Chapter Text
Zhou Anxin thought things would get better once he was free. He’d dreamed of it often — a life of his own, tucked inside a little apartment that smelled faintly of turpentine and tea, walls lined with books, paintings, and quiet. No one shouting down the hallway, no one picking apart his every movement, no one reminding him how disappointing he had turned out. Freedom, he thought, would be silence.
But the haunting never left him.
When the nights grew too still, he could still hear their voices echoing behind his eyelids — his parents, their sharp words curling like smoke in the corners of his mind. Their demands. Their disappointment. Even miles away, they found him in his dreams, still tearing into the life he was trying to rebuild.
So he did what he always did best: he ran.
He ran until the train carried him to the far edge of nowhere— to a small, half-forgotten station made of wood and rust, with no signage and no people. Even the conductor looked confused when Anxin stepped off, as though no one ever disembarked here willingly.
The air was colder than he expected. Maybe it was the hill’s shadow, or maybe the sun simply didn’t care to shine on this side of the world. He dragged his luggage across the gravel path, his large backpack weighing on his shoulder like a second spine. Every crunch beneath his boots sounded too loud, too real, after weeks of sleepless city noise.
When he reached the edge of the village, it felt like stepping into an old painting. Every house was a cottage of brick and timber, their roofs tilted with age and chimneys breathing pale smoke. Goats and chickens wandered lazily across the dirt road. A few cats blinked at him from stone fences, unbothered by the newcomer. Some villagers glanced up as he passed — curious, cautious— while others smiled and waved, their faces softened by the fog.
“Excuse me, mister.”
Anxin halted, nearly tripping over his own suitcase. Three children stood in the middle of the road, hands smeared with dirt, eyes wide with mischief.
“Are you new here?” one of them asked, tilting his head.
“Yes…”
The children exchanged bright grins, their excitement like sunlight spilling through clouds. “Welcome! My mommy said we should be nice to newcomers,” the smallest boy chirped. “We don’t get many these days.” He grabbed hold of Anxin’s luggage with both hands. “I’ll help you, hyung.”
Before Anxin could protest, the child was already tugging the suitcase along, his small steps determined.
“Where will you live, hyung?” another boy asked, trailing behind them as the four of them continued up the hill. Adults had begun to peek from their doorways, not with suspicion, but with quiet curiosity, as if watching the arrival of someone expected.
“The small cottage by the hillside,” Anxin replied. “The one with the rose bushes. It belonged to my grandfather. I don’t remember it much, it’s my first time here.”
“Are you Grandpa Zhou’s grandson? The one who loves colors?” asked the little girl holding his hand. She’d been staring at his face since they met, eyes full of wonder.
“Yes, that’s me,” he said, amused. “Do you know where the house is?”
“Of course! We always went there to play with him. After he died, my dad still visits sometimes to fix the pipes.”
“Grandpa always said someone would live there again, even after he was gone,” the first boy added. “He said that someone was you.”
Anxin smiled faintly. His grandfather— the only person who ever saw him clearly. Even when they couldn’t meet, they wrote letters back and forth for years, letters filled with crooked sketches and advice about paint colors, brush types, life philosophies that smelled faintly of smoke and old paper. His grandfather taught him to write with patience, to listen to silence, to believe that beauty could survive neglect.
When the old man died, Anxin wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral. His parents had called it “inconvenient.” They said there was nothing left to see.
He never forgave them for that.
“This is the cottage, hyung!”
They stopped before a small house resting at the top of a slope. It was old, yes, but sturdy — the kind of old that had character, not decay. The walls were weathered stone and pale wood, its garden overgrown but alive. Wilted rose bushes leaned toward the gate, their thorns still sharp, their petals bruised but clinging.
“Hello there. You must be Anxin?”
The voice came from the neighboring cottage. A woman stood on her porch, waving. She was pale and slight, her smile soft, her eyes like the morning after a storm — still bright but quiet.
“I’m Dayeon,” she said. “I was a friend of your grandfather’s. He told me so much about you.”
Anxin bowed politely and shook her hand. Her fingers were cool, almost icy, but he assumed it was just the mountain air. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said.
“Welcome to our village,” she replied warmly. “My husband looked after your grandfather’s house for a while, but it’s probably a little dusty. If you need help cleaning, I’ll lend a hand. And I’m sure these rascals will, too.”
The three children nodded eagerly, grinning like they’d already decided to adopt him.
“Thank you,” Anxin said, the words heavier than they should’ve been. He meant them.
He pushed open the wooden gate, its hinges sighing in protest. The gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he stepped into the yard. From here, the cottage revealed itself in full: a generous porch with a wooden swing half-buried in vines, a tall tree swaying in the wind, and windows so large they reflected the entire sky.
Inside, the air smelled of cedar and time.
He expected cobwebs and mold, but what he found was startlingly well-kept. The furniture was covered in a thin film of dust, but everything else was clean — almost prepared. A sofa set, neatly arranged. Large window sills wide enough to sit on, facing the valley below. The kitchen gleamed faintly, lined with sturdy cabinets and iron cookware.
And everywhere, on the walls, the shelves, tucked on every corner, were pieces of his own art. Letters he had written. Drawings he’d mailed as a boy. All framed, carefully preserved.
Dayeon’s voice drifted from behind him. “Before he passed, your grandfather kept fixing this place up. Buying new things, moving furniture around. He said he wanted it to be perfect for someone.”
Anxin swallowed. “Someone?”
“Yes.” Her eyes softened. “You. He said it had to be perfect for you.”
For the first time in years, Anxin felt his throat tighten for something other than pain. He looked around at the house, his grandfather’s ghost lingering in every corner, his own childhood reflected back at him in pencil and color.
“Is it perfect for you?” Dayeon asked quietly.
Anxin smiled through the sting in his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered. “More than perfect.”
Outside, the wind stirred the rose bushes. And for just a moment, Anxin could’ve sworn he smelled paint in the air, the faint, familiar scent of his grandfather’s hands.
Anxin began cleaning as twilight crept through the windows, a broom borrowed from Dayeon in his hands and three little helpers trailing at his heels. Dust rose in soft clouds, catching the light like ghosts of the past. The children laughed as they chased spiders out the door and wiped the windows with rags twice their size.
They grew fond of him quickly, and he, of them. Their laughter filled the small rooms, replacing the silence that used to echo too loudly in his head. For the first time in years, Anxin felt something strange crawl up his ribs, not dread, not guilt, but something light. The creeping warmth of what could be freedom.
“Would you like to have dinner with us, Anxin?” Dayeon asked once they had cleared the cobwebs and folded the last of the dusty curtains. The house looked alive again. The floors gleamed faintly under the dying light, and only Anxin’s belongings waited to be unpacked— a few canvases, his paints, and a box of books that still smelled of the city.
Anxin hesitated, then shook his head gently. “Thank you for the offer, Noona, but I think I’d like to celebrate my first night here alone. Just me and the house.”
Dayeon smiled, the kind that said she understood more than she let on. “Of course. But you’ll need to buy food, at least. We don’t want our new neighbor starving on his first night.”
Anxin blinked, realizing he hadn’t brought any supplies. “You’re right. Where’s the market around here?”
“It’s not really a market,” she said, handing him a woven basket she’d fetched from the kitchen. “We buy from each other. It keeps the village close.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear as they stepped outside. The sky was sliding into orange, and the air had that chill that whispers of early night.
“Mr. Han is our butcher,” she continued as they walked down the dirt path. “He keeps goats, cows, pigs, he treats them kindly, too. You can get milk and cheese from him as well. Over there, Grandma Kang bakes bread that could make a saint cry once you taste it, you’ll forget every other bakery in the world. And Mrs. Kim sells fruits. Her oranges are plump, her berries sweet enough to make you believe in heaven again.”
Anxin listened, smiling at her fondness.
“And for vegetables,” she said, pointing toward a small stall near the curve of the road, “that young man — Sangwon — grows them himself. Don’t skip his stall. His harvests are the freshest you’ll ever see.”
Anxin followed her gaze. A boy stood at the stall, carefully arranging rows of carrots. His back was turned, posture straight, precise. Even from here, something about him seemed deliberate — too graceful for someone just stacking produce.
“I’ll leave you to it, Anxin,” Dayeon said. “It’s getting dark, and my husband will be waiting for dinner.”
He thanked her, waving as she disappeared down another path.
The bakery came first, small and warm and filled with the smell of yeast and sugar. An old woman looked up as he entered and broke into a grin. “Ah! Little Zhou.”
Anxin blinked, startled. “You know me?”
“Of course I do! Everyone here does. Your grandfather bragged about you constantly.” She laughed, the sound bright as wind chimes. She filled a paper bag with two golden loaves. “Here. Take it.”
He reached for his wallet, but she shook her head firmly. “No. Your grandfather made me promise — when his boy comes home, he eats for free.”
Something cracked softly inside Anxin. He bowed, smiling. “Thank you, Grandma.”
“Welcome home, little Zhou,” she said, and meant it.
The butcher and the fruit seller were the same — kind eyes, kind words, stories of his grandfather who, even in his last years, wouldn’t stop talking about his grandson who painted the world brighter than it really was. By the time Anxin left, his basket was full — bread, meat, eggs, berries — and the first stars had begun to appear.
Only one stall remained.
He joined the short line of women buying lettuce and cucumbers, the scent of soil thick in the cooling air. When it was finally his turn, he lifted his gaze — and there he was.
Sangwon.
He wasn’t much older than Anxin, perhaps the same age. His dark brown eyes had flecks of red in them — not bright, not unnatural, just deep enough to catch the light strangely. His nose was sharp, his mouth small and pink, lips slightly chapped. Beneath his eyes, a scatter of faint freckles rested like a constellation.
And when he smiled — a quiet, easy curve of his lips — Anxin forgot, for a heartbeat, how to breathe.
“Hello,” Sangwon said again when Anxin didn’t answer. His voice was calm, gentle, like the kind of tone used to soothe startled animals. “You got a bit lost there.”
“Ah, sorry,” Anxin stammered, scratching the back of his neck. He looked down at the trays of vegetables — cabbages gleaming like jade, carrots perfectly straight, potatoes still kissed with dirt. He gathered a few and placed them on the counter. “I’ll take these.”
Their fingers brushed when Sangwon took them, a fleeting contact that sent a strange jolt up Anxin’s arm. The touch was cold — though he wasn’t sure if it was Sangwon’s hand or his own that lacked warmth.
“Here you go,” Sangwon said, placing the filled bag into his basket. “My welcome gift.”
Anxin blinked. “T-thank you…”
He noticed an extra bundle of beans tucked neatly inside.
“You’re welcome.” The smile returned, smaller this time but more real. “Welcome to the village, Anxin. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
Anxin nodded. “Yes… I definitely will.”
He turned to leave, but something caught his eye — a glint of red in the fading light. He followed it with his gaze and stopped.
Behind Sangwon’s stall stood a tree. Enormous, ancient-looking, its branches heavy with apples that glowed like lanterns. The fruit was impossibly red, their skins almost too perfect.
Anxin’s heart fluttered. He loved apples — their simple sweetness, their clean crunch, the way they always tasted a little like childhood. Those apples looked like the kind he could paint for days and never get tired of looking at.
He turned back. “Hey.”
Sangwon looked up, smiling again. “Hey. Forgot something?”
“No. I mean, yes. Kind of.” Anxin’s gaze flicked back to the tree. “Do you sell apples too? I’d love to buy some. They’re my favorite—”
“No.”
The word was sharp enough to slice the air.
Anxin froze. Something in Sangwon’s tone had shifted — the warmth gone, replaced by something colder, hollow.
“Ah… sorry,” Sangwon murmured quickly, clearing his throat. His voice softened again, though it didn’t sound quite the same. “They’re just not good. Never ripen right. Always mushy. I think it’s the soil. The tree’s just… for decoration.”
“Oh.” Anxin nodded slowly. “That’s a shame. They look beautiful.”
He forced a small smile. “Thank you again, Sangwon. I’ll get going now.”
“Alright. Take care,” Sangwon said, his eyes following him. “It gets dark quickly here.”
Anxin waved and continued down the path, the basket heavy on his arm and the scent of apples lingering in his mind.
Behind him, Sangwon’s smile faded. His gaze lingered long after Anxin disappeared into the folds of the dusk, until the last bit of daylight was swallowed by the hill and the village fell into its familiar hush.
Only then did Sangwon turn toward the tree.
Under the dying sky, its apples gleamed faintly— like drops of blood waiting for someone foolish enough to take a bite.