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Heeseung had lived long enough to forget the exact year he stopped counting.
Time, to an immortal, became less a straight line and more a fog. Events blurred together, centuries folded in on themselves until memory lost its sharp edges. He remembered fires and wars, remembered lovers whose faces had eroded into impressions rather than features. He remembered promises he had made and broke simply by surviving.
Humanity, once fascinating, had become repetitive.
People were born screaming, lived clinging to one another for warmth, and died afraid. The details changed, but the ending never did. Heeseung had watched it happen often enough that detachment felt like mercy.
So when the letter arrived, he was in the habit of dismissing anything that threatened to disturb that carefully curated distance.
It lay on the polished table of his manor, dark wax seal unbroken, paper thick with magic. He recognized the symbols immediately. Old magic. Witchcraft rooted in truth, not tricks.
Still, he waited.
He poured himself a glass of bloodwine that was more blood than wine and watched the way the candlelight refracted through the crimson liquid. He told himself that if the message were important, it still would not require his attention. That the world would keep turning whether or not he opened it.
Then he saw the name. That of a witch he’d called a friend centuries ago. He couldn’t forget Jongseong’s name no matter how hard he tried.
His hand stilled.
He broke the seal.
You have a living descendant.
He read the line again, certain he had misunderstood.
Impossible.
Heeseung had been meticulous. Any bloodline tied to him had been allowed to fade naturally, generation by generation, until the connection was nothing more than a footnote in history. He had ensured it. Immortality demanded that kind of cruelty.
His parents are dead.
The words followed like a blade between his ribs.
Jongseong’s handwriting was precise and restrained. He did not embellish tragedy. He did not need to.
The room suddenly felt too quiet.
Heeseung burned the letter after memorizing every word. The ash scattered across the marble floor, dark and accusing.
He told himself it did not matter.
Then he packed a bag.
<><><><>
The child smelled like grief.
Heeseung noticed it immediately. Not with his sense, sharpened beyond human limits, but with something deeper. Loss clung to the boy like a second skin, quiet but persistent.
Riki sat on the edge of a wooden bench in the witch’s cottage, feet swinging restlessly above the floor. He was trying very hard to look brave. It showed in the way he held his shoulders stiff, in how his hands curled into the fur of the bunny plush clutched in his tiny arms.
Heeseung crouched in front of him, lowering himself to the child’s eye level.
“You know who I am?” he asked gently.
Riki studied him with unnerving intensity. “Jay hyung said you’re… old.”
Heeseung almost smiled. “That’s one way to put it.”
“And that you’re family.”
“Yes.”
Riki nodded, as if that settled it, and promptly asked, “Do you have food?”
Heeseung stared. He had expected fear. Or anger. Or grief erupting like a storm.
Instead… he got Riki.
Jongseong watched them from the doorway, expression unreadable. “He’s resilient,” he said quietly. “But he shouldn’t be alone. You’re all he has left.”
Heeseung understood the weight of what he wasn’t saying.
They traveled in silence after that. Riki talked when the quiet became unbearable, asking questions, commenting on birds, rambling about stories his parents used to tell him. Heeseung answered when he could, deflecting the rest. The manor loomed ahead like a mausoleum.
Riki wrinkled his nose. “It’s… big.”
“Yes.”
“And empty.”
“Yes.”
“...We can fix that,” Riki decided.
Heeseung did not know how to respond to that.
<><><><>
The manor had been built for solitude.
Its halls were wide, ceilings high, windows tall and narrow. Sounds echoed strangely within its walls, and dust gathered in corners no one walked through anymore. Heeseung had liked it that way.
Riki did not.
He explored relentlessly, opening doors Heeseung hadn’t touched in decades, leaving fingerprints on polished surfaces, and dragging blankets into rooms that had forgotten warmth. He talked constantly, about things he remembered, about things he missed, and about things he hoped might still happen.
At night, the house changed.
The boy’s grief emerged when the distractions fell away. Soft sobs carried through the corridors, fragile and breaking. Heeseung would pause wherever he was, heart heavy, unsure what to do.
Eventually, he began sitting outside Riki’s bedroom door.
He did not enter. He did not speak.
But he stayed.
Some nights, the crying faded quicker when he did.
It felt like failure and success all at once.
<><><><>
Heeseung quickly learned how unprepared he was.
Children required food at regular intervals. Not preserved blood or ancient wine, but warm meals that filled the air with unfamiliar smells. Children required schedules, explanations, and patience. Things Heeseung wasn’t sure he had.
Riki challenged him without meaning to.
“Why don’t you eat with me?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You never are.”
He was… observant.
Heeseung learned to fake it. Sitting at the table, moving food around his plate, memorizing Riki’s habits instead. The way he ate too fast when anxious. The way he pushed vegetables to the side.
Riki needed more than Heeseung could give.
That realization hurt more than expected.
So Heeseung sought help.
<><><><>
Jungwon’s house was small, warm, and alive in a way the manor was not.
The windows were always open. Plants crowded every available surface. Laughter lingered in the walls, even when Jungwon wasn’t home.
Heeseung stood awkwardly at the door the first time, Riki peeking out from behind his coat.
Jungwon opened it with a smile that felt like sunlight.
“Yes?”
“I was told you… teach,” Heeseung said carefully.
Jungwon’s eyes flicked to Riki immediately, his expression softening. He crouched. “Hi there.”
Riki stared. Then smiled. “I like you.”
Jungwon laughed, delighted. “Well, that’s a great start.”
From that moment on, Riki was Jungwon’s.
Not possessively. Not in a way that excluded Heeseung, but with a trust that was instant and absolute. Jungwon listened to Riki’s stories as if they mattered. He laughed at the child’s jokes. He treated the boy’s grief gently, never rushing it away.
Heeseung watched, someone unfamiliar stirring in his chest.
They began visiting often.
Then Jungwon began coming with them. First for lessons, then for meals, then simply because he wanted to. He filled the manor with warmth it had forgotten how to hold.
Time passed.
Riki grew louder. Happier. He laughed again, full-bodied and unrestrained. The sound echoed through the halls and settled into the walls like a promise.
Heeseung fell in love quietly.
It happened in stolen glances and late-night conversations. In the way Jungwon looked at Riki with pride. In the way he spoke to Heeseung like a man, not a monster.
Heeseung did not mean to want this.
That was the most terrifying part.
<><><><>
The first thing Heeseung learned was that children did not heal in straight lines.
Some mornings, Riki woke up laughing, barreling down the stairs with mismatched socks and too much energy, demanding pancakes and music and attention all at once. Other mornings, he sat at the table staring at nothing, food untouched, grief settling quietly into his bones.
Heeseung learned not to push.
Instead, he stayed close. He learned which silences meant leave me alone and which meant please don’t go. He learned that Riki liked his hair brushed slowly, that he hated thunderstorms, and that he still talked to his parents in his dreams.
On those days, Heeseung listened.
Jungwon became a constant without ever announcing himself as one.
He showed up with books and board games, with extra portions of food and gentle suggestions. He never commented on the way the manor slowly changed. Curtains drawn open, doors left ajar, light allowed to just exist.
Riki thrived under Jungwon’s attention.
“Did you know,” Riki announced one afternoon, sprawled on the rug between them, “that Jungwon laughs like this?”
He demonstrated, high-pitched and exaggerated.
Jungwon groaned. “I do not.”
“You do,” Riki insisted. “Heeseung hyung, tell him.”
Heeseung watched Jungwon smile, helplessly fond, and felt something loosen in his chest. “He does,” he said softly.
Jungwon looked at him then, something warm and curious in his gaze.
It lingered.
That night, after Riki had fallen asleep mid-sentence, Jungwon stayed.
They sat in the kitchen, candles flickering, the quiet no longer uncomfortable.
“You’re doing well,” Jungwon said gently.
Heeseung laughed under his breath. “I’m improvising constantly.”
“That’s parenting.”
The word felt strange. Heavy. Real. Heeseung was a parent.
He glanced toward the hallway to Riki’s room. “I don’t want to fail him.”
Jungwon’s voice softened. “You won’t. You care too much.”
<><><><>
Immortality had once felt like freedom.
Now it felt like a threat.
The fear arrived slowly.
It crept in during moments of stillness. Watching Riki sleep, watching Jungwon age in imperceptible increments. It whispered of inevitability. Heeseung began noticing time in ways he hadn’t before. Jungwon’s hair grew longer, then got cut shorter again. His laughter lines deepened slightly. Riki lost teeth, gained height, and learned how to read on his own.
They were changing.
He was not.
The fear sat in his chest like a second heart.
He had loved mortals before. He knew how this ended. He knew the grief that waited patiently at the edge of happiness.
He tried to pull away. He stayed quieter. He watched more than he participated.
Jungwon noticed.
“You’ve been distant,” he said one evening, concern evident.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
Heeseung closed his eyes. He had lied to kings and monsters alike without flinching. Lying to Jungwon felt impossible.
“I don’t want to watch you die,” he said finally.
Jungwon froze.
Heeseung forced himself to continue. “I’ve done it before. I love humans. Buried them. I won’t do it again.”
Jungwon stepped closer instead of pulling away. “You don’t have to decide everything alone.”
But Heeseung had.
That night, he left while they slept.
<><><><>
Jongseong did not look surprised.
“You love them,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re afraid.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Jongseong warned him again. He warned Heeseung of sickness. Of age. Of pain and endings and loss.
Heeseung accepted it all.
The magic stripped him bare.
When it was over, he lay shaking, heart pounding wildly for the first time in centuries, lungs burning. Alive. Fragile.
Human.
He returned home at dawn.
Jungwon was waiting.
“You’re different,” he whispered.
Heeseung nodded. “I chose to stay.”
Jungwon’s hands trembled as he cupped Heeseung’s face. “You idiot,” he breathed, eyes wet. “I love you.”
The words shattered something inside him.
Riki found them like that. Crying, laughing, holding onto each other like anchors.
“Why are you both being weird?” Riki asked suspiciously.
Jungwon laughed through tears. “Because we’re happy.”
Riki considered that. Then smiled and joined their hug. “Okay.”
<><><><>
Years passed.
The manor became a home.
Riki grew into himself, bright, stubborn, and kind. He called Jungwon Won and Heeseung hyung and never once questioned why his family looked the way it did.
Heeseung aged slowly, beautifully. He earned wrinkles through laughter and hands calloused from living.
They argued. They made mistakes. They loved fiercely.
On quiet evenings, they sat together on the porch, Riki talking excitedly about his future, Jungwon leaning into Heeseung’s shoulder, content.
Heeseung listened to the sound of their voices and thought, This is enough.
He did not regret his choice.
Not once.