Chapter Text
Each step Namjoon took into the small village felt like another nail in his own coffin. Dust was already coating the bottom of his jeans and the birds seemed to have stopped chirping a little while back, so he was already on edge. But he forced himself to keep walking. This wasn’t something he could just walk out of, it was quite literally the last resort he had to keep his life together. As he walked, he repeated the same mantra in his head, that he had no other choice, so he couldn’t leave.
Namjoon was, at least, finally at the entrance of the village, so when he turned the corner along the dirt path he'd been following for a while now, he was relieved to see houses lining a run-down street. Finally, some signs of life that he hadn't seen for a few miles. Having lived in the city most of his life, he gets intensely unnerved when he doesn’t experience some kind of chatter in his background. When he was younger, the New York hustle and bustle never stopped, always a car honking or a pedestrian yelling, somewhere outside his window. When he moved to Rome, it wasn’t exactly the same, but it was similar enough for him to feel at home. In contrast to both, where he was now felt so… empty.
He deliberately shook his head of stressful thoughts and walked a bit faster, now more conscious of his surroundings. If he could just talk to someone, he should be able to figure out where to go next. He looked around as he crossed from the thin dirt path he’d been on into the wider street. It didn’t seem like cars were driven around here a lot, which he had assumed. He hadn’t been able to get his own car through the forest surrounding this small, remote village so he’d simply left it behind and walked about an hour to get here.
There were women bustling inside the houses that he saw through the windows. This whole place seemed to be fairly old fashioned. His eyes widened as he spotted what seemed to be a small diner, painted a dull yellow with a bright red roof and door. The sign above read something in Italian, in which he wasn’t yet proficient enough to understand by reading, but he had no reservations about going in anyway.
Namjoon eagerly walked through the doorway to be met with a quiet hush of chatter. Looking around him, it seemed to be a standard bar setup, a few tables scattered around the room. There weren’t a lot of people, he noticed as he surveyed. A man drinking by himself in the corner, two women eating food at a nearby table, away from the bar, and a few young men in the other corner, taking swigs of beer and chuckling between themselves.
He steeled his resolve and walked towards the lonely man, shortly acknowledging the two women along the way, who had taken to staring at him a bit strangely. He was sure he knew why. He was dressed pretty wildly differently than everyone else here, a plain set of jeans and a black hoodie. However, the women here were wearing flowy cotton dresses, and the men wore cotton shirts and trousers. He supposed he’d underestimated just how old-fashioned this village truly was, though he’d been warned. They were pretty much cut off from modern society and kept to themselves. And for that matter, he’d just stood in the doorway like a weirdo watching them for a few minutes, so surely that warranted some staring.
He slid into the barstool next to the man, who was on his second glass of what seemed to be some sort of whiskey. The man’s eyes narrowed as Namjoon leaned in a little, like the man had just noticed Namjoon was there. He took a breath.
“Hi! Hello, uh, hello. My name is Namjoon. I wanted to ask some questions, if you don’t mind? I’m trying to get somewhere and I just don’t have a signal on my phone or anything, and I’m new here, so I hope I'm not, like, interrupting or anything, but I would really appreciate some help, if you could.” Namjoon leaned forward a bit more to try and catch the man’s eyes but he was still faced forward.
The man had a thick beard and an abundance of dark, curly hair which made it difficult to make out his facial features. However, after Namjoon spoke, he briefly turned to him and seemed to study Namjoon for a bit. The man had some greyed hair around his forehead and striking eyes. Then he grunted and turned back around to look into his half-empty glass. “Noli loqui stultitiae, puer. Praeterea, nemo huc venit, ita nemo potest perire.” He lifted his glass and gently moved it in a circular motion.
Namjoon leaned back a little as his eyes widened. He didn’t speak anything except English and a little Italian that he used to get around the city. The language he spoke wasn’t one he recognized. Hope waning, he tried to use the little Italian he had. As long as he got to where he needed to be, he told himself.
“My name… is Namjoon. I need help. House? Big… big house.” he said, in broken Italian, wincing even as the words left his mouth.
The man looked back at him and seemed to frown before responding in a mix of the Italian he spoke and his unfamiliar language. “Big house? quid vis, parvule?” It sounded like a question and the man was looking at Namjoon as if he was waiting for a response. Namjoon, for one, was delighted to have achieved some sort of communication, at the very least.
Namjoon hesitated to say something else worthwhile when an idea struck him. He swiftly reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, crumpled piece of paper and flattened it out on the bar counter for the man to see. The man leaned over curiously. There was Italian text on the paper, above a picture of a large old-fashioned mansion. It read, “Earn good money! Hazard pay to upkeep historical mansion. Contact Antonio at the number below” Under the picture of the house was an address, and a phone number.
Namjoon had found the poster at a coffee shop, when he’d traveled a little farther than he usually did past his campus to see more of Italy. He tells himself that he's simply trying to get a feel for the nearby places, and nothing else. Even though his eyes graze over every apartment complex he happens to pass and every roommate ad that looks any more affordable, he tells himself he’s not looking for a cheaper place to live. Even though, as he goes from restaurant to diner to gas station in his small, lonely car, trying to feel as much freedom as being in a different country gave him, the late rent notice next to his bills on the dining table back at his own studio apartment was always in the back of his mind. Like a little itch he couldn't scratch.
The poster did take him by surprise. He’d walked closer to see the salary, and, upon seeing it, he quickly snatched the paper and put it in his backpack. That night, he texted Antonio. He was a pretty friendly guy. Apparently, he inherited a large mansion in the mountains next to a very remote village that used to belong to his great aunt, a woman he hadn’t known that well. He was her only living family so he ended up with the house. However, in her will and in her dying wish she’d said that she didn’t want the mansion to be renovated or fixed in any way, and the mansion stays within the family as well. But it still needed to be cleaned and maintained. Due to the distance from any kind of modern society, the danger of cleaning such an old building, and some… vague superstition that the owner didn’t really elaborate on, nobody took up the job and he had raised the pay. That’s when Namjoon saw the poster.
For some reason, Antonio constantly dodged his questions about the mansion itself, which didn’t have to do with the job. He’d said that he’s settled with his family in Germany so he has no plans to live there, and had no plans of renting it out either. It all seemed normal enough to him, but he got weirdly hesitant and quiet over the phone when he pushed for any specific information about the history of the mansion. Namjoon didn’t want to lose this job, so he didn't push. In the end, the pay was incredible, he didn't mind cleaning, he could fit the job around his college schedule, and… he wouldn't have to lose his apartment. So he was determined to take this job and do it well.
The man scanned the poster curiously, before suddenly freezing, ice in his whiskey glass clinking at his sudden start. He set the glass down, calm, before turning to him. He was startled looking at his face, this time. His eyes were wide open and blazing. He suddenly stood up, barstool squeaking across the floor, and grabbed his shoulders.
“PUER STULTE! VISNE NOS OMNES IN PERICULO PONERE?” He yelled the unfamiliar words at Namjoon loudly, and by now, he’d drawn the attention of the other people. His eyes were wide and he scrambled for purchase as he harshly pushed him backwards. “VISNE TURBARE PACEM QUAE TOT ANNOS HABUIMUS PER STULTOS ACTUS?”
The women backed into a corner, looking nervous, while the bartender seemed looking at them, as if ready to come over if the situation escalated. Namjoon stared at the man in shock and fear.
“I… I don’t know what you're talking about, sir. I just—” The man cut him off by lunging for the collar of his shirt, but he quickly flinched back, before turning on his heels and running outside.
The man runs his fingers across the delicate strings of the small wooden object he holds in his hands, and four low, haunting notes echo through the room, bouncing off the paintings on the wall. He stops. However, the music doesn’t stop. It’s faint now, quiet—but he can still hear it. In this silence, it bounces off the lifeless paintings on the wall, the lanterns that seem to flicker, the mess of wood and dust and tools around him. He closes his eyes. They would call him a madman, for by now, the notes have surely stopped ringing, and yet. He is listening.
He listens because can still hear it. He can still feel it. If he tried hard enough, he’s sure he could even taste the music on his tongue. Sweet, and slightly bitter. In the air around him, curling into little wisps and turning into another dreamlike figure he wouldn't remember, once the music ends, once the last note is played.
He’s startled out of his trance when the doors abruptly swing open. The air suddenly fills with loud laughter and overlapping voices instead. The man looks up, and smiles.