness. “The tide changes fast without warning. People underestimate it.”

James felt his face warm with embarrassment and a little thrill at the concern. Seonghyeon looked up to Juhoon. “No offense, sir, but I didn’t think you were the type to be out in the sun. Honestly, we kind of thought you evaporated after class.”

James snorted at Seonghyeon. “I didn’t take you for a pet guy. He’s adorable,” he said.

Juhoon’s mouth lifted slightly, almost a smile. “He’s my first pet ever,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I adopted him a few weeks ago.”

He paused for a second, and though the moment was brief, it was carefully measured. “My house felt too quiet,” he added.

James studied him, his grin settling into something fonder. “He suits you."

“He’s incredibly friendly,” Seonghyeon said, reaching over to pat Choco. “And more well-behaved than James.”

James gave Seonghyeon a shove. 

“I take no credit,” Juhoon said. “He came like this.”

They all laughed, and for a moment, the tension slipped cleanly from the air. The breeze had cooled enough to raise goosebumps along their arms. Choco yawned and stretched beside them, wholly at peace.

Juhoon glanced toward the road above the dunes. His fingers loosened slightly on the leash. Then he looked back at them – these boys who were, somehow, no longer just students but something closer to younger versions of people he might have known once.

“You two want to get ice cream?” he asked. “My treat.”

Seonghyeon blinked. “Like now?”

“There’s a small cart at the boardwalk,” Juhoon said. “It closes pretty late, around 9 p.m.”

James grinned. “Hell yeah, let's go!”

They stood slowly, brushing sand from their clothes, and gathered their stuff. Seonghyeon stretched his arms above his head. James gave Choco one last pat and then followed. Juhoon shook his head and smiled, but said nothing. With him leading ahead, the three of them cut across the beach towards the back path behind the palms. For now, Juhoon let it happen – his moment of warmth, of easy banter, of companionship that did not demand anything from him even as something knotted in his chest refused to loosen. 

The boardwalk lights had flickered on while they walked, casting long shadows across the wooden planks. Overhead, the palms rustled quietly in the onshore breeze, and below them, the hush of the tide dragged steadily across the sand. The three of them walked towards the cart on the far end as James almost tripped over a loose plank on the boardwalk.  The ice cream cart stood beneath a crooked lamp near the edge of the bluff. The vendor looked half-packed already, the umbrella askew, a stack of napkin holders balanced on a milk crate.

Juhoon approached first, leash in hand, Choco trotting calmly at his side. He greeted the old man operating the cart and engaged in small talk before turning to the boys.

“Go ahead,” he said, stepping back slightly. “Pick whatever you like.”

James and Seonghyeon leaned into the board, scribbled with flavor names, squinting as if they were trying to decipher a lost dialect.

“Lavender Fog?” James murmured. “That sounds like a scented candle.”

“Earl Grey gelato?” Seonghyeon muttered under his breath, his face souring.

Juhoon snickered at the two and ordered smoothly. “Coffee almond fudge, as always.”

The old man nodded.

James glanced at Juhoon, then at the menu again. “Yeah, same, actually. I’ll get that.”

Seonghyeon snorted. “You don’t even drink coffee.”

“I like almonds.”

Seonghyeon rolled his eyes. “Fine. One strawberry cheesecake, please. And Choco?”

Juhoon raised an eyebrow faintly. “Oh, none for him. Might hurt his tummy.”

Seonghyeon gave Choco a pout and ruffled his head. The cones arrived quickly, each handed over with a paper napkin tucked tight around the base. Without hesitation, Juhoon reached for the first cone, the one with the cleaner wrap, and handed it to James. James took it with a surprised glance upward. “Thanks.”

They stepped away from the cart and walked toward the railing, the streetlamp above them buzzing faintly. The air smelled like vanilla and ocean spray. Choco trotted beside them with cheerful alertness, tail swaying gently. He nuzzled briefly against Seonghyeon’s leg before sitting beside him on the deck.

“Okay, this is pretty good,” James admitted, licking his cone. “The coffee’s strong, though.”

“Well, you ordered it,” Seonghyeon said, crouching beside Choco and ruffling the dog’s ears. Choco leaned into it with a happy grunt and flopped over dramatically, belly exposed.

“How often do you come out here?” James asked. He leaned forward on his elbows, cone tilted carelessly in one hand, the melting streak running down the back of his knuckles. He didn’t notice it right away, too focused on Juhoon.

Juhoon brushed a bit of sand from the cuff of his shorts before answering. His shoulders relaxed just slightly now that the sun had dipped. “Most afternoons. Choco prefers this part of the beach. He gets restless if I take him anywhere else.”

Choco confirmed this by sprawling across Seonghyeon’s shin, his paws splayed in floppy surrender. Seonghyeon rolled his eyes in mock betrayal but kept petting him anyway. “Honestly,” he said, glancing up at Juhoon, “if this were my backyard, I’d be out here every day too.”

James nodded. He dragged his sneaker through the sand, drawing nothing in particular. “It’s weird, though, seeing you here. I keep thinking you’re gonna pull out a syllabus.”

Juhoon’s mouth twitched at one corner. He took a small bite of his cone, straightened slightly as if bracing for a colder gust, and said, “I do exist outside school.”

“You move like someone avoiding the public,” Seonghyeon added, shifting so Choco could roll over and press his stomach against his leg. “Like if we blink too slow, you’ll disappear into thin air.”

Juhoon let out a quiet breath through his nose, the closest he ever got to laughing outright. “I am trying my best.”

James studied him quietly and without the usual theatrics. Juhoon felt that attention like a hand on his collarbone. He kept his gaze on the horizon, pretending not to register it.

“You live nearby then?” Seonghyeon asked, leaning back on one hand and tossing the last of his cone to a very grateful Choco. His tone was mild, but his eyes stayed fixed on Juhoon, shrewd in the way only a teenager with too much intuition and zero fear can be.

Juhoon brushed a grain of sand from his palm before answering. “I rent a place up near the bluff since I got to Saint Elys. It’s quiet.”

“Just you and Choco?” James asked. He stuck a bit of his cone between his teeth as he spoke, eyes narrowed in soft curiosity rather than suspicion.

“Yes,” Juhoon replied.

James shifted onto his elbows, letting the ocean breeze cool the back of his neck. His brows drew together slightly. “You said earlier that the current gets bad this time of year. Is that always true, or were you just scaring us for fun?”

Juhoon’s gaze remained on the water, steady and deliberate. “It gets unpredictable around these months. The surface looks calm, but the undertow moves sideways. It takes you off your bearings before you realize it.”

“You’ve been caught in it?” Seonghyeon asked. He tossed a pebble into the sand, watching as it made a slight indentation.

Juhoon considered his cone, the line where the ice cream had begun to drip down the napkin. “Not recently.”

The boys exchanged a look.

“You know this beach really well,” James said slowly.

Juhoon inclined his head. “I have walked it for a while. It’s familiar.”

“Familiar, huh?” Seonghyeon echoed. His tone was too casual to be innocent. “Even though... you’re just renting here now?”

Juhoon’s heart skipped a beat at that. His jaw tightened so slightly he hoped they hadn’t seen it. 

He cleared his throat. “I visit often.”

“See, but that’s the thing,” Seonghyeon said, shifting in the sand so he could see Juhoon better. “Nothing you’ve done today says ‘visit often’.”

Juhoon remained stiff and rigid as though movement would give something away. Where the hell was this all coming from all of a sudden? He felt his hands get a bit sweaty. 

“I mean, first of all,” Seonghyeon continued, “you cut across the boardwalk earlier using the back path behind the palms. Newbies don’t know that path exists. Locals use it to avoid the crowds.”

James blinked. “Hmm, true.”

“I’m just saying,” Seonghyeon continued, his voice bright but his eyes sharp, “these are some of the things you don’t pick up from walking here for a few months. They are things you know when you grow up around here.”

“You knew the owner of the ice cream cart very well, and you also knew their closing time,” James said. 

“Well, I am quite observant,” Juhoon said with a too-casual grin.

“That’s not observation,” Seonghyeon replied lightly. “That’s muscle memory.”

"You're doing it again, sir," James said.

"What?"

"Answering without answering.”

Juhoon’s jaw tensed. “I am answering.”

“Not really,” Seonghyeon said. He leaned back on both hands, studying Juhoon with the measured confidence of a kid who had been told his whole life he was too perceptive for his own good. “You talk around it.”

The silence that followed was thin. James turned fully toward him now, slower, more careful, as if approaching a truth he wasn’t sure they were allowed to hold. “Wait, are you from Santa Barbara?”

Juhoon felt it before he processed it, a drop in his stomach, like a bruise pressed by accident. His fingers curled slightly around the napkin in his hand, folding the edge unconsciously. He kept his face composed, but his breath came in a fraction deeper.

He should lie. He knew he should.

But the boys were too close. Their attention is too concentrated. No exit for this didn’t leave a mark.

He looked away from the water.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.” He didn’t elaborate. He couldn’t.

James blinked, stunned but soft. “Oh, yeah? How long?”

Juhoon swallowed. The motion was small and precise, like something practiced. “My whole childhood.”

Seonghyeon let out a low whistle. Their expressions shifted in imagination, picturing Juhoon in his earlier years on this very beach.

James blinked. “Where did you live?”

“The Riviera.”

The name landed between them heavily. “The actual Riviera?” James said, his voice dropping, not out of reverence but because he suddenly felt aware of his own volume.

“Damn,” Seonghyeon muttered, eyes widening. “That explains a lot.”

Juhoon’s expression didn’t change. His shoulders drew closer together, a subtle contraction, as if bracing against the past rising like an unexpected tide. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You never mentioned it,” James said gently.

“There was no reason to.” Juhoon’s voice stayed even, letting out a slight, shaky sigh masked as laughter. “It’s not important.”

“You always say that,” Seonghyeon replied, not unkindly. “But usually that means it matters more than you want it to.”

Choco nudged his head into Seonghyeon’s chest again, sensing the shift in tone, and Seonghyeon broke into a grin and buried his hand in the dog’s fur. The moment eased for a breath. The sky above them had deepened to a wash of navy, the boardwalk lights softening into small, glowing halos. People were leaving in pairs and clusters now, footsteps fading, voices thinning out into the cool evening air. Juhoon straightened. He always sat with good posture, but there was a new precision to it now, as though setting his spine was another form of self-preservation.

“You’re way too good at pretending you don’t belong here,” Seonghyeon muttered. Juhoon forced a slight smile that did not reach his eyes. “Maybe I do not.”

James watched him carefully. There was something about the way Juhoon stood, hands loose, face turned toward the water, as if he were listening for something the tide might return. Choco shifted and pressed his head against Juhoon’s shin this time around, grounding him, although the touch made something in him tighten.

Then James exhaled softly, incredulous, still processing the revelation. “So you lived here, huh? Like, actually lived here. Went to school here. Took your first steps here. That kind of thing.”

Beside him, Seonghyeon perked up, eyes bright with interest. “Yeah, wait. So what were you? The smart kid? The quiet kid? The prodigy? The all-rounder? You give that vibe.”

Juhoon blinked. A small, deliberate blink. His pulse stuttered, then pressed harder against his throat. He kept his expression measured, though he felt something hum sharply beneath his skin.

He used to know someone who talked like that, bright and relentless, turning every detail into a deduction, enjoying the thrill of peeling someone open. And someone else who watched him with that same open awe James held now, soft around the edges, earnest, and trusting.

He pushed the thought away.

“Nah, I was no one special,” he said, voice even. 

James shifted, leaning back on his palms, chin tilted as if studying him under better lighting. “Okay, wait. You definitely weren’t the shy kid. I’m changing my guess. I bet you were the guy who had everything under control.”

“Yeah,” Seonghyeon said. “You probably got dragged into everyone else’s drama.”

James snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Because you’re the designated calm friend.”

Juhoon’s breathing hitched, light and quick, but his expression stayed perfectly even. A ripple moved through the back of his mind, something bright and familiar, like laughter echoing through a hallway, footsteps catching up to him, the rhythm of banter that always dissolved the moment someone looked at him, expecting an answer.

Two boys arguing over something trivial – camera angles, script revisions, whose fault it was that the project was behind – and him, stepping in with the solution. He pushed the memory away before the faces sharpened.

“I was neither of those,” he said, maybe too quickly.

Seonghyeon raised a brow. “So what were you, then?”

The question landed heavier than the boy intended, knocking something loose in the quiet space of Juhoon’s mind. What was he? He tried to reach for an answer, but his thoughts scattered like loose film reels spilling from a box.

Half-images.
Half-sounds.

Faces he told himself he no longer remembered, though the outlines still fit like familiar shadows.

“I do not remember much,” he said finally, though even as the words left him, he felt the lie falter. “It was a long time ago.”

James laughed lightly. “You sound like you’re eighty.”

“Yeah,” Seonghyeon added, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Everyone remembers what they were like as a teen. Especially if they grew up here, this place shapes you.”

He swallowed. Yes, it did.

Juhoon's jaw tightened. His fingers curled against his palm. Because a part of him, the part he insisted had no memory, recognized this exact moment. Two boys, sharp and silly and bright, sitting beside him at dusk, laughing one second, interrogating him the next, as if they were entitled to the shape of him.

And the worst part was how natural it felt. He swallowed again, tasting salt.

It was happening all over again, or maybe it had never stopped.

James and Seonghyeon were still chatting beside, but Juhoon let the words wash over him like distant static. He wasn’t mad, not precisely, but something inside him bristled, like a nerve touched wrong. He didn’t like being cornered, and he really didn’t like how close they had gotten to something that was none of their business.

He cleared his throat lightly in an attempt to divert their attention. “How did your meeting go? With ADS?”

James perked up. “Oh, good! They were into it.”

“We’re moving forward,” Seonghyeon added. “Trial-style. Full mock investigation.”

Juhoon hummed, just once. “Sounds dramatic.”

James shrugged, unfazed. “It’s not like there’s an official record. Yearbooks don’t say much. People stopped talking about it.”

“And maybe they had a reason,” Juhoon said mildly, brushing a crumb off his pants. “Some things are better left archived.”

Seonghyeon shot him a look. “Okay, cryptic. You say that like you know something.”

“I don’t,” Juhoon said evenly. “I just think club gossip from ten years ago might not be as interesting as you’re hoping.”

“It’s not about gossip,” James said, clearly used to defending the idea by now. “It’s about figuring out what happened. Why does it just end?”

Juhoon gave them a slight smile. “Things end all the time. Doesn’t mean it’s a mystery.”

Seonghyeon didn’t answer at first. He was watching Juhoon now, head tilted, smile still intact but quieter. There was something calculating in his gaze, like he was starting to wonder why someone like Juhoon, who usually let things slide, suddenly had something to say.

“Maybe,” Seonghyeon said at last, slow and light. “Or maybe you’re just naturally pessimistic.”

“Maybe,” Juhoon agreed. His voice gave nothing away, but Seonghyeon kept looking, and James kept believing. Juhoon sat there, still and smiling, pretending none of it meant anything.

Seonghyeon wiped a smudge from his fingers, crumpled the napkin in his hand, and turned with a too-casual lilt. “Oh, right,” he said, tone light but eyes already fixed. “When do we get the tapes?”

Juhoon tilted his head. “What?”

“The box from the club room,” Seonghyeon replied, motioning vaguely with a jerk of his chin. “The old tapes. You said you’d digitize them.”

“I did,” Juhoon said carefully. “It’s just, uh, complicated. Some of them are in poor condition, and I don’t really want to rush it.” Juhoon gave an apologetic smile in an attempt to mask the crack in his tone. 

Seonghyeon didn’t blink. “You also said you had the gear.”

“I do.”

“Then what’s the hold-up?” Seonghyeon asked, sharper now, the humor trimmed out of his voice. 

Juhoon stiffened, but only inwardly. His hands remained at his sides. His chest tightened. 

James leaned in, placing a calming palm on Seonghyeon’s shoulder. “He’s probably just busy, dude.”

Juhoon wanted to thank him. Instead, he watched the horizon and said nothing.

“I mean,” James continued, hopeful, always hopeful, “I could help, actually. My cousin runs a digitizing shop here in Montecito. I’ve been tagging along, learning the ropes. We could probably get through them faster, if that’s the issue.”

Juhoon blinked. His mind sharpened, a reflex honed from years of withholding.

Oh hell no.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said smoothly. “Some of the reels are warped, probably from heat damage or mold. I’m not even sure they’re viewable. I need to go through them first.”

“That one tape you and Seonghyeon watched last time,” James said, more softly now, “the one dated April 2012. Didn’t that look clean, though?”

There it was again. That damn month. Pressed like a thumbprint into the film. Inside Juhoon, something flared. A wild irritation, hot at the base of his neck. He forced a smile, like a pressed suit, practiced and pristine. “I’ll let you know,” he said, standing. “Once I’ve gone through everything.”

Seonghyeon stared up at him, unimpressed. “So we just wait?”

“I said I’ll let you know,” Juhoon said, a final line.

James exhaled. “It’s okay. We’ll wait.”

The two boys exchanged a look that one Juhoon couldn’t decipher. These kids were smart. Smart in different ways. James with his softness, his ease. Seonghyeon with that bite of logic behind the grin. Both were curious and very much persistent. They were circling him closer with every question.

Juhoon’s irritation was eating him alive. His temples throbbed faintly, the beginning of what might become a headache. He needed to eject himself out of here, or they’d peel him even more. He stood up, Choco mimicking him. “Listen, it was cool to hang out with you guys. I think Choco needs to go. He’s getting hungry.”

James and Seonghyeon gave him a small smile. “Right. We have to go too, it’s getting late. See you in school, Prof!” James muttered. Seonghyeon offered Juhoon a wave. 

Juhoon and Choco had gone ahead, dog already sniffing along the hedges, Juhoon’s figure steadily shrinking with distance. After Juhoon disappeared into the dusk, James and Seonghyeon turned toward home.

"He's quiet today," James said.

Seonghyeon shoved his hands into his windbreaker, walking slower now. “He’s always quiet.”

James nodded. “Yeah, but like more quiet.”

Seonghyeon kicked at a crack in the pavement, then exhaled. “He’s kind of weird, huh?”

James looked over. “What, like in a bad way?”

“No. Just –” Seonghyeon hesitated. “He’s hard to read.”

James smiled faintly. “You’re just mad he didn’t develop your tapes immediately.”

Seonghyeon rolled his eyes. “I’m being serious.”

James stayed quiet. They turned the corner where the boardwalk ended, and the hill began.

"He knew stuff," Seonghyeon said. "The path. The cart guy's hours. The undertow patterns."

James shrugged. "So? He used to live here."

"Yeah." Seonghyeon kicked at a crack in the pavement. "But people who just 'used to live' somewhere don't move like that. Like they never left."

James looked ahead, thoughtful. “He said he used to live in the Riviera.”

“Exactly.”

James shrugged. “So?”

“So nothing,” Seonghyeon said it too quickly.

They passed under a flickering streetlamp. The halo of light blinked over James’ face, then disappeared. “He’s just a little closed off, that’s all,” James added, voice easy again.

Seonghyeon didn’t answer. He just walked a little slower. It wasn’t a real suspicion, but something itched at the base of his skull – some pattern, some friction, like when a puzzle piece clicks too cleanly into place, and you realize the whole time, it had just been upside down.

James launched into another story, something about his cousin’s tape shop. Seonghyeon laughed at the right part, nodded along. But inside, some thoughts sat unspoken.

꧁──────ஓ๑๑ஓ──────꧂

The night had teeth.

It sank lightly into the edges of Juhoon’s house, a slow gnawing that seemed to come from the beams themselves. He had showered and had changed. Choco slept on the floor beside his desk, curled in a loose ring of gold, chest rising with gentle breaths. His breathing was steady, anchoring, but it did nothing to settle Juhoon’s nerves. If anything, the dog’s calmness only sharpened his own unease. It reminded him how restless he had become.

He had not eaten dinner. His stomach had protested earlier, with a faint cramp that reminded him of the ice cream he had eaten hours ago. He ignored it. Hunger felt trivial compared to the unrest gathering in his chest. He'd been trying to grade essays, pen hovering over the same paragraph for twenty minutes. He set it down. It rolled until it hit the spine of a book.

The house was usually a refuge. Tonight, it felt constricting. The quiet was no longer restful. He could hear the old pipes settling in the walls, the refrigerator humming steadily in the kitchen, the distant vibration of a passing car. Every sound was perfectly ordinary, yet together they formed the uneasy impression of a place waiting for him to admit something buried deep inside his mind.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, willing himself to breathe in a steady rhythm. He had been careful with the boys. He had kept his responses measured, contained. He had answered only what they asked, never more. He had maintained the distance that had protected him for years. But today, at the beach, in the warmth of the late sun, they had seen something they were not meant to see. A proximity he had not prepared for.

He should never have told them he grew up here. It was one detail. One slip. But he knew better than anyone how a single detail could unravel a story.

He returned to his desk and sat again, though the essays held no more clarity than before. The thought of grading them now felt absurd. His mind kept returning to the boardwalk, to the way James had watched him with quiet curiosity, the way Seonghyeon had examined him as if assembling a puzzle from mismatched pieces.

They were perceptive. They noticed things others ignored. Together, they were even more dangerous. Not because they were malicious, but because they were sincere. Sincerity, when unguarded, had a way of wounding. Not by force, but by the sheer sharpness of its truth.

He closed his eyes.

He had been foolish to believe Abbott's offer to revive this club was harmless. Foolish to imagine he could walk the halls of Saint Elys again without regretting it. Foolish to think he could talk about film with students who asked too many questions and cared too much.

He glanced at the dresser. The April 2012 box sat exactly where he’d left it, its metal lid slightly ajar. He should have closed it. He should have hidden it back in the closet. He should have done something other than let it sit in the open like this, as if daring him to look inside.

He hadn’t digitized the tapes yet. He had promised the boys he would. He had even told them he had the equipment.

He did.

He just couldn’t bring himself to touch it.

“Stupid damn trial,” he muttered under his breath.

The boys were thrilled; they’d practically vibrated with purpose as they told Juhoon the news from their meeting. He should have said no. He should have discouraged them. He should have –

He should have stayed in New York or flown to Seoul or anywhere. Anywhere but here. 

His hands tensed into fists, slowly releasing.

The tapes were harmless. He knew that. They were fragments of the past, nothing more. There was nothing sinister about them. Nothing damning. Nothing should make his heart race whenever he thought about them. So, why did he feel this way? Why couldn’t he breathe properly? Why did his body react as if proximity to the past was a threat?

He tried to recall specifics from those years. But the memories slid away like light on water. Had he really been that unhappy? Was the distance from his family, from Santa Barbara, from his younger self really that deep? Deep enough to bury entire years?

He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers splayed. His pulse was going haywire, and his breathing fought him. A frayed edge of panic threatened to rise.

“I know the tapes are harmless,” he said aloud, as if stating it would steady him. “There’s nothing to hide.”

His voice sounded thin. Choco stirred at the sound and lifted his head, his eyes warm and concerned. Juhoon offered a faint smile he did not feel.

“It’s fine,” he said, softer now. But he knew it wasn’t. He knew the dissonance in his mind, the gap between what he knew and what he felt, was widening. What unsettled him most was that he couldn’t explain it. He wasn’t afraid of the boys getting too close to the truth. He was afraid of what he would remember if those tapes played again. He was afraid the past wasn’t as benign as he’d convinced himself. He was afraid he had forgotten for a reason. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the box as if it might move again.

Juhoon could no longer remain inside the house. The wound was now open and on display; there was no point in trying to avoid it. Damn it, let him pick on it then. The air had grown too dense, as if the walls had expanded inward. His pulse climbed in quiet increments. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. He stood abruptly and reached for his coat without thinking.

He needed air.

Outside, the night was colder than he expected. His neighborhood lay in stark silence, the trees standing against the fog-damp sky. The street was empty, every porch light dimmed to a low amber glow, as though the entire block had collectively decided to sleep early. His footsteps echoed down the pavement. The rhythm was uneven at first, then steadier, but it did nothing to quiet the noise inside his mind. His thoughts wouldn't settle. Every time he grabbed one, another rose to drown it. He felt untethered. Foreign in a place he should have known. His breath misted in front of him, thin and pale.

He reached his car before he had fully decided what he was doing. His hands trembled as he unlocked it. His vision blurred at the edges, but he blinked it away. The engine turned over with a low growl, and for a moment, he simply sat there, gripping the steering wheel as if anchoring himself to something solid. Then he was driving.

The streets blurred past in familiar lines. The hills sloped upward, the city lights fell away behind him, and suddenly he was climbing into the dark quiet of the Riviera. He had not driven this route in years. He had never intended to again. Yet his hands knew the turns without guidance. 

Why are you doing this? Turn back. There’s nothing for you here.

The thoughts rose and fell without cadence, indistinct and frantic, as if spoken by someone standing behind him. He ignored them or was unable to obey them. He wasn’t sure. He turned onto Calle Vista del Mar without thinking, his hands moving before his mind caught up. The street was darker than the others, lined with older estates set back from the road, their facades obscured by overgrown hedges and iron gates that had softened with rust. At the end of the cul-de-sac sat a house he had not seen in years.

It looked smaller than he remembered, or maybe he had simply grown accustomed to forgetting its scale. The stucco exterior was the same pale cream, the terracotta tiles still slightly uneven along the roofline. The front windows were dark, but a single light burned in the kitchen, casting a warm glow that spilled across the driveway.

Juhoon parked a few distances away. He killed the engine but didn't move. His hands remained on the steering wheel, knuckles pale. His breathing had gone shallow again, catching in his throat like something lodged there. He stared at the house as if it might recognize him first.

This is insane, he told himself. You don’t even pick up their calls. What are you doing here?

He stepped out of his car anyway. The silence that followed pressed against his ears like water. He hadn't spoken to his parents in so long. They called back then; his mother, mostly, her voice always bright and distant, asking questions she didn't wait to hear answered. He'd stopped returning the calls at one point. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a fight. It was just easier to let the distance solidify.

He told himself it was maturity. That he'd outgrown the need for their approval, their presence, their hollow gestures of care. But underneath that, quieter and sharper, was something else. It was punishment. He wanted them to feel his absence the way he'd felt theirs – all those recitals where only one parent came, all those award ceremonies where he stood alone on stage while other kids ran to their families. He wanted them to wonder where he was. To call and get no answer. To feel the ache of an empty chair. It was petty. He knew that, but it didn't stop him.

The air here smelled different. It was dryer, perfumed with jasmine and that particular mineral scent of irrigation systems running all night. His shoes crunched against the gravel. Each step felt heavier than it should have, as though the ground itself remembered him and wasn't sure it wanted him back.

He reached the gate and pressed the buzzer. There was a pause. Then the crackle of the intercom, a woman's voice, familiar and startled.

"Hello? Who is it?" It was Mrs. Lim. She'd been their housekeeper since before he was born, a constant in a house that otherwise felt like a showroom.

"It's me," he said quietly.

The gate buzzed open without further question. The front door was unlocked. It always had been. He pushed it open slowly, and the house exhaled toward him – air conditioning, lemon cleaner, the faint ghost of his mother's perfume lingering in the entryway.

Mrs. Lim appeared in the hallway, dish towel in hand, her face drawn with worry. She looked older. Her hair had gone completely silver, new lines settling around her eyes like fault lines.

"Juhoon-ah. You’re back in California. Since when?" she said softly, and there was something in her voice – relief? Fear? Both? 

Juhoon ignored her question. “Are they home?” he asked.

"They're not home."

"Good," he said. 

She studied him for a long moment, her hands twisting the towel. "Are you… are you okay? How have you been, dear?"

The question landed wrong, too tender, and he looked away. "Don't tell them I came."

Her expression shifted. "Juhoon-ah."

"Please." His voice was calm, controlled, but there was an edge underneath it, something sharp and fraying. "Just don't."

Mrs. Lim hesitated, then nodded slowly. She didn't ask why. Maybe she already knew.

Juhoon moved past her, into the house, and the walls closed around him like a memory he'd tried to forget. The first thing he saw was the piano in the living room. It was a Steinway, polished to a mirror shine, untouched. Above it, framed certificates lined the wall in neat rows. Piano recitals. Speech competitions. Essay contests. Soccer trophies from middle school, before he quit to focus on academics.

He remembered these. Remembered standing on stages, accepting plaques and ribbons, scanning the audience for his parents and finding only one of them – if that. His mother was at the spring recital, checking her phone. His father was at the science fair, leaving early for a conference call. Most of the time, it was just his teacher, smiling too brightly, trying to fill the gap.

He looked away.

The stairs creaked under his weight, the eighth step giving that familiar groan. The hallway upstairs was dark, but he didn't need light. Second door on the left. His room.

Except it wasn't his room anymore.

He opened the door to find it transformed – boxes stacked against the walls, a treadmill shoved into the corner, his old desk buried under plastic storage bins. His bed was still there, but the mattress was bare, the frame pushed against the wall to make space. They'd turned it into a storage room.

Of course they did.

He stood in the doorway, breathing carefully, his chest tight. His hands felt cold despite the warmth of the house. He told himself it didn't matter. He told himself he'd come here for a reason, even if he couldn't point it out yet.

You know why you're here. The thought arrived unbidden, quiet and accusatory.

You saw him on the tape. Martin. And you need to know if you really forgot, or if you've been lying to yourself this whole time.

His stomach turned. He stepped into the room. The boxes were labeled in Mrs. Lim’s neat handwriting. 

WINTER CLOTHES. TAX DOCUMENTS. JUHOON – HIGH SCHOOL.

He pulled that one down first.

The cardboard was soft with age, the tape peeling at the edges. He set it on the bed and lifted the lid, and his past spilled out in fragments – yearbooks, contest ribbons, soccer jerseys, a swim team jacket, and a stack of printed photos bound with a rubber band that had gone brittle.

Wait. Swim team jacket? He picked it up. 

SAINT ELYS ACADEMY - SWIM TEAM. 

He stared at it. This wasn't his. He'd never been on the swim team. Why did he even have this?

His head felt light, unsteady. He set it aside, hands trembling now, and pulled out a stack of sketchbooks. He opened the first one. 

Sunset over water. A bicycle leaning against a fence. The Saint Elys chapel, rendered in careful pencil strokes. He turned the page. It was a boy, mid-stroke in the ocean. His form was blurred, impressionistic, but the motion was clear – powerful, effortless, cutting through the water like he was born to it. Juhoon had drawn him from the shore, capturing the arc of his arm, the spray of water catching the light.

He stared at the drawing. The motion was so specific. The angle was so familiar, like he'd watched this person swim a hundred times.

But he couldn't remember who it was.

Not Martin – Martin wasn't a swimmer. So who? He set the sketchbook down and reached for the photos. Maybe they had answers. The rubber band snapped as soon as he touched it, scattering the stack across the floor. He got them slowly, hands shaking, and held the first one up to the light.

It was him. Younger, smiling – genuinely smiling, not the careful, controlled expression he wore now. He was standing in front of the chapel, blazer unbuttoned, tie loose, his arm slung over someone's shoulder.

And there he was, Martin Edwards. Juhoon's breath caught. He remembered him now. Not entirely, but enough. Tall, loud, always moving, always talking. The kind of person who fills a room just by entering it. They'd been... friends? Yes. Friends. Close, even though the details blurred.

He flipped to the next photo.

The old film clubroom. Martin at the whiteboard, mid-explanation, his hands gesturing wildly. And there, in the corner, barely visible was Juhoon's own handwriting on a script, the ink smudged from being handled too much.

Another photo. The two of them were at a diner, crammed into a booth, plates of fries scattered between them. Martin was grinning at the camera. Juhoon was looking at something off-frame, his expression softer than he remembered ever being.

Another. The cliffs near the campus. Martin is standing at the edge, arms spread wide, the ocean roaring behind him. The photo was slightly out of focus, as if the person who took it had been laughing too hard to keep the camera steady.

He flipped through more photos, now searching faster. One photo had Martin's arm around his shoulder and his arm around Martin's. But between them… was the edge of someone's hand. Fingers curled in a peace sign. The rest of their body cut from the frame.

His stomach dropped in realization. There were three of them.

A third person. There had to be one. The angles didn't make sense otherwise. Someone was behind the camera in the other photos. Someone who knew Martin and him well enough to capture those moments – candid, unguarded, full of a warmth Juhoon couldn't remember feeling.

Juhoon turned the photo over. On the back, in handwriting that wasn’t his own: hyung, stop worrying! we're gonna be fine.

His pulse spiked. The handwriting was messy, looping, distinctly not his own careful script. Someone else had written this. Someone who called him hyung.

Who else? He can barely remember anyone. 

He stared at the photo once more. His chest tightened.

Who are you?

The handwritten words swam in front of him. His vision blurred, his head suddenly too heavy, too full. The room tilted slightly, and he pressed a hand to his temple, trying to steady himself.

Martin. He remembered Martin now. Remembered the arguments, the late-night editing, the way Martin could talk anyone into anything. Remembered the film club, the project they were working on – something about the coast, about myths, about – 

His thoughts fractured.

The memory was there, just under the surface, but every time he reached for it, it slipped away like water through his fingers. His stomach churned. His skin felt cold and clammy. He looked down at the photos again, at Martin's face, and something in his chest cracked open – nostalgia, yes, but underneath it, something sharper. Hurt?

Why do I feel hurt? Did something happen between Martin and me?

He took the photos, but they kept slipping out of place as he tried to stack them. His vision swam. The edges of the room faded to a soft, gray hue. The pressure behind his eyes built like something trying to break through.

Then he felt warmth. Wet warmth, dripping onto his upper lip. He touched his face, and his fingers came away red.

Blood.

His nose was bleeding.

"Shit." His voice came out hoarse, strangled. He tilted his head back, fumbling for tissues, but the blood kept coming, warm and metallic, dripping onto the photos, onto Martin's grinning face, onto the handwriting that said hyung in loops he should recognize but couldn't.

The door burst open.

Mrs. Lim stood in the doorway, her face pale with shock. "Juhoon-ah – what are you –" She saw the blood and rushed forward. "Oh my God, sit down, sit down!"

"I'm fine," he tried to say, but it came out garbled and wet.

"You're not fine!" She grabbed tissues from a box on the shelf and pressed them to his face. Her hands were shaking. "What are you doing? Why are you going through these things?"

"I just – I needed –" He couldn't finish. His thoughts were a tangled mess.

Mrs. Lim's eyes fell on the photos scattered across the floor, on the open box, on the jacket with its faded logo. Her expression changed from worry to something else. Fear. 

"You shouldn't be doing this," she whispered, her voice suddenly careful, too careful. "Juhoon-ah, you need to stop."

"Why?" His voice was hard despite the blood, despite the shaking. "Why shouldn't I?"

She looked at him, and for a moment, he saw it – pity. Deep, aching pity.

"Your parents –" she started, then stopped, as if even saying it was dangerous.

"My parents what?"

"They said you were sick after… after that spring. Your parents sent you somewhere. For your nerves, they said. When you came home, you were different, Juhoon-ah. Your father said you didn't remember things well. They said you needed to –"

The words landed like a fist to the chest. Sick. What the hell?

"What?" His voice cracked on the words.

Mrs. Lim's face crumpled. "I don't – I'm not supposed to –"

A sound from downstairs cut their conversation. They heard the front door opening. Voices filled the entryway – his mother's laugh, bright and performative, his father's lower rumble.

They were home.

Mrs. Lim's eyes went wide. "You need to go. Now."

Juhoon didn't argue. He moved on instinct, shoving the photos back into the box, grabbing the jacket, the sketchbooks, the contest ribbons, and the old jerseys. At the bottom of the box, half-buried under old school programs, he found it – a small leather journal, its cover worn smooth from handling.

His old diary.

He grabbed it, tucked everything under his arm, and stood. His head swam, but he forced himself to move.

"Juhoon-ah –" Mrs. Lim reached for him, but he was already past her, out the door, down the hallway. Not the main stairs. The back ones, the ones that led to the kitchen door, the ones he'd used as a teenager when sneaking out to meet –

Who?

He burst into the night air, gasping, and didn't stop until he reached his car. He threw the box into the passenger seat, blood still dripping from his nose onto his shirt, his hands, and the leather of the steering wheel.

He started the engine and drove.

He didn't look back at the house. Didn't let himself think about his parents inside, or Mrs. Lim standing in his old room, or the look on her face when she said you were sick. He just drove, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, the box of his past sitting beside him like a passenger he'd forgotten he was carrying.

He sat in his car outside his house for twenty minutes before he could make himself go inside. Choco greeted him at the door, looking confused and concerned.

Juhoon set the box on the kitchen table. The diary lay on top, leather soft with age.

He should sleep. He should shower. He should do literally anything but open it.

But his hands were already flipping to the first page.

The handwriting was his own – younger, messier, alive in a way he didn't recognize.

April 1st, 2012.

Martin says we're going to film a ghost.