Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Dokja-ya, would you like to hear a story?”

The little boy nodded in spite of his tiredness, smiling childishly at the question, excitement at the tip of his tongue. 

“Yes, Umma!” The weary mother only squinted with unbidden love behind her eyes, and began to spin a tale to entertain the little one beside her upon his small bed. Comforted by the lack of space between their injured bodies, their shared warmth eased the pain into something almost insignificant enough to ignore.

“…The prince and the princess, founded in their love, quickly married and set off to be the new king and queen. They reigned with utmost kindness and compassion, with their subjects coming to adore them throughout the kingdom. And they lived happily ever after,” she ended, as she did with all her stories. But the little boy could only pout back with curiosity. 

“...Did they really?”

“Yes, if you believe that they did.”

At that, the little boy pondered over his mother’s strange words. Coming to his own conclusions, he leaned into his mother’s bosom to whisper back. 

“Then I will continue to believe and dream that they did, so that their happiness lasts much longer than forever could ever offer.”

The mother only wrapped her bruised arms tighter around the thin torso of her son, kissing his eyes to bless them with slumber for the night. “That sounds wonderful, my dearest little dreamer. I’m sure that your well-wishes will bring them everlasting happiness.” 

The moon peered through the window beside the bed to catch a glimpse of mother and son, and under its watchful eye, they slept safely until the arrival of the next morn’. 

On the eve of a stormy winter night, there lay Lee Sookyung upon the small bed of her small room. Beside her sat Kim Dokja, who held her hand anxiously, sweating between the shared palms of a sickly hand, frail and calloused. 

As beautiful as she was, her youthfulness had been drained away from the ever-growing signs of illness: the thinning hair, the brittle nails, the deathly pale skin; it had only grown worse the older Kim Dokja grew. 

“Umma,” he shamefully croaked in his weakened voice, “I’m sorry.”

Cracked lips upturned into a smile, yet to Kim Dokja, it was a haunting grimace. 

“Dokja-ya, it is not your fault. It was my decision to do those things.”

“But Umma…”

A gentle squeeze from her hand unto his, the smile growing thicker at the warmth of his skin, soft and small, so unlike hers. With another pulse from her hand, Lee Sookyoung breezed away from the passing thought of how she’d miss this.

“Listen to me, and listen carefully, my Dokja-ya,” she began, though the coughs interrupted before she could continue. Kim Dokja waited patiently for his mother to speak, quickly pouring a glass of water for her to drink, but she refused. There was no point wasting it on a dying woman.

“Do you remember that one night, when the moon was at its brightest and at its peak? When it shone quietly down into your room with its pure, full light?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Do you remember what you said?”

Kim Dokja shook his head, his young face aging from the wrinkles that drew down the sides of his lips and between the center of his brows. Sniffling his nose, his face crinkled in despair as his mother’s cough worsened.

“Do not strain yourself, Umma. Rest for now, and I will go fetch for the doctor tomorrow. He will know what to do.”

She placed her weak hand upon his, and patted it in a soothing manner. “Dokja-ya, I do not have much time. There is no use calling for the doctor when death awaits my passage, and it is far too cold and dangerous for you to venture out. Just stay here with me, until death comes to kiss its lips upon my own. Grant me that at least, my son.”

A sucked in breath. A sniveling hiccup. Kim Dokja nodded in a bobbed manner. 

“Dokja-ya, though I may not be here with you, I want you to hold onto those dreams you shared for our stories, for the characters, and hold onto those dreams for yourself. You, my dearest little dreamer, deserve all the happiness in the world, and just like you wished for their happiness, I shall wish for yours. I hope that you remember these words for me. To keep them close to you, as close as you can, and to never let go. Can you promise me that?”

“I promise you, Umma.”

“You’re a good child, my Dokja-ya. Remember that too, and let no one tell you otherwise.”

“I will, Umma. I shall remember all the words you’ve told me, from today, and yesterday, and all the days before. I shall keep them close to my heart, always.”

Satisfied, and utterly overwhelmed by the natural honesty of the seemingly innocent boy before her, she couldn’t help but miss for the days that she’d never come to witness. A pathetic life stolen away from trembling hands, all because she did not have the courage to be someone braver. Someone her son could depend on. If only she had done things differently, if only she had lived a bit longer, maybe things would have changed. But she would never know, and being left with unanswered questions was too much of a burden for a failure of a mother to a sweet child like him. 

Her burden would be passed onto him like a burning flame set upon a condensed, thick forest. But for now, the only thing she could do was provide one last act of comfort. For who it was meant for, she was left with another unanswerable question. 

Lee Sookyung freed her arms apart, wide and open, a shakiness to them as she used her remaining strength. Kim Dokja cautiously entered them, nestling himself under the covers as his mother went to tug him deeper into her bony chest, her ribs sticking out much more than he remembered. She felt cold, as if the winter snow invited itself to be inside her, yet Kim Dokja just dug into the thin, faded fabric, distraught that it stopped him from reaching in to feel the slowing beats of her heart, its song soon coming to an end. 

Lee Sookyoung curled herself into the small body, melded into the bed, and into the sheets; into her clothes, and into her skin; into her flesh, and into her blood; into her heart, and into her soul. Curling into her son’s warmth for one last time. 

When the bells of the church across the city had rung twelve times, Kim Dokja knew that his mother was no longer there beside him. 

At the age of six, Kim Dokja learned what it meant to mourn. 

No ceremony was held. Instead, all she’d been given was a shallow, valueless burial beyond the outskirts of the garden, and into the darker part of the forest. But Kim Dokja preferred it this way. His mother would no longer be bound by the branding imprints of heavy hands and harsher words. She was finally free. 

Kim Dokja just wished that he too, could be free with her.

However, he had made a promise. So, for his mother—and his mother only—he would continue to live by those words, no matter the temptation that was death’s drawling, sinful call. He would not dishonor her memory. 

Kim Dokja, for all that he knew of his father, found his behavior to be rather unusual for the next three weeks.

A distance had grown between them, and Kim Dokja had learned in the span of those weeks what it was like to feel complicated emotions in the wake of grief and confusion all in one. 

He’d often encounter his father in the kitchen, or sometimes even in the hallway of the servants’ quarters, and would often pass him by with quiet steps tiptoeing in trepidation. Expecting lashings of any kind, Kim Dokja had found that he was never met with any. It wasn’t like him. Kim Dokja couldn’t say that it felt right. 

“She haunts me through your eyes,” were the first words that Kim Dokja had heard from his father, who sat stiffly upon the armchair with the first drink he’d seen him hold in months. 

Kim Dokja paused—just for a moment—in his dusting, only to continue as if his father had never spoken. 

“Come here…Dokja-ya.”

His blood stilled. Only one person had ever called him that, and it had never come from that swollen, alcohol-stenched tongue before. Kim Dokja tightened the grip on his duster, before anxiously making the turn to adhere to his father’s command. 

Stopping right before rugged, leather boots, his father made the sudden motion to lean forward, a wavering hand reaching out towards him, hesitant and large. It took all his power not to flinch or close his eyes, even when his father placed a heavy hand atop his head, unknowing that his hand bore more than just the weight of its flesh in Kim Dokja’s mind.

 “Closer, Dokja-ya.” 

It was his father, calling out to him once more, with unfamiliar words coloring his vocabulary. In all this time, his father had never once referred to his name until now.

Kim Dokja wasn’t sure why he felt his tenseness kept slipping, perhaps it was the awkwardness behind the voice that hadn’t slurred his words in so long, capable of affection in a way he hadn’t known from him before. 

Well, to Kim Dokja, who had never known his father’s love, found it difficult to resist the slow, stiff hug from his father’s arms. 

That day had quickly disappeared in the span of a week. He wasn’t sure if it had ever happened; if all those months that had passed by without incident, had been in the form of a long dream.

It must have been, for as soon as his father had returned to his habit, that was when he finally awoke: both his father, and Kim Dokja.

The servants and maids unveiled their pity for the boy, and yet, as did all the others who served within the household, they only looked away, as if those hadn’t been the same prying eyes and mouths that whispered away at their master’s absurdity all those months ago.

As if they hadn’t witnessed the change his father had undergone, if only for that short time. 

Days passed on listlessly for him. The room grew colder, the house felt crueler, and his heart ran dry. With no one to love him in return, Kim Dokja had nothing but his mother’s words to reflect back to when the nights stalked on almost endlessly.

A year had passed, and Kim Dokja had endured it with broken strength. Everyday he would chant to himself his mother’s words, until one day, he simply could not. 

“Come here.” The baritone voice of his father’s slurred words made him quickly abandon his task to come to the drawing room. When Kim Dokja entered, he felt his blood run cold. 

There, sitting across his father, was his father’s sister, along with her two children.

He clenched his fists, the nails doing nothing to quell down the fright from the very sight of them. He had only ever met them a handful of times, however, Kim Dokja had yet to remember a pleasant experience in their presence. Holding in his breath, Kim Dokja attempted to ignore the similarities of their appearances to his father’s. 

He wished that those were the only commonalities that they shared.

They all shifted to him with piercing stares as he fidgeted in his stance, hands behind his back and head bent down to avoid their apathetic expressions. 

“Raise your head.” Kim Dokja reluctantly obeyed, only to note that they had all avoided looking at him, as though he were of no importance. A slight sigh of relief escaped, only to be interrupted by the tapping of his father’s nail against the glass. 

“They’ve come to live with us for an indefinite amount of time,” the small noises stopped, “go prepare their rooms with the other servants."

A hand of dismissal, and Kim Dokja left as quickly as he could, but not before being tripped by the outstretched leg of his cousin, who he could only presume sneered at him with disgust. Instead, all he could feel was the harsh heel of the shoe digging into his back, and was only able to crawl out after strenuous effort.

No one had said anything, other than the grunts Kim Dokja let out in his struggle. As soon as he could, he skittered out of the room, but this time, he swore he could hear the quiet snickering of someone’s voice. 

It was this day, that the very shallow reserves of his will to keep his promise to his mother, had begun to crack at just the slightest tinge of resentment, but it was visible enough for Kim Dokja to ignore it. He had made a promise, and no matter what, he intended to keep it.

Another year had passed since his father’s sister and her children had come to live with them. Kim Dokja was now eight. As if his father’s abuse and the unending stares of useless pity weren’t enough, his aunt and cousins had made sure to double the amount of his suffering. 

They sent him running, constantly, forcing him to serve under every little whim, errand, and order they gave him. Encouraged by their mother’s glee and uncle’s apathy, his cousins continued to harass him, smearing him with the mushed juices and fleshy splats of tomatoes on his clothes, his hair, his face—anywhere and anything they could do to inconvenience him. 

He hated it. Every ounce of that wretched, bloody fruit reminded him of the stench that filled his clothes, soaking them with its repulsive smell. No matter how harshly he scrubbed at it, no matter the amount of soap and water mixed into the sudding fabric, nothing could save them from its invisible red mark. It owned his clothes, and it owned him. How they laughed and jeered whenever they landed another splotch to his clean clothes came to eventually chip away more and more of his pointless existence. 

Kim Dokja found that there was only so much he could take before breaking, and when he had reached that point, he found himself not caring about anything at all. 

So, on one dark evening, when he was particularly starved from another grueling day of laborious work, he snuck out of the house, past the garden, and into the forest to meet his mother. 

There sat the sadly worn stone from the weathering rains of spring. Its somberness glowed more so at night than it did in the day. Perhaps it was upset, or perhaps she was upset at him for being up at such an hour. As he did with most things nowadays, he ignored the nauseousness forming in the back of his throat, the guilt welling up like crashing tides inside his empty stomach. With an exhaustion he had grown accustomed to, Kim Dokja laid his head to rest, and began to dream.

He dreamed of the day he’d meet his mother again. To be able to run and hug her with all his might, for the comfort, and especially the want. Kim Dokja wanted to remember what it felt like to be loved once more. What it felt like to have a pleasant smell fill up his lungs with a sweet, faint soapy scent from her cleaning, sometimes mixed in with earthy florals if she had worked in the garden. 

But no one took care of the garden anymore. He would if he could, but his hands were too small, and it stung when the thorns and roots would prick through his skin. The insects were not very charming, and he was frightened of his cousins dropping another pile of dung upon his head, so he could not tend to his mother’s flowers all that well. 

But thinking about them was useless.

Everything that had originally been within the garden, had withered away with time. Only barely did they fare a bit longer under Kim Dokja’s ignorant, but well-meaning care. The flowers, the shrubbery, and all the other plants must have collected themselves in unison, and given up the moment they realized that no one would be there for them anymore. 

Kim Dokja thought that maybe he wasn’t the only one who missed his mother. 

The quieter thoughts of another person quickly vanished, for Kim Dokja still could not believe that person could ever learn to love. The strange behavior was just him adjusting to the change of lacking his favorite beating bag, that was all. 

Opening his eyes, he stared up at the dotted lights in the sky. His mother had told him that they were stars, and that they shined similarly to the brightness in his own eyes. He wondered, if she had the chance to see him now, would she still think that of him? Or would she see the tiredness in his eyes that were once reflected in hers?

The next night, Kim Dokja had stolen an apple from the kitchen. His father opted out of his usual loitering around the servant's quarters for tonight, a habit that had yet to cease. Kim Dokja did not know what to think of that; although, he hadn’t enough energy to care. 

At the very least, he never had to worry about his aunt or cousins. They had a routine they liked to follow, including sleep, valuing it because it helped to “maintain their beauty ,” as they liked to say, but he could not see what was so beautiful about them. 

He tiptoed outside, his memory of which floorboards creaked after years of hiding from his father to avoid upsetting him proved useful. It was a familiar feeling that he had lost. Again, it was dismissed.

Kim Dokja ran back to his mother. 

“...Hello Umma, I apologize for bothering you so late at night, but I brought you something. It’s your favorite.” He presented it proudly to the unmarked stone. It said nothing back. Kim Dokja just smiled, pleased to not be met with any judgment or ridicule, further confirming for the child that it must have been his mother listening to him, for only she could possess such a kind nature. 

“I cut it in half for us. I know you would want me to eat it whole, but I would much rather share it with you. I think you’d like that, right?”

The breeze swayed the short blades of grass as green leaves flew down, twirling in the air quite fantastically. It was mesmerizing for Kim Dokja to watch. Perhaps she was scolding him for doing what he did, but since the wind had only nudged at his hair, he was sure that his mother still appreciated it nonetheless. 

He was soon distracted by something lurking in the darkness, perched perfectly still upon one the higher branches, staring down at him with an unnerving intensity.

Contemplating, Kim Dokja decided to abandon all reason and go with his instincts. A soft voice soon whispered out to the sky. “…Hello? Is someone there?” It did not reply, and only continued to stare.

“You can come out, I don’t mind if you do. Are you hungry?”

It nested in its seat, and did not budge. Kim Dokja, in his lapse of curiosity, had gathered the halves, and sat one upon the stone for his mother. While he held onto his own half, the creature watched on, wondering what the little boy would do next. Kim Dokja scavenged around the area nearest to his bent knees, tickling the dirt beneath him until his fingers had settled on what he had been searching for. 

In between his thumb and palm lay a jagged piece of rock, and with it, he used it to break into the apple’s half at its center. The jaggedness of the rock did not make it easy to do, and so he was left with two uneven pieces, one being much larger than the other. Looking back at the silent stone, Kim Dokja made his choice.

“Here quiet one, I leave this with you. I only ask that you leave this half on the stone untouched, for it is my mother’s, and therefore her’s alone to share.” So he left them both, but not before plucking out the seeds to plant into the ground behind the stone. Kim Dokja let out a soft wish, and soundlessly hoped that it would come true. Though he had not been much of a dreamer anymore, if it meant to please his mother, then he would entertain the thought just for her happiness. 

“Please grow strong, little seeds, so that when you bear fruit, I may share again with my mother and anyone else who needs it.” Standing up to dust off his tattered pants, Kim Dokja made his way to return to his father’s house without looking back to catch a glimpse of the unknown creature. 

The flapping sounds of wings had arisen after the little boy’s departure. Spindly legs and clawed feet landed upon the stone, as beady eyes stared into the distance, before beginning to eat the promised half of the much larger, rugged piece that had been given to it out of the kindness of a weary heart. 

The resounding smack of something smashing itself into his face, followed by a few more just seconds apart, had quickly turned into a dripping mess upon his sooty clothes from cleaning the kitchen oven. The red organs of the thrown tomatoes landed upon his worn out shoes, and onto the floor he had scrubbed earlier that day. It spread into a neat pile of blood, the droplets sounding much louder than his cousins’ snickers and crude words. 

“Seems like you’ll have to clean again.”

“Make sure not to miss a single spot, stupid servant.”

Snickers throbbed into obnoxious cackles as they went off with their stolen treats, surely to place the blame back onto him to watch him get another beating later. He stood there, allowing the red juice to run its course down his face, down his clothes, onto his shoes, and into the floor. If they had used more tomatoes to throw at him, would it be enough to knock him out forever? Would the moist flesh of its innards suffocate him enough to choke from its stench? Or could it drown him until he dropped dead onto the floor, slipping upon its sticky surface hard enough where his skull would crack open and lay waste to the organs inside, perhaps to prove to someone that he was alive too, at some point. Maybe it would be just as red as the tomatoes that he despised so much. 

Kim Dokja licked his lips, the bitter taste of sourness entering his mouth, the contents slimy and disturbing to drink. It had been his only fill of food for the day. He began to clean. 

On the third night of visiting his mother, he found that the half he had offered was gone. While he’d like to think that it was her who had eaten it, the cynical truths of reality led him to believe that some other creature had taken it for themself instead. It was foolish of him to believe that she could still touch and breathe like he wished would stop for him, but he clung to the idea that she must have been watching him from the beyond, even if he couldn’t see her. And so, for her sake, he’d pretend a little longer. 

“Good evening, Umma. I’m here again, though I have no more apples to give, I bring a single roll of bread. I shall split this with you as well.” Tearing into the stale bread, he placed it atop the stone, and leaned back into the grass, leaving his own piece to lay upon his chest. The stars did not shine as brightly tonight. 

He closed his eyes, shielding them away from their concern. It was not their business to know if he would wake up the following morning or not, and he hoped they would not interfere if it involved the latter. 

Kim Dokja laid there restlessly, wondering when sleep or maybe another would come for him. But his plans were ruined when his ears picked up on the faintest of flutters moving closer and closer to him. Unable to resist his need to know, he opened his eyes to find a dark bird staring back at him. It cocked its head to the side. Kim Dokja slowly motioned to lift himself back up into a sitting position, and gazed back, tilting his own head to match their eyes. 

“You seem familiar…were you the visitor from yesternight, quiet one?”

Its head returned back to its original state, leading him to follow while his eyes widened at the revelation. His face leaned closer to its beak, before quickly backing away from his sudden impulsivity. The bird only sent a downcast glance at the bread cradled within his hands. 

“Are you hungry? Here, I’m not so hungry myself. Feel free to eat.”

But the bird did something strange. When Kim Dokja placed the piece onto the stone, the bird began to tear right at the center, using its beak and foot to pull from opposite directions, and after some time, it successfully split the bread into two smaller chunks. Its head moved the larger chunk to him, and it began to peck at its chosen smaller one. 

Something that had not been awoken in Kim Dokja for a very long time began to stir from the bird’s kindness. “Thank you,” he whispered. The bird only continued to eat, and soon Kim Dokja joined in. 

Once it had finished, the bird began to fly and soar into the night sky, but not without circling around to wait until Kim Dokja began to make his own way back. His chest had ached in a different way, and sleep found him easier tonight than it had expected to. 

Over the course of a decade, Kim Dokja came to endure the endless abuse and bouts of torture his father’s family put him through. Although things had changed since then, on that one fateful night. Kim Dokja had a solace to depend on, and she’d wait for him every night, patiently, upon the tree he had planted when he was just a broken child, had now blossomed into a beautiful apple tree, already flowering with fruit for the two to feast on freely. 

And from that one fateful meeting, their bond had grown. 

It started small, with Kim Dokja only ever sharing his half with the bird, and always made sure to reserve the larger half for his mother. The bird seemed to respect that, and Kim Dokja appreciated the sentiment. From then on, she had eventually grown comfortable enough with him to start bringing along small trinkets in exchange for the food he provided, often small coins, pendants, or precious stones. With her gifts, he was able to save them, hidden away in the clearing near his mother’s resting place. Kim Dokja, however, was unable to use them as currency, for in all his years, his father had never let him once step into town, let alone past the forest the house resided in. He wasn’t even sure his mother had ever been able to leave the home beyond the garden. Kim Dokja wondered how long it had been since she had seen another person of her own accord. 

Well, whatever the case, Kim Dokja made sure to appreciate the bird’s effort and kindness. Perhaps they could use them together in the future, when he finally escaped from this terror. He hoped the bird would stay for much longer than his mother, and would not leave him anytime soon. 

From then on, their closeness grew to where Kim Dokja and her led conversations, albeit one-sided, for the bird could not talk. He wondered what it would be like if she could, but those were just silly wishes of a lonely boy, and so he quietly swept those dreams away. To think that his only companions were his departed mother and a mysterious bird were rather pitiful, but this was preferable to his previous loneliness. 

The more time they spent, the more time Kim Dokja began to realize how strangely cognizant the little creature was, to the point where she had taught him to read throughout his childhood, and into his adolescence.

Unfortunately, Kim Dokja had never been taught beyond the basics due to his mother’s early passing, and therefore had to depend on the lessons he’d eavesdropped on whenever he’d clean near the library within the house. Oftentimes posing to clean or dust off the shelves, he’d make sure to retain all that he could, and apply it at night together with the bird, always with a borrowed book from the library during his cleanings. She would sit herself upon his shoulder, reading alongside him, tugging his hair whenever he pronounced something wrong. She proved herself to be a reliable teacher for the young boy.

By 18 years of age, he had perfected his reading, along with his writing, aided by the years of his spying nature, and the bird’s compassion.

The bird he had come to befriend was amazingly intelligent. 

Kim Dokja suddenly recalled a memory, one he cherished particularly throughout their years of companionship. It was a few years back when he was still just learning, out of his own amusement and admiration for her, he came to explore a wondering he’d had ever since he first encountered the mysterious creature. 

“Clever one, you’ve kept me company for so long, and I am truly grateful for what you’ve done, but I must ask, do you have a name?”

The bird flapped its wings with overt pettiness, as though she were mocking Kim Dokja for asking such a simple question. Her mockery was far different than the humiliating ones he had come to know from his family, and soon enough recognized the lightheartedness in her actions were meant to only be in jest, a common thing between friends. He found that he liked this sort of thing, and grew to do it back to her in time. 

“I’m sorry, it seems like I’ve struck a nerve within you. But you can’t blame me entirely, I mean, it’s not as though you’ve told me.” The bird just nipped at the finger that had been fluffing up her feathers. 

“Well, how about this: if you can, spell it out using the letters in the book, alright?” 

It was an arduous process, bickering with a bird of all things, but they had done it. He had found out that the bird’s name was Han Sooyoung. 

“Han Sooyoung,” the words feeling foreign along his tongue, “I think it fits you very well, clever one. A pretty name for a pretty bird.”

Han Sooyoung only puffed up her chest, but for all her pompous charm, Kim Dokja could see the hint of bashfulness in her quivering feathers. At the age of twelve, Kim Dokja had finally formed a genuine smile, equally foreign as the name he had learned, since the passing of his mother. 

His father had gruffly grabbed him by the collar of his shirt one day. This was not so unusual of an occurrence in Kim Dokja’s life, however, it was more of the urgency that was more so of a concern to him than the beating that would soon be delivered. His father typically took his time to drag him to whichever room and toss him onto the floor, but this time was different. Instead, they traveled through various corridors, eventually going out the door, and that was when his father finally let go.

Now it was just the two of them, outside in the middle of the night without interference from an audience Kim Dokja was accustomed to. 

His father’s breathing was ragged, his breath though, was without stench, another telling that this was an ominous night. Kim Dokja also began to feel his chest fill with the heaviness of unrelenting breath.

“Dokja-y—Dokja,” his father had hesitated, either because of the displaced affection or his uneven breath, “tomorrow morning, you are to be drafted in the upcoming war.”

Kim Dokja, who had only known his world to revolve around this house, was confused. When did their kingdom begin responding to the trepidation of war? Who was the opposing side that he was suddenly expected to fight against? All under the pretense of patriotism of a nation which he had only ever lived through in books and nothing else. He had never stepped outside, and yet now, he was to fight for a group of people, a country, he had never even experienced. 

To Kim Dokja, an unbidden sense of anger exploded into confusion and rage, one that he had never allowed to reach out towards his father, but in this hour, he let it overflow.

“What do you mean?! What—” he struggled stuttering out, “what is the meaning of this?! Do you truly expect me to just—just go?!”

Not knowing what to do with his hands, whether to stretch them and begin wrangling his father for answers, he instead chose to tangle them into his hair, hunching forward as the contents of his stomach started to rile up within. 

Throughout his panic, Kim Dokja could only catch the glimpses of his father’s roughened palms floating above his head. His natural reaction was to flinch and curl deeper into the ground. Kim Dokja failed to see that his father had also mimicked the reaction of his son. 

By the time it was morning, Kim Dokja could not recall any of the details that had occurred in those late hours. He was not sure how he had gotten to bed, nor the pitcher of water besides the half-filled glass upon the stool that he once sat upon that one winter night, all those years ago. 

No matter, those details were unimportant as Kim Dokja was soon drafted to the military. Despite it being the first time beyond the forest, he could not enjoy the countryside without thinking of how his father had sentenced him to death so easily. 

His father had not bothered to show up that morning as he was taken away.

In the passing of three years, the warring period had lasted between their kingdom and another’s. Forced into this war without any knowledge of the situation, he was left to fend for himself. His sheltered life had debilitated his ability to interact with others, further ostracizing him from ever building proper human connection. At least Han Sooyoung had come with him, abandoning the life of safety to stay beside him like she’d always done.

Something he wished his mother would have done. Something his father could have done.

He, like many of the other soldiers, had been worn out from the length of time—and the bloodshed that they had witnessed. Kim Dokja had never imagined that he would have a hand in taking another human’s life with his own hands in desperation of keeping his own, one that he believed was worthless than the ones beneath the blade. He was not skilled by any means, but his lack of presence gave him the advantage of evading capture and death multiple times. 

Now though, in the height of tension and chaos that carried throughout the battlefield, they had all understood that this would be the fight that would end the war. 

In the midst of the overwhelming violence, Kim Dokja stood still, enraptured by the glimpse he caught of the vibrant sharp gaze of another. Beautiful as it was, he was suddenly drawn to the erratic stature of a man attempting to climb his way through, slaying others in his path with quick efficiency. Kim Dokja realized that his path was purposefully making his way behind the one whose beauty had caught his eye, and in that instant, had made his decision.

With sweat beading down his chin, and the heaviness of his armor and sword, Kim Dokja was able to intercept the swinging blade before it caught the back of the stranger behind him. With unknown strength, he pushed the attacker back, breathing heavily with his stance low and staggered, yet still grounded and balanced, he ran straight forward and stabbed right through the gut. 

Red sputters of blood coughed into his face; Kim Dokja did not dare blink nor look away in fear of possible retaliation, but the man only slumped onto his shoulder, before sliding off his blade and onto the dirt. 

Another man killed, however this time, Kim Dokja was also able to save a life that was not his own for once. He hesitated, before casting a glance behind, only to find that those eyes were now upon him, wide, with an expression that he could not discern. 

The man stood, and looked as though he was about to speak, but the battlefield soon reminded them that they were not alone. Kim Dokja ran the opposite way without looking back, missing the curious regret of longing he left behind him.

Kim Dokja had survived. He had still accumulated some minor injuries and scars, but it was over. They had won under the prince’s command, and now it was time for celebration. 

For him though, there was no celebration when the household he returned to had barely acknowledged his presence. Not even the staff had welcomed him, and only gossiped amongst themselves in shock at the fact that he was even alive. 

“Perhaps it was all those beatings…”

“I’m surprised he even returned home—”

“It’s not like he had anywhere else to go.”

“The poor boy…”

“More like pathetically inept—”

“Hush you! He might hear you!”

“And do what? He’s barely even grown, three years and hardly a difference.”

Kim Dokja didn’t care for their mockery, nor their pity or humiliation. He had learned to ignore them many years ago. 

And despite being away for so long, after witnessing the shock of death, blood, betrayal and grief in the battlefield, along with isolation from his fellow soldiers, Kim Dokja had still managed to retain the void husk of apathy built over a lifetime of abuse and loneliness. Because of this, most of his family had resumed their usual routine as though nothing had ever changed, as if he hadn’t been gone for three years. In a sickeningly uneasy way, Kim Dokja preferred this. It was better than expecting anything else. 

His father had slowly also accepted that his return meant nothing would change. So the beatings and beratings and drinking soon began in a gradual manner. It seemed that he still kept the habit of visiting the servant’s quarters, although it had now developed into standing right outside of Kim Dokja’s own quarters every few nights. It was odd, but the unspoken quietude between them had also become a part of the mundane.

But on those particularly grueling, painful days, at the very least he could always return to his haven, where both Han Sooyoung and his mother resided. Kim Dokja had greatly missed that during the war.

Soon, he too also retired to his usual routine, as if he had never left. Now having returned, his thoughts wandered to his and Han Sooyoung’s apple tree. He wondered how it looked, while scrubbing the floor clean. The repetitiveness locking into his arms and hands turned into obsession, the blood rushing down as his eyes bore into the stain of red that greeted him tauntingly. 

An irritating voice broke through the quiet of the drawing room. Kim Dokja continued to dust the shelves, as his cousin began to speak.

“There’s been some rather fascinating news running rampantly throughout the kingdom. Has it reached your ears yet, dearest mother? Or even yours, dear uncle?”

Neither one who had been addressed had shown an inkling of recognition to what his cousin was going on about. Everyone in the room, including Kim Dokja himself, waited patiently for the next words to come out. It was very rare when Kim Dokja was able to learn about the outside world, so he tuned in with barely held restraint. 

“Well, the news reports the celebration of our victory from the war, along with the upcoming prince’s coronation. In celebration, a festival for three nights shall be held throughout the kingdom!”

“Oh my,” his aunt had loudly gasped,  “how splendid!”

“Yes, but that’s not all mother,” chimed in his other cousin. Now the attention was upon him, as he watched the heads turn towards the other. 

“It is rumored that the prince is seeking out a bride or groom, and all men and women of age are eligible to be considered as potential partners to the prince, the soon-to-be king himself!” 

Both his aunt and father’s eyes had widened in a dramatic fashion. It was odd seeing how expressive his father had been at this moment. Kim Dokja was used to the apathy or anger usually present on his face, but to see him exhibit something else, was uncomfortable to witness. He didn’t see what was so special about this, it wasn’t as though his cousins would ever have a chance at romance, let alone romancing the prince of all people. 

He almost let a snicker slip out, but caught himself by disguising it as a cough. No one had batted an eye at the action thankfully, too distracted with the news his cousins delivered. In fact they had been so riled up, that his aunt and cousins rallied themselves together to start getting ready for an impromptu shopping trip down to the town square. 

“We must make sure to dress you both with the most dashing of clothes! How much time until the festival begins?”

“Only today, the festival begins tomorrow once dusk arrives.”

“Goodness! Then we must make haste! Come along children, you as well brother, this is of utmost importance.” 

With slow meditation, his father finally stood up to follow, hardly keeping pace with the rushing nature of the rest of his family. As soon as they had all left, with his father closing the door without a glance back at Kim Dokja, he was soon left to process the news alone, wondering about what the festival might be like, and what it was to experience one.

It was much later in the evening when they finally returned, various items carried in by the staff, his aunt and cousins talking excitedly amongst one another before bidding each other a good night to prepare early for the festival ahead. His father did not hold the same excitement, and treaded back the same way he left the house earlier. 

No matter though, as they all went to retire for the night and closed the doors to their rooms, Kim Dokja was able to prepare for his meeting with Han Sooyoung, bringing along their current book and some pastries his cousins had bought during their trip. Stuffing away the three pastries into his shirt, he knew they would be none the wiser, too distracted with gaining the prince’s favor. He severely doubted the man would look their way, considering their nasty personalities, and it was a well-known fact how unapproachable the prince was due to his brutal, stoic demeanor. As handsome as he was, his words were terse and blunt.

Kim Dokja eagerly awaited their misfortune, and he was sure Han Sooyoung would join him in his anticipation. Imagining their miserable expressions from being rejected by the prince, the ultimate destruction of their delusional fantasies, the built up pleasure of knowing their inevitable disappointment fueled his elatedness as he ran to meet Han Sooyoung. 

Running up to the stone and tree, he saw Han Sooyoung perched upon its branch, preening herself clean to groom her feathers. 

“Han Sooyoung, Umma, I have quite delightful news to share.” He set down the pastries and placed them on the stone. 

With an unusual sense of impatience, he began to recount the details of the festival to Han Sooyoung, who had yet to leave the branch she had claimed as her own. “…I wondered if I should go, but I think it best if I stay here with you. It would be nice to have a break for once without them breathing down my neck, and they hadn’t even noticed that I hadn’t done all my chores for today. We could do anything that we please. What do you think, Han Sooyoung?” 

He didn’t ask his mother these questions anymore now that he had a friend, feeling a bit silly talking to the air, and had slowly come to abandon the childish notion, but Han Sooyoung never seemed to judge him, and would even encourage him to include her in the conversation as well. So he would do his best, trying as he did now. Kim Dokja supposed that this is what friends must have been sent for, and he was glad that whoever sent him this clever little bird, sent him Han Sooyoung. 

But as grateful as he was for her, he could not deny that the antics she performed could be rather bothersome, as she was doing now with sitting herself upon his head, only to stamp her sharp claws just enough for them to pinch, but not to hurt, while flailing her wings wildly about. The pestering only grew worse as her crowing resounded loudly in the clearing. 

“What is it now? Did you over pluck your feathers too much to lose all sense and reason?” Han Sooyoung bent her head down to screech into his ear. 

“Agh! Han Sooyoung!”

Mocking caws that sounded suspiciously of laughter caused him to grit his teeth and take a bite into the pastry that he had assigned to her. A huge one at that, and one she did not appreciate.

“I don’t understand how you like this,” he recoiled violently from its flavor, “it’s so sour. You have an odd taste for a bird, Sooyoung-ah…” 

She did not respond to that, mercifully ignoring his heinous crime and insult, and instead began to demand for the book by stamping her feet onto the stone twice. Recognizing the cue, he opened it to a random page for her to begin spelling, while he brought out the pen and the spare leaflets of pages they had stored into the trunk of the tree, the papers taken from the study, while Han Sooyoung had stolen the pen and ink for him to write. He hadn’t questioned where she got it, nor any of the other stolen trinkets, but he was grateful for her acts of thievery nonetheless.

Now equipped with their usual writing tools, Han Sooyoung handled the rest, poking each letter, stamping her foot once for a space, and twice for a period. And because she liked to nitpick over insignificant details, she would use a single claw from her foot to scratch upon the stone, indicating a comma in the sentence. Truly, he wondered how a bird could acquire such information on pointless things, yet did not even know how to hunt for herself and depended on him for food, though she’d often deny her lack of skill whenever he questioned her. 

Already used to speaking to one another through this form of communication after many years of practice, he had quickly written out her message, and began to read her words to him. 

‘You are an idiot.’

He glared at her, but without her usual caws of laughter, he realized that she was being serious, and continued.

‘Kim Dokja, go to the festival. Enjoy your time there, explore, have fun. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me, for Sookyung-ssi. She would want you to go, you know that. Don’t you remember your promise?’

A shaking grip took hold of the thin paper. Its texture grafts on sweating palms, fingers tense with anger. Kim Dokja, without looking at her, called out: “Han Sooyoung,” he said coldly. The bird returned the intensity within his gaze, yet he continued to falter as his eyes shook in an unsteady manner. “You know I can’t.”

The little boy within him continued to shake and tremble from the remembrances of a forgotten promise—no, not forgotten, but merely left behind for the dust to cover from the fear of a broken heart. He thought of his mother, her presence always haunted him whenever he met with Han Sooyoung during their nightly encounters, but he had come to ignore her later on as the years passed him by, the tree blooming behind her unmarked grave. 

Yes, out of respect he always made sure to bring an offering, no matter how small, but that had become the extent of his attention towards his mother. He rarely ever mentioned her now, save for the times he felt it to be necessary. Like tonight. But Han Sooyoung made him regret ever calling upon his mother for this evening’s meeting.

His body felt little tremors, shaking him more to his core than the beatings and negligence his father delivered onto him, to the ten long years of his cousins’ harassment and their mother’s beratings. His mother had done this to him, leaving him behind all those years ago to live in the abyss of death that he had yearned for since the day she died. She had left him to rot from the inside out, left to the wolves who gnawed and teethed his glass skin, broken beyond repair. His mother, who he loved so dearly, had become a stain of resentment in Kim Dokja’s past and future. 

Without his knowing, he had begun to convulse out bitter tears, leaving his one true companion to resort to using black feathers tickling his cheeks, the wings soft against them. “Sooyoung-ah…”

Though the bird could not have possessed such an ability, she expressed her care and sympathies through her delicately tailored actions. The strength in her wings continuously pressing themselves to clear away his hurt reminded him that she had been here for him for as long as he could remember. He winced at his selfishness, his anger blinding him from the loved one who chose to stay with him unlike his mother. 

‘Umma had no choice.’

Kim Dokja ignored the reminiscing defenses of a childish little boy who idolized too much for his own good. 

Deciding to commit himself to choosing Han Sooyoung’s happiness over his own, he cautiously lifted her up. Her clawed toes pinching the lines decorating his palms as he brought her closer to him. If only for her, he would do whatever he could to repay her for staying by him, for choosing him, for loving him. She was his teacher, his friend, his companion, and his family. It shouldn’t have been so hard to say yes to her in the first place.

“I will go, if only for you. But there is no guarantee, for I will still have to request his permission.” His face now cleaned, Han Sooyoung belatedly rubbed her small head against his nose. He smiled. “Thank you,” he said with a tender candidness. 

“Thank you, so much for everything, Sooyoung-ah. Without you…” I would not be here. He sent a gentle kiss upon the small top of her head, and set her down the stone to make his way back. A newfound courage and determination defined his stance. For once, he did not choose to look back as he usually did, too caught up in his own preparation for the fears ahead in his path, he did not notice the bird’s astoundment, nor the lights that had begun to enwrap her within their binding sparks. 

He should have known it wouldn’t have been so simple. 

“You wish to attend the festival?”

It was the morning of, marking it as the first day, and his family had already begun their preparations in hopes of catching the prince’s eye. His cousins and aunt were both there to witness his request, while his father and him stood at the center in all the commotion of their bustling. They could not understand why, after all these years of reticence, that the young man had chosen to speak out now, all for a festival. He did not expect them to of course, no other person could ever understand the emotions that he had sworn to keep locked away, and though he attempted to excuse it as a means for Han Sooyoung’s happiness, his true feelings had swirled unconsciously at the thought of witnessing a sight he had never been blessed with before. What would it be like, to bask under the darkness of the sky as the town danced blissfully in the colors of the stars, the moon, and the lanterns below, living the life he and his mother had always dreamt to have for themselves one day? 

What would it be like, to keep the promise of a young boy’s fragile heart?

Happily ever afters, he had learned, did not exist. But maybe, for just these few nights, he could have them, just for himself to keep when the creeping loneliness of death’s embrace came for him.

“...Yes, father.”

His father remained quiet, but it was clear that his expression was not one of contentment. His originally apathetic look, had visibly morphed into one of bewilderment, followed soon after by a sudden violence to his countenance, one that Kim Dokja was all too familiar with, but could never prepare for despite his learned aptitude of detaching himself from the abuse. 

If he hadn’t bowed his head back down, Kim Dokja might have witnessed the trembling eyes that looked upon him with unknown anguish, before steeling them back into rage as he smacked a hand across his son’s face. 

“Lift up your head.” Kim Dokja obeyed, despite the stinging he felt upon his cheek, and the soreness already growing in his neck, he raised it back up. His father stretched out his arm to reach for his head, and tore at his scalp’s roots, black hair now in the hands of thick, swollen fingers. His neck was forming a crick the longer his father stared. 

“You…are such a worthless child.”

With no more words to say, his father soon resumed action. His head swung immediately to the floor, banging it harshly against the wood. There were sure to be splinters found from the impact of his father’s swing. 

It continued, over, and over, and over again. There was no delay in the sounds emitted from the constant banging against the floorboards. When it came to a halt, his father finally spoke up. 

“…Make sure to clean this mess once we depart.” 

All previous engagements began to fade back in once those words were spoken. The volume of the room had then returned, and settled itself comfortably in the light-hearted atmosphere. Kim Dokja laid there on the ground, unmoving, as the rest of his family resumed their preparations. 

They stepped over his body, their clothes dragging over him like a veil. He let the coldness of the floor ease him over. A small puddle of water had begun to pool itself near his head. Everyone else in the home had ignored the commotion, and continued on with their day-to-day living, as though nothing had happened. As though Kim Dokja were not here. The wood below stained into a darker shade of brown. 

They had left, and Kim Dokja had completed his chores for the day. They were simpler to do, the servants having shown him the smallest of mercies in their rareness of pity, and had taken more of his load for this day. 

He hated their hypocrisy. 

Tired, tear-burdened, and hopeless, he dragged himself in the dusk of the forest to grieve. To grieve, after all these years, the dreams that he had foolishly inflated despite knowing the outcome. He should have known better than to dream. Why had he followed the words of his mother still, after all this time? 

At the stone, he fell to the ground, knees buckling from the heaviness of his body and heart, and for once, allowed himself to break apart. He did not care if Han Sooyoung saw him, for she had seen him in all phases of life, she could surely witness his worst. He would only be sorry that she had to deal with a person like him: a stupid boy who never learned to grow up in the end. 

Droplets streaked down his face, overflowing, and pulled down to the stone. Sobs racked out his chest, out his throat, and out his lips. His arms hid the shame he felt, as black bangs helped to cover him up. In his mourning, he did not hear the light steps walking in front of him, as knees bent down to deliver a hesitant hand onto the young man’s head. 

Startled by the soft motions of the hand’s caress, his tears had paused in their storm, and his eyes flitted up to see a young woman with a concerned, pained look on her face.

“Who—who are you?”

With glazed eyes and a watery smile, the woman spoke. “An old friend, Kim Dokja.”

“...How do you know my name?”

“It is as I said: an old friend. I have known you for a very long time. I have seen you, watched you grow, and I have come to love you, to cherish you, as my most dearest companion. Though I could not do much before, I am here to help you now.” She continued to pet his hair, and Kim Dokja realized that despite the woman’s eyes configured to a different shape and color, that gaze was familiarly warm. It stared right through Kim Dokja, as though she knew all of him.

“...Han Sooyoung? Is that you?”

The young woman moved her other hand to wipe away the lines of water that had started once again at his surprise. Her smile widened from hearing those words.

“That’s right. I am Han Sooyoung, the bird who has been beside you for more than ten years.”

“But how? How are you—”

She hushed him, and asked him this: “Would you really like to know?”

Then, unexpectedly, it was as if a light had been rekindled inside of him. One that he had not felt since his mother’s stories. A curiosity towards the magic, the narrative, and the unknown. Han Sooyoung chuckled at the face he made, and he was sure that it was a strange face, but his excitement would not cease.

“Well, if you must know,” she said with a sly gleam to her eyes, “it was all because of you, Kim Dokja.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Would you like to hear a story?” And it was at those words, that the light inside of Kim Dokja, had grown into the burning flames of a pyre; strong, bold, and full of life.

“...Yes, if you would, Sooyoung-ah.”

“Very well, Dokja-ya.”

And so, Han Sooyoung’s small tale began to unwind into the depths of her past.

A long time ago, in a distant time much further than this, there lived a witch. This witch, despite her young age, was very knowledgeable in her craft. She could brew potions, she could whisper spells, there was nothing she could not do. Because of these things, she fell into a passionate affair, taking arrogance as her lover, and grew overly vain with her abilities. 

She became isolated, cold, and cynical. She did not know what it meant to share in the companionship of another, and so she traveled the world alone, not knowing of the things she missed, for she did not know how to care for them in the first place. Despite all the knowledge she had, she had failed to attain the lesson of loving another. And because she had never been taught, she had never learned to care. So life remained simple for the young witch. 

A few years passed, and as she grew older, she soon stumbled upon the secrets of immortality. Following the connecting overlapping legends of the infamous scroll that contained this forbidden spell, she took it as a challenge to prove herself worthy. In her greed for the knowledge of everlasting life, she took the spell for herself, despite all warnings and cautionary tales. The witch, too selfish and confident for her own good, did not notice the guardian who kept the scroll safe and hidden from the rest of the world.

“You, who deem yourself worthy to use the scroll, why have you come?”

The young witch responded back to the guardian, cladded in white robes with long, amber hair. 

“Why, to gain the gift of immortality of course.”

The guardian persisted in their questioning.

“And for what reason do you believe yourself to be the only one worthy of this gift?”

“Because only I am the most worthy. I alone know all in magic and this world, and therefore, I deserve such a gift. No other person is as worthy of receiving this as much as myself.”

Unfortunately for the young witch, the guardian did not take this answer too kindly, and instead became enraged from hearing her words. The sleeves of her white robes began to lift, as the guardian raised her voice, angered from the young witch’s arrogance and vanity. 

“You, young witch, are far from being worthy of such a gift. You are arrogant and selfish, and because of those things, you have been blinded, and have failed to notice the true gift of living a mortal life. But since you have come to seek immortality’s gift, I will give it to you, though it is not without consequence.”

The young witch, who had never known anything but courage and strength, quickly became frightened at the might of the guardian’s magic, which surrounded her in a whirlpool of lights. When the spell was cast and done, the young witch soon found herself in a hideous form. All her beauty, and all her humanity, had been stripped away from her. Angry, she began to shout and flail her arms, but all that came out were the rasping cries of crows from her throat and unsteady flaps of feathered wings. 

The guardian looked down at her in pity as the young witch continued to cry out. 

“Young witch, you have found what you have sought, for in this form, you shall live a life without death until you can find the true meaning behind the preciousness of mortality’s gift.”

Now without magic, and without a voice, the young witch could only run away from the guardian’s lair in a flurried manner, too broken-hearted to linger and consider the purpose of the words imparted unto her. 

For many, many years, the young witch had come to accept that she would never return to her original life, and had long given up hope. Being cursed to live out this new way of life, she had soon come to recognize the true loneliness and isolation of her ways. She had no one to go to, no one to talk to, and no one to turn to. She was a pathetic existence, and it had taken her a curse to realize that. 

She wandered the world, and watched people pass her by without a glance. Until one day, she had come to a new town. This was nothing exceptional, and the people only continued to walk on, ignoring her presence. It was always the same, until she decided to venture out into the forest that stood towards the outskirts of the town, and there, she found an unusual sight. 

The young witch landed upon a branch, and watched a little boy speak to himself. This little boy, she would come to learn, was someone who was also unwanted. But as lonely as he was, he was quick to offer kindness to a stranger he did not know. Without question, without pretense, the boy was the first to notice the young witch. 

So, after that first night, the young witch came to introduce herself to the little boy. And the little boy in turn, introduced himself, along with his mother, and had once again proved that kindness was a sincerity he possessed. He was odd, for despite their similarities, he proved himself over and over to be a selfless existence, and the young witch found this enchanting. The more time she spent with him, the more she learned. 

She had thought that she knew everything before, but this little boy proved to her that there was much more to life than magic, and knowledge, for there was also love, and kindness. He had taught her that, and she had learned to accept it in time. 

And one day, without her notice, the blossoming of love had tethered itself into her heart. No longer lonely, no longer isolated, the young witch found something beyond herself to care for. And in turn, the day that Kim Dokja gifted her with a loving kiss, she had been freed from the curse that had originally plagued her for centuries. 

The young witch, now returned to her original form, had found that true happiness and love lay within the companionship of the only person who had ever shown her kindness. For that reason alone, she vowed herself to devote the rest of her life, her magic, and her knowledge, to bringing forthwith the little boy, now a young man, his own happy ending. 

By the end of her tale, Kim Dokja and Han Sooyoung had both shared in the broken peace and ache of their love for one another with weak smiles full of the purest joy. 

“So thank you, Kim Dokja. Though you may not believe it, you are not a worthless person. To me, you are everything that I would have never known if you had not existed. Thank you for living on in spite of what the world has cursed you for.” 

Kim Dokja let out a shaky breath, as Han Sooyoung came to hug his trembling form. “Dokja-ya…do you still want to attend the festival?”

At her words, his breath froze, and he tensed in her hold. Separating himself from her, he saw the look of determination stubbornly set upon her face, with eyes resistantly holding his stare, Kim Dokja had found his resolve.

“Yes, I do. With all my heart, I do, Sooyoung-ah.” 

From saying those words, he could see the spark of excitement and pride emanating off of her presence, her previously serene smile now shifting into a wild smirk, one that he could not help but laugh at its attendance. Seeing his bird companion now be a young woman was a terrifyingly bizarre experience, but one he could not deny enjoying. Han Sooyoung was truly a wonder in her own right, and Kim Dokja could only hope that this strange companionship of theirs would never fall apart.

“Good. I would not have accepted any other answer.” The sly gleam in her eyes had returned, excitement festering uncontrollably in the both of them. “Now, shall we begin with the preparations?”

Though Kim Dokja had recalled the tale that Han Sooyoung had shared, he could only grasp the threads that had sown the narrative of her immense talent for magic, along with her skills and knowledge. To think that she had been with him for so long, and had chosen to stay with him, had truly warmed his heart to a greater degree than before. 

“Kim Dokja, come along now, we are almost there.”

He followed her voice, as they traveled through the darkness of the forest, Kim Dokja could see the floating balls of lights float out deep into the distance. His heart had chosen to quiver itself into the confines of his lungs, his breaths becoming shorter the closer they moved forward. This was the closest he had ever been to freedom, and he was unsure of what to do once he fell gracelessly into its lap. 

With a step into the light, Han Sooyoung had turned to him. “We’re here now, what do you think?”

It took a few moments for him to adjust to the shines of the lanterns spread about the marketplace. Bustling crowds of people walking, children playing and running about without care or hindrance, the smell of food and other delicacies wafting into the air. Stalls awkwardly bundled together with a particular sort of charm, selling luxuries that could only ever be imagined; it all felt like a dream, a sequence of whimsical stories all combined into one. It was overwhelming, and yet, Kim Dokja could not help but adore the motions of festivities in the humidity of warmth built up in the joys of celebration and life. 

“It’s amazing…It's more than what I could have ever dreamed of.” 

Han Sooyoung took hold of his wrist, pushing and shoving people out of their way to look around. Kim Dokja could not stop the flooding of images entering into his mind at a rapid speed, building worlds upon worlds of memories that he would be sure to treasure for a very long time. 

In their wanderings, they had only just explored a small section. The two were overjoyed and in complete awe of what life was like for those privileged enough to live it, their jealousy vanishing from them as curiosity took the reins of their destination. 

“Kim Dokja! I will go and fetch us some food, in the meanwhile, you explore the stalls. I will come look for you soon afterwards!” Han Sooyoung patted his back, and quickly left with the pouch of coins the two had collected over the years, the bag only being a small portion of what they had saved. It was good that they had been mindful of their money, another thing he would forever be indebted to Han Sooyoung for.

“Alright, I will be here!”

Though he had shouted this, Kim Dokja’s attention was soon swayed by the allure of the almost empty stall full of books, all leather-bound with thick pages of paper in between. His feet had already begun to lead him there, and started his journey of perusing through the first book that caught his attention. When his eyes landed upon the first words, Kim Dokja tuned out all living things of this world, and immersed himself into the fantastical one that awaited him within. 

Kim Dokja stood alone, with hunched serenity, unaware of the passing crowd’s gaze upon his eye-catching figure. Enraptured by the vivid passages of his book, he had failed to catch handsome stranger making their way through the crowd, towards him.