Chapter Text
Autumn air smelled of wet asphalt and burnt leaves – a scent that, for Ahn Keonho, always smelled of other people's secrets. That day he sat on a bench near school, hood pulled over his ears, mindlessly kicking a pebble with the toe of his sneaker. Next to him, Eom Seonghyeon – his best friend and simultaneously the loudest person on earth – was enthusiastically chewing a rice cake and telling him about their group's new album.
"...and imagine, they put a synth solo right in the middle of the bridge – it's genius," Seonghyeon waved his arms, crumbs falling onto Keonho's lap. "Are you even listening?"
"Yeah," Keonho lied. He was listening to the silence. A strange restlessness had settled under his ribs since morning – sticky, like a cobweb. He hadn't even noticed when he started waiting for something bad.
His phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar number – long, with strange extension codes, as if someone from another century was calling. Keonho wanted to reject the call, but his finger pressed the green button on its own.
"Ahn Keonho-ssi?" The voice was dry, official, with a slight crackle like an old radio.
"Yes, that's me."
"My name is Choi Jongsu. I'm an attorney from Taesong & Partners. I've been tasked with delivering sad news. Your great-grandfather on your mother's side, Ahn Taeyeong-doksa, passed away three days ago."
Keonho froze. His mind raced: Ahn? But Mom's maiden name is… He didn't even know he had a great-grandfather. Not once, in any conversation, had his mother mentioned any grandfathers or great-grandfathers. It was as if her own bloodline ended with his grandmother, who had died when Keonho was five and whom his mother spoke of only in whispers.
"I'm sorry," Keonho said hoarsely. "I think you have the wrong number. I don't have a great-grandfather."
The attorney was silent so long that Seonghyeon stopped chewing and leaned closer, trying to eavesdrop.
"There is no mistake," the voice finally said. "Ahn Taeyeong-doksa drew up his will exactly three years ago. It's notarized and has passed all checks. According to the document, all his movable and immovable property passes to his grandson, Ahn Keonho. That is, to you."
"Grandson?" Keonho repeated dumbly. "But I'm his great-grandson. If he's my great-grandfather, then…"
"The will says 'grandson.' Perhaps Mr. Ahn considered it differently. It's not for me to judge." A hint of weariness crept into the attorney's voice. "The main thing is the estate. An old manor in Gochang County, North Jeolla Province. The house, the land, some antique items. You must come and accept the inheritance within thirty days."
Keonho felt cold sweat on the back of his neck. An estate? He was a seventeen-year-old kid from an ordinary second-floor apartment, wearing his older brother's hand-me-down school uniform, and suddenly he inherited an estate?
"But this must be a mistake," he repeated weakly. "I didn't even know this man. Why did he leave everything to me? What about my mother? He had a daughter – my grandmother…"
The pause on the other end grew heavy.
"Ahn Taeyeong-doksa outlived his daughter," the attorney said quietly. "And according to his will, you are the sole heir. No one else is mentioned. Not your mother, no one. Only you. I'm sorry you have to learn about this so suddenly. But I've already sent the documents by mail. They'll arrive tomorrow. Until then – I advise you to speak with your mother. And don't delay the trip."
The line went dead. Keonho lowered his phone and stared at a single point – a wet maple leaf stuck to the asphalt.
"Hey," Seonghyeon cautiously touched his shoulder. "Keonho? Your face is white as a ghost. Who called?"
"Seonghyeon," Keonho said in a voice that didn't sound like his own. "Have you ever heard of a dead great-grandfather leaving an estate to a teenager he never even met?"
Seonghyeon's eyes bulged. The rice cake fell from his hands.
"What? Are you serious right now?"
"More than serious."
Keonho stood up. His legs felt like cotton, but he had to move – go home, to his mother, for answers. Seonghyeon, without asking unnecessary questions, grabbed his backpack and followed.
Their house was a fifteen-minute walk away. The whole way, Keonho replayed every phrase from the conversation. "Ahn Taeyeong-doksa." The name felt strangely familiar, though he was sure he'd never heard it before. Maybe it had surfaced in some childhood nightmare? Or maybe his mother had once said something in her sleep? He couldn't remember.
His mother met them at the kitchen door – she was peeling potatoes, her hands covered in starchy foam. Seeing her son's face, she understood everything immediately.
"They called," she said. It wasn't a question.
"You knew?" Keonho tried to keep his voice from shaking. "You knew this man existed? That he was my great-grandfather? And that he left me an estate?"
His mother put down the knife. Slowly, she wiped her hands on a towel and sat on a stool. Seonghyeon froze in the doorway, feeling he was witnessing something too personal.
"Sit down," she said.
Keonho sat across from her.
"My grandfather – your great-grandfather – was not an ordinary man," she began, her voice hollow. "Not in a good way. When my mother, your grandmother, was still a child, he locked her in the basement of that very estate for three days. Just because. To test how loudly she would scream. She survived, but after that she stopped speaking. Completely. For a year."
Keonho felt bile rise in his throat.
"Grandmother?" he whispered. "She… because of him?"
"A speech therapist helped her later – she started talking again. But what happened in that basement stayed with her forever. She took her own life when I was twenty." His mother looked away, toward the unwashed dishes, but her gaze was somewhere far beyond. "After that, I swore I would never speak his name. That I would tear him out of our blood. And I did. I changed my surname, married your father, had you and your brother. And I hoped that bastard would rot in his cursed hole."
"But he didn't rot," Keonho said quietly. "He left me the estate."
His mother finally looked at him. There was so much pain in her eyes that Keonho wanted to look away.
"He was always obsessed with the idea of an heir. A male heir. My mother – his daughter – was defective merchandise to him. I, his granddaughter – even more so. And when you were born… I hid you from him. He wasn't supposed to know. He wasn't. But apparently, he found out. Or…" she hesitated. "Or he didn't care. He simply chose the nearest male specimen. You owe nothing to that house, Keonho. Refuse the inheritance."
"Can I refuse?"
"You can. The estate will go to the state. Or burn in legal disputes. What difference does it make?"
Keonho was silent for a moment. Behind him, Seonghyeon exhaled audibly – he seemed to want to say something, but thought better of it.
"What if I go?" Keonho asked. "Just to see. Maybe there's something important there. Some notes, explanations…"
"No!" His mother jumped up so abruptly that the stool tipped over. "You don't understand! That house – it's alive. Or rather, something lives inside it. My grandfather fed it. Made sacrifices. My mother told me the walls breathe. That in the far gallery there hangs a portrait you must never touch – and if you do, you'll see your own death. These aren't metaphors, Keonho. This was real."
"Then why did he leave the house specifically to me?" Keonho's voice suddenly grew stronger. "If he wanted to harm me, why wait for his death? He could have just invited me over and…"
"Because the house doesn't tolerate force," his mother whispered. "The house chooses for itself. And if it has chosen you, then you must come of your own free will. Otherwise… otherwise it will come for you."
Silence fell over the kitchen. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock – each beat echoing in Keonho's temples.
"I'll go," he said finally. "But not alone. Seonghyeon will come with me."
"Uh…" Seonghyeon started, then immediately corrected himself: "Yeah. Yeah, of course I'll go. You're my best friend. Besides, an estate – that's cool. Probably."
His mother looked at her son with a long, heavy gaze. Then she covered her face with her hands and said quietly:
"Then pack your things. And hurry. The house won't wait."
Keonho stood up, took Seonghyeon by the sleeve, and led him out of the kitchen. In the hallway, already putting on his jacket, he turned and saw his mother – she stood in the doorway, small, gray, and silently crying.
"Mom," he said. "What's under that fabric? On the portrait?"
His mother didn't answer. She only shook her head and went into her room, closing the door tightly behind her.
That night, Keonho didn't sleep. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Seonghyeon snoring on the cot beside him (his mother had insisted his friend stay – no need to return to the dormitory in such a state). His phone battery had died, but he still stared at it, rereading the attorney's message:
"Dark Cliff Estate, Gochang County. The gates will open only for you. Arrive before the next full moon. And never remove the fabric from the portrait in the far gallery. That is the sole condition of the will."
Outside, a dog was howling. Or not a dog. Keonho closed his eyes and pictured the house he had never seen: stone walls, ivy, boarded windows, and a long, long hallway at the end of which, under black fabric, a mirror waited.
He didn't yet know what he would see in it. And he didn't know that the clock on the wall of that reflection had already begun its countdown.