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Rumi had cut her hair weeks ago. Zoey and Mira were the first to notice, of course. They’d run their hands through it whenever they got the chance, laughing at how fluffy it was, teasing her until she shoved them off with a groan. But she hadn’t minded.
They liked it, and that was enough.
But Celine hadn’t seen it yet.
The last time they crossed paths, she still wore her braid — long, heavy, the way her mother had worn hers. That braid had been a reminder of who Rumi was supposed to be, of expectations she could never live up to. It wasn’t her anymore.
Now it was Chuseok, and Rumi was planning to visit Celine.
She hadn’t called ahead. She wasn’t sure if Celine expected her, or if she’d be surprised to see her at the door.
Rumi stood in front of her mirror, smoothing her hair after fixing the last stubborn strand. The reflection staring back at her looked unfamiliar and familiar all at once. Shoulder-length hair framed her face now, lighter. No braid dragging behind her, no shadow of a woman she never knew.
For the first time, she looked more like herself — someone she could be, someone she wanted to be.
And yet, as she leaned closer to the mirror, studying the way the shorter hair shifted with the tilt of her head, a thought whispered in the back of her mind: What will Celine think?
Rumi exhaled slowly, pressing her palm against the cool edge of the mirror.
Whatever the answer was, she’d find out soon enough.
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
Rumi packed the essentials and set out on her way to what used to be home.
The path itself was familiar, and with it came the memories — both the ones that warmed her chest and the ones that still stung. But she didn’t linger on them. The past had shaped her, yes, but this was her chance to begin a new era.
She wanted to honor the good, learn from the bad, and most importantly, try to help shape a better future on this special day.
Still, as she walked up to the door, nerves prickled at her. The first moments were always the hardest. But she knew, as it had always been, once the ice was broken things would flow easier.
She steeled herself, lifted her hand, and knocked.
The door opened a moment later. Celine stood there, eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the figure before her. It was only for an instant — recognition came quickly. Purple hair, a face dusted with faint, shimmering patterns… impossible to mistake.
“Rumi…” Celine’s features softened, lips twitching into a smile. Her gaze lingered, taking in the unexpected change.
“Hello.” Rumi smiled lightly. “I thought I should come by.”
“Come in. It’s good to see you.” Celine stepped back, opening the door wider to let her inside. Her eyes flicked again to Rumi’s hair. “You cut your hair.”
Rumi slipped off her shoes, pulling at the outer layer of her clothing before setting it aside. She twirled a strand of her shorter locks between her fingers, gaze dropping.
“Yeah… I needed some change.”
“You look nice,” Celine complimented with a warm smile. “It suits you.”
It warmed Rumi’s heart, easing the tension in her chest. Maybe she wasn’t a child anymore and Celine’s opinion wasn’t supposed to matter that much. But hearing her say it — knowing Celine liked the hair — made her happy.
Celine liked her the way she was.
The woman guided her through the familiar corridor into the equally familiar living room. Memories stirred immediately.
Rumi remembered darting through this space as a child, imagining herself on great adventures. Wooden sword in hand, she’d vanquish imaginary enemies, the poor pillows often suffering her fiercest strikes until their seams gave out and stuffing spilled everywhere.
Celine would find her in the middle of the chaos, brows pinched as if she was fighting her own private battle — staying calm in the face of what Rumi had declared a victorious slaughter.
To her further displeasure, Rumi had loved turning the furniture into her battlefield too. She’d leap from couch to chair, insisting the floor was a gaping chasm that would swallow her whole if she slipped. More than once, she missed her mark, crashing down hard. Sometimes Celine was quick enough to catch her. Sometimes there were bruises and tears to deal with instead.
Either way, Celine had always been there to pick up the fallen hero.
Now the room was calmer, quieter, restored to order. Still, Rumi could almost hear the echoes of her own laughter.
“I was making some food,” Celine said, straying toward the kitchen. “For the celebration. It’s not ready yet. Do you want some tea in the meantime?”
Rumi perked up at the sound of her voice. “Sure.”
She didn’t linger in the living room. Instead, her steps carried her after Celine, drawn as much by her presence as by the warm aromas wafting from the kitchen. The moment she crossed the threshold, her nose caught the scents of simmering spices, sautéed vegetables, and roasting meat.
The air was rich, comforting, it filled her with a warmth she hadn’t realized she missed.
It felt like home. A safe, cozy space.
Rumi looked around the kitchen. It hadn’t changed much since she was small — always a little clustered with dishes and ingredients during celebrations, every surface taken over by preparations. Back then, her presence had only made the chaos worse.
She remembered one year in particular, insisting she could help Celine. She didn’t want to be left out, watching from the side while everything was made. She’d chosen something simple: songpyeon, plain rice cakes with a sweet filling. No fancy colors or decorations, just dough shaped with her own small hands.
Celine had hesitated, but in the end she gave in. If Rumi wanted to feel useful, why not let her try?
She regretted it later.
The songpyeon hadn’t been a complete disaster — some turned out edible enough, though a few had to be tossed for their lopsided shapes or cracked dough. The real problem had been the mess: flour dusting every corner of the counter, sticky bowls piled in the sink, syrup smeared where it shouldn’t be.
And then there were the other attempts.
Like the time Rumi had been left alone with a pot and decided to experiment with spices. The dish had nearly been inedible, Celine coughing after the first bite while Rumi stared in wide-eyed guilt.
Or the countless small injuries: nicked fingers from cutting vegetables, scrapes from the grater, a singe from leaning too close to the stove.
Rumi had been a danger in the kitchen.
Or at least she used to be. Now, as an idol, she’d long since stopped trying to cook for herself — too busy, too used to others taking care of it. Celine wasn’t sure whether she’d gotten any better, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to find out.
Most of the food was already done, simmering in pots or waiting to be reheated before dinner and the air smelled of spices.
Rumi cupped the mug of tea Celine had given her, the heat seeping into her fingers, comforting her further. Her gaze followed Celine as she moved easily around the space — checking the pots, sprinkling in a pinch more seasoning, washing bowls so the sink wouldn’t overflow later.
“Will you make yakgwa?” Rumi asked finally. The table was already lined with some treats, but not the one she craved.
Celine turned her head, and her answer came quick, without hesitation. The sweets weren’t difficult, and everything she needed was here. More importantly, she would never deny Rumi something she loved.
“Sure.” She dried her hands and began gathering the ingredients from the cabinets.
Rumi drained the last of her tea, rinsed the mug, and set it neatly aside so she wouldn’t be scolded later for leaving dishes around. But instead of returning to her chair, she hopped onto the counter beside Celine. Her legs swung idly as she leaned back on her hands. She had no intention of actually helping, but she liked watching.
Celine arched a brow at her.
“What?” Rumi grinned. “I’m monitoring the process. Quality control.”
“Is that what you call sitting here doing nothing?”
“It’s not nothing.” Rumi huffed, puffing her cheeks a little. “I’m monitoring.”
Celine shook her head with a soft laugh and turned back to her task. She carefully measured the flour, sifted in the spices, and whisked the wet ingredients together.
That was when Rumi spotted the honey jar.
She reached out, dipped her finger in, and popped it into her mouth with a satisfied hum.
“Rumi…” Celine groaned, exasperated.
Rumi only grinned around her finger. “What? Quality control.” She reached for another taste, but this time Celine swatted her hand away.
Rumi pouted, shoulders hunching as she drew back.
“You’re impossible.” Celine tried to scold, but her lips betrayed her, curving into a smile. Her eyes softened. “A little bear, huh?”
Rumi froze, caught off guard. “…A bear?”
Celine leaned over and tousled her hair until it stuck up in messy tufts. “Yes. A little bear. Fluffy and always stealing honey.”
“Hey!” Rumi yelped, batting her hand away, her cheeks warm as she tried to flatten her hair back down. “I’m not little anymore.”
“Oh, a big bear then? Scary.” Celine teased with a fond smile.
Rumi groaned and rolled her eyes, but she wasn’t truly annoyed. Her lips twitched, betraying the smile she tried to hide.
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
Once the yakgwa was finished and left to rest in the syrup, the kitchen's air still held the sweetness of honey and spices, and Rumi found herself lingering just to breathe it in.
Celine wiped her hands clean and glanced over. “We should get ready.”
Rumi nodded. They both went their separate ways for a moment, changing into clean clothes. Nothing extravagant — not hanbok, but neat and simple, something respectful for the occasion.
When Rumi returned, Celine gave her a brief once-over, smiling faintly at how grown-up she looked. Rumi pretended not to notice.
Together, they set the table. Dish by dish, they laid out the food that had been simmering all day: jeon, japchae, galbijjim, fruit sliced and arranged alongside with nuts, the famous songpyeon. The portions weren’t big, just enough for the two of them to enjoy.
Rumi followed Celine’s lead, careful not to disrupt the order.
When everything was in its place, they gathered what they needed for the next part — a small bundle of offerings, a few candles, incense, and a box of matches tucked into Celine’s pocket.
Then they set out together, walking in silence toward Miyeong’s grave.
Celine knelt first, brushing away stray leaves and wiping the stone until it was clean. Rumi joined her, pulling weeds from the edges and setting the candles and incense carefully in place. Together, they arranged the offerings — fruit, sweet treats, wine, and a small plate of food from their table.
When everything was ready, Celine bowed her head. Rumi hesitated for a moment, then mirrored her.
“Miyeong…” Celine began softly. “It’s been so many years, but I still remember the time we spent together. We were hunters, friends — even more than that. We were family. You had a way of making everyone feel that. I miss you every day.”
Her throat tightened, but she kept going. “I wish you could see Rumi now. She’s grown into someone strong and kind. Such a sweet child. She’s been through more than she should’ve, but she’s still here. I think… you’d be proud of her.”
She bowed before the grave, falling silent.
Rumi shifted beside her, fingers curling against her knees. When she was little, she often sat here with Celine, listening to stories about her mother — how Miyeong had been a great hunter, how Rumi was just like her. Not a demon, but a hero. Just like her mother used to be.
Perhaps back then it gave her a small sense of comfort. It reminded her that she could still be someone good, someone loved and accepted. It made her feel a little less bad about the patterns on her skin — because there was still a part of her that was human, a part that came from Miyeong. If she could just hold on to that, she could almost believe everything would be alright.
But not anymore. She didn’t care about being just like her mother.
Because Rumi knew now that she was something entirely different — and that she deserved love simply for being herself.
She didn’t have real memories of Miyeong, not really. Only clips of her on stage, smiling at cameras, her voice carried through old songs. Stories passed down, photos Celine had shared.
Miyeong was more of an idea than a mother, and speaking to her felt strange. Now more than ever. But it was Chuseok, and it was tradition, and saying nothing would’ve felt wrong.
“Hi… mom,” she said quietly. “I… don’t really know what to say. I guess I just want to thank you. For giving everyone a new way to look at demons. For being the start of change. And… for giving me life. It’s been rough, but I’m doing alright now.”
She paused, her gaze falling to the small tray of offerings.
“I know today’s supposed to be about ancestors, about honoring you. But I hope you don’t mind…” Her voice dropped, softer still. “…Celine’s my mom. She’s the one who’s been here the whole time.”
She’d been thinking about it a lot. She wasn’t a child anymore; she understood more now, and “Miyeong’s your mother” didn’t feel real at all. Maybe it would’ve been different if the woman had been there — even for a small part of her life. But Rumi never knew her, never met her in person.
Still, she’d heard so much about her that, back then, thinking otherwise felt wrong.
Now, though, Rumi felt less guilty about it. It didn’t matter who had given birth to her — why would it, if that wasn’t what shaped her? Celine had been there her whole life. However messy it got, whatever mistakes she made, Celine had done what a dead woman couldn’t.
So if Celine had been there — if she’d cared for her, raised her, stayed through it all — wasn’t she Rumi’s mother?
What was the definition, really? Which mattered more: the blood that ran through her veins, or the bond built along the way?
Or maybe, Rumi thought, she could simply have two mothers, both deserving of the title.
Wouldn’t that be right?
Her chest tightened as she turned, her eyes finding Celine’s. “So… mom, are you proud of me?”
…Celine’s my mom.
Celine blinked, stunned, her breath catching in her throat. Long ago, when Rumi was small and confused, she had corrected her. No, Rumi. Miyeong is your mother. I’m just… I’m just Celine. She hadn’t wanted to take what wasn’t hers.
But now, after everything — after years of distance and the mending of what had been broken — here Rumi was, looking at her with tear-bright eyes and saying it again. Choosing to say it.
For a moment, Celine couldn’t speak. Her lips parted, her throat tight with everything she wanted to say but couldn’t quite put into words.
Then, slowly, her voice found its way out. “Rumi…” She swallowed, her chest aching. “Of course I’m proud of you.”
She reached out, wrapping her arms around Rumi and pulling her close, holding her tightly against her chest.
Rumi went stiff for a heartbeat before melting into the embrace, clinging back with equal strength. Her forehead pressed into Celine’s shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut as the words echoed in her mind.
Her whole life, Rumi had felt like she was chasing the impossible — always trying to please Celine, always following her orders, doing whatever she asked in hopes that maybe, this time, it would be enough. In hopes that Celine would finally be proud of her.
But Celine had rarely said what she felt. Somehow, everything always circled back to Miyeong.
Back then, Rumi tried to hold on to that idea. She told herself that her mother would have loved her, that her mother would have been proud. But the thought of her — a concept — could never give Rumi what she truly needed.
And now, she finally heard it.
“I love you, Rumi. And I’m proud of you.”
Celine shifted until she was sitting fully on the ground, pulling Rumi closer until the girl was resting in her lap. Rumi curled into her without protest, her arms tightening around the woman's shoulders.
Celine rested her head against Rumi’s chest, her cheek brushing the fabric of her shirt. And then she heard it — that sound. The steady, rhythmic thump of Rumi’s heartbeat.
Another night flashed through her mind, one that would never leave her no matter how much time passed — Rumi’s hollow eyes, her broken voice asking, Do what you should have done a long time ago. The way Celine’s hands had trembled as she pushed the sword away, unable to do it.
The thought that she was about to lose Rumi forever.
All because of the mistakes she had made.
And now — now here Rumi was. Alive. Her heart beating strong beneath Celine’s ear.
Celine’s arms tightened around her. “I’m so glad,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “So glad your heart is still beating.”
Rumi stilled, her breath catching at the words. Slowly, she tilted her head, letting her cheek rest on top of Celine’s hair. Her arms tightened just a little more.
The moment eased something deep inside her, filling her chest with warmth.
Celine was proud of her. Celine loved her. And she was glad Rumi was alive. Rumi’s life mattered — and those words, that truth, meant everything.
She could feel the tension gradually leaving Celine’s body too, with each breath she took.
Rumi smiled faintly. She was happy — happy for the closeness, happy for the quiet, happy that Celine was here with her.
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
The short walk home was quiet. Rumi walked with light steps, a tiny curve lingering on her lips. It felt as if her whole being was floating above the ground.
Celine followed a few steps behind, watching her with a fond smile. Today had made her realize how much time she’d spent clinging to the past — so focused on what was gone that she’d failed to see the wonders still before her.
You couldn’t live properly if you were always looking back, or too far ahead. The only way to move forward was to pay attention to the ground beneath your feet — to take each step carefully so you wouldn’t stumble.
Celine understood that now.
When they reached home, the air was warm, still scented faintly with the food they had prepared earlier.
Both of them washed their hands and made quick adjustments to their clothes, smoothing the wrinkles, fixing the folds of fabric until they were satisfied.
With everything in order, they sat down at the table and began to eat.
Rumi devoured the food as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. Celine smiled at the sight, shaking her head as she took smaller, slower bites, savoring each one.
When Rumi caught Celine watching her, she pouted. “What?” she mumbled, before stuffing another bite in, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk’s.
Celine laughed quietly. But well, it wasn’t Rumi’s fault she was hungry — and it wasn’t surprising that she loved the food. Only now did Rumi realize how much she’d missed Celine’s cooking, especially the dishes she always made for holidays.
Maybe it was the light atmosphere, maybe the fuzzy feelings, or maybe just the comfort of being here again — but everything seemed to taste better tonight.
When their plates were empty and neither of them felt like eating more, Celine decided it was time for a drink.
She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two small glasses and a bottle of soju. “Something to take the edge off,” she announced with a smile, setting everything down.
Rumi chuckled softly but didn’t protest. They were both adults now — there was no harm in sharing a few drinks.
After their first round, Celine rummaged through a drawer for something else.
When she turned back, she held a small wooden box. Inside was a set of yut sticks, worn with age, along with a handful of tokens and an old board. She held it up with a faint smile. “Still remember how to play?”
Rumi raised an eyebrow. “You think I’d forget?”
They settled on the living room floor, cross-legged, a blanket draped nearby. The game wasn’t fast or loud — just the soft clatter of sticks mixed with their voices and laughter.
Rumi teased Celine every time she scored well, grinning when her token passed Celine’s or knocked the older woman’s piece off the board.
Celine retaliated in kind, her laughter light whenever she managed to return the favor. And Rumi’s annoyed huffs only made her laugh harder.
The warmth of the alcohol spread slowly through Rumi’s veins, easing the last traces of tension.
It had been so long — maybe forever — since she’d been able to just relax and have fun with Celine. Things had never been easy before. They’d always needed to be careful, to hide. It had been exhausting.
And Chuseok… it had never been as nice as this. It used to always turn into the same talk about Miyeong — how Rumi was, or would be, just like her.
But now, Rumi could appreciate the past without being defined by it. She could respect it while also enjoying the present and shaping her own future.
The same was true for Celine. Miyeong had been the change the world needed, a spark that shifted everything. And Rumi was the continuation of that change, someone meant to carry the legacy forward in her own way.
Now, Celine could finally appreciate her properly — not as Miyeong’s daughter, not as a shadow of someone gone, but as Rumi herself. She was finally able to let go of the past. She could still honor it, still love what came before, but it was time to move forward.
Miyeong was gone, but she still had Rumi. And Rumi mattered — just as much.
Celine hoped Miyeong would be happy with how their lives had turned out eventually. She hoped Miyeong would forgive her for all the mistakes she’d made while raising Rumi.
Now it was time for Celine to make a new promise. To Rumi — that she'd do better.
The game pieces were scattered across the board, the empty bottle of soju resting between them. Both of them were warm-cheeked, tipsy laughter still lingering in the air when Celine suddenly straightened, her expression shifting.
“Hold on,” she murmured, as if struck by a sudden thought. She pushed herself up and disappeared down the hall.
Rumi blinked after her. “What are you—”
But Celine didn’t answer, already gone, her footsteps fading down the corridor. Whatever she was doing, Rumi figured she’d find out soon enough.
When Celine returned, she carried her old guitar. She sat down again, settling it across her lap, her fingers brushing over the strings as she tested the sound.
It had been a long time since she’d played. The instrument had been buried deep in a closet, forgotten, until a few days ago when she happened to find it again.
Rumi raised an eyebrow. “What, you want us to sing together?” she teased, smirking. She half-expected some old hunter song or one of Celine’s old idol songs. They used to do that when Rumi was little — Celine would sing for her, or they’d sing together. It had been their way of bonding.
But the chords that followed weren’t familiar.
Rumi tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes as Celine’s voice joined the melody.
“I’m not a perfect person,
There’s many things I wish I didn’t do...
But I continue learning.”
Rumi froze. She didn’t know the song, but the words hit deep anyway.
Celine’s gaze stayed lowered, focused on her fingers moving across the strings, but her voice didn’t waver.
“I never meant to do those things to you,
And so I have to say before I go,
That I just want you to know…”
When the chorus came, Celine lifted her eyes, meeting Rumi’s.
“I’ve found a reason for me,
To change who I used to be,
A reason to start over new,
And the reason is you…”
Rumi’s eyes widened. The faint buzz of alcohol disappeared, her mind clearing with every word.
The song continued, Celine’s voice growing rougher.
“I’m sorry that I hurt you,
It’s something I must live with every day.
And all the pain I put you through,
I wish that I could take it all away…”
Her hand trembled against the strings, and she closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself.
“And be the one who catches all your tears…”
Celine had already apologized before — they wouldn’t even be sitting here if she hadn’t. But one apology could never undo all those years. It was only a beginning, and beginnings were hard.
Talking about feelings, about the mistakes, never came easily to Celine. She had spent so much of her life repressing what she felt, believing that was strength. But Rumi knew that as long as she tried, she’d wait. She’d be patient.
And singing… singing was different. Celine was an ex-idol and once — a hunter. Both had taught her the power that a song could carry.
For hunters, songs were weapons — voices that slayed demons and strengthened the honmoon to keep the world safe. But they were also meant to unite. The harmony between hunters, the connection of their souls, was what gave the honmoon its strength.
And now, as the last words of the song left Celine’s lips, the air began to stir.
Rumi stiffened, her eyes widening as the honmoon rippled faintly around them.
“…What—” she breathed, blinking at the shimmering waves that spread across the walls, glowing in soft rainbow hues.
The honmoon pulsed gently, resonating with the echo of Celine’s voice. And with it, Rumi’s markings answered too — lighting up across her body, glowing in the shifting colours of blue, gold and purple, warmth blooming from inside out.
“That’s why I need you to hear,
I’ve found a reason to show,
A side of me you didn't know,
A reason for all that I do,
And the reason is you.”
The colors moved in soft, calm ripples, Rumi’s eyes following them. She could feel the strings of honmoon brush against her skin.
“…It responded,” Rumi whispered, both in awe and disbelief.
Celine blinked, equally stunned, her fingers hovering above the strings. “I… I didn’t mean for it to. I thought it wouldn’t anymore.”
Her gaze swept around the room, following the fading hues of the honmoon until the last ripples dissolved into nothing.
It was like witnessing a miracle — one she’d never thought possible.
When her eyes found Rumi, the glow still lingered on her skin, her markings softly illuminated.
Rumi met her gaze, smiling faintly. “...Guess it liked your singing.”
Celine gave a small laugh, shaking her head, though her eyes softened.
She had thought her connection to the honmoon was gone, that she was just a witness now.
She had long retired from her duties, leaving the next generation to guard the world and keep the peace.
And for years, she had believed what she’d taught others: that the best way to protect the honmoon was to hide one’s true self, to keep every fear and feeling buried.
But now it was her heart laid bare that the honmoon answered to.
“I liked it too. The song.” Rumi smiled, a gentle curve softening her lips, her features relaxed. She was moved by the gesture — it was clear, undeniable, with how her whole being responded to it. And if the honmoon itself had appeared in answer to the music, then Celine must have truly been honest about her feelings.
“It means a lot,” Rumi added. “Thank you.”
She pushed herself up from the floor, swaying slightly as she crossed the small distance between them.
Celine looked up, about to say something, but didn’t get the chance before Rumi sank back down and wrapped her arms around her.
The hug came unsteady, Rumi’s balance off, her weight pressing a little too heavily against Celine.
Celine barely had time to react before they both went down with a soft thud, her back hitting the floor.
Celine groaned, but Rumi only chuckled, clearly unbothered and in no hurry to move. She shifted slightly, resting her head against Celine’s shoulder, her words muffled. “You’re comfy.”
Celine let out a quiet sigh that was more fond than exasperated. “The floor is not.”
Rumi only hummed, adjusting her position and nuzzling closer, her breath warm against Celine’s collarbone. “Mhm. Don’t care. Staying here.”
Celine sighed again, helpless.
But she didn’t make any attempt to move and untangle herself from the embrace.