Chapter Text
Just outside Haedam Village, at the end of a long yellow-dirt road, tucked inside a small patch of woods, sat a quiet lake framed by drooping willow trees.
The water was a clear, deep blue-green, but the villagers had avoided setting foot near it for as long as anyone could remember. Some said the ground was bad; others swore it was cursed. To Haedam, the lake was like an unsaid story—nobody ever really explained why, but a long-standing unwritten rule kept everyone away. Except for Choi Beomgyu and me.
No matter what the adults whispered or what the rest of the village thought, Beomgyu and I kept going back. On misty Haedam mornings, the two of us would hop on our bikes and ride all the way to the end of that dirt road. The air was usually hazy and still, making the soft, blurred scenery feel like a world of its own. Breathing in the damp fog deep into our lungs, we were always eager to reach the water.
We spent endless hours under the willow tree by the bank, chatting about nothing, laughing, and messing around. Mornings always felt alive when we were together. We’d been doing this ever since my freshman year of high school, right after I moved to Haedam.
After splitting up with my dad, my mom seemed desperate to leave Seoul behind. When she told me, *"We're moving to the countryside, Yeonjun,"* I wasn't thrilled. I was still angry about the divorce and probably just too bitter to understand anything back then. But no matter how much I protested, she pulled me along to live at my grandmother’s place, where my uncle also lived.
Rebellious and moody, I stayed stubbornly silent, though I still remember my grandmother piling up plates of rice cakes for me. My mom buried her face in my grandmother’s lap and sobbed. My uncle just patted my shoulder gently and slipped an orange candy into my hand.
I met Beomgyu on my very first day at the new school. There was no high school in our village, so we had to ride our bikes for about twenty minutes to get to the neighboring one. When I walked into the classroom, the teacher pointed me to an empty seat in the back row. That was when I first noticed Beomgyu, sitting at the desk right to my left.
He was carefully folding a crane out of thin, yellow oil-wax paper. When he noticed me looking, he gave me a light, easy smile and handed the paper crane over to me.
Since we lived in the same village, shared a class, and sat next to each other, becoming friends happened almost on its own. But it was the moment Beomgyu asked me if I wanted to go to the lake that made us stick together for good.
"They say ghosts live there," he told me with a slight grin. "I actually went to check if I'd see one, but... nothing yet."
He talked about it so casually that I felt completely safe following him.
On that first day of school, I was just glad I didn't have to head straight home. We pedaled our bikes fast down the dirt path lined with swaying white wildflowers, laughing as we went. For the first time since leaving Seoul, I felt genuinely happy.
By late afternoon, we made it to the lake. The forest trail we’d just crossed was thick with green leaves, dappled with golden evening sunlight. The path leading up to the water was overgrown with tall wild grass, making it obvious that nobody ever came through here. But as soon as we arrived, a quiet calm washed over me.
A soft breeze stirred the lake, sending gentle ripples across the surface like floating feathers. Even in the dim sunset, the blue-green water held a strange, still quietness that enveloped everything.
"See? Told you there's nothing to be scared of."
Beomgyu hopped off his bike and sank onto the damp grass under the willow tree, a small smile tugging at his lips. He was totally relaxed. To the villagers, this place was some creepy, cursed site, but to him, it was just a playground—or maybe a secret hideout.
I parked my bike and sat down beside him. The faint, cool smell of leaves mixed with wet earth wrapped around us like a cozy little bubble.
"Why’d you give me the crane?" I asked, pulling the paper crane out of my pocket, where I’d kept it neatly flat. I pulled its wings apart a little to fill out its body and set it on a flat stone nearby.
Beomgyu leaned back on his hands, looking out over the water. He seemed so comfortable here.
"Well... paper cranes are for wishes. I wished you'd be happy in this village."
He spoke softly, his voice trailing off like a light breeze.
"Thanks."
Beomgyu squinted his eyes slightly and smiled. The pale dusk light flickered across his face like a painting.
"I actually saw you the day you moved here," he added, staring into the distance. "You were sitting outside your house, just staring out toward the edge of the village. You looked like you really didn't want to be here. So I thought if you showed up at school, I’d give you this. Getting a gift from someone makes anyone feel a bit better, right?"
I was surprised he’d seen me before, but even then, I could tell Beomgyu was just more perceptive and sensitive than most people.
As it got closer to sunset, the air turned chilly. The willow branches swayed, almost touching the water, looking almost magical. A place everyone else avoided became our safe haven—a spot where we could briefly forget about everything that hurt.
Beomgyu took me to his house that evening. He lived alone with his granddad. His granddad told me that Beomgyu’s mom had passed away when he was born, and his dad had left for another city when Beomgyu was about ten and never came back. Beomgyu didn't act sad or make a big deal out of it—he just acted completely normal, which left me not knowing what to say.
He handed me a glass of orange juice he’d poured and sat there chatting and laughing with his granddad.
Maybe because we both had complicated home lives, Beomgyu and I became practically attached at the hip. But as far as I knew, Beomgyu didn't really have any other friends. Over time, I got a little friendly with a few classmates, but Beomgyu never really hung out with anyone else.
He kind of kept to himself, and people seemed used to him being that way. The Choi Beomgyu I knew was pretty different from the Choi Beomgyu everyone else saw.
By our first year of high school, I’d mostly gotten used to living in Haedam. My parents' divorce still weighed on me, but Beomgyu’s easygoing presence kept me grounded so I didn't act out. He never gave me big advice, but just being close and understanding gave my frustration an outlet. Whenever I went quiet or got moody, he’d tease me until he finally got me to smile.
I realized just how much I relied on him when my grandmother passed away during the summer of our freshman year. It happened really late at night. My mom cried silently in her room while I sat on the wooden bench out front, staring up at the stars. My uncle was busy running around dealing with funeral stuff with the village elders.
That was when Beomgyu came over and sat next to me, looking up at the sky too.
"I'm here, so it's okay. You don't have to worry."
It was the first time he’d ever said something like that to me. I didn't cry, but for the first time all night, I felt like I could actually breathe.
My grandmother’s funeral was the first time I really experienced death. A heavy, gloomy feeling stuck in my chest for a long time, lingering like something I couldn't shake off. What stuck with me most was watching my mom cry so much. I didn't know what to do, so I just sat there. My uncle patted my shoulder softly and told me to take a walk to clear my head. That day, Beomgyu took me to the lake and taught me how to fold paper cranes.
The yellow paper cranes we folded drifted across the water before eventually sinking down.
"Maybe the lake's taking them as gifts," Beomgyu said playfully.
As time went on, life brought us another quiet ending. About six months after my grandmother passed, Beomgyu’s granddad simply didn't wake up one morning.
I was waiting at the corner of the village road for us to ride to school together, but when he didn't show up after a long time, I walked over to his place. I walked into a house full of flustered adults and a suffocating, heavy air. Beomgyu was just standing off to the side, quietly watching as the adults carried his granddad away. He was so still it almost scared me, so I didn't ask anything. I just walked up and grabbed his hand.
His fingers were freezing, and he squeezed my hand back so hard it almost hurt.
"Honestly, I kind of saw it coming," Beomgyu told me later, watching the willow branches whip around in the heavy wind.
We were lying on the grass under the willow tree, completely tuning out the rest of the world. Beomgyu looked like he’d already made peace with it. After a chaotic week, his face was completely calm again.
"Are you still gonna stay here?"
I was terrified he’d leave Haedam now that he was all alone. On the day his granddad died, I saw some relatives rush in. He barely spoke to them, only answering when asked, but I overheard them talking about taking him with them.
"Of course I'm staying. Why would I leave when you're here?"
He said it so casually and surely that I just stared at him for a long moment. Seeing me frozen, he turned his head from where he was lying and smiled at me.
"You shouldn't be the one smiling," I said, my voice sounding a little scratchy.
Beomgyu let out a soft sigh, slid his hand over, and laced his fingers through mine.
"I'm here, so you don't have to worry," he said again.
And he really did stay. As far as I knew, his relatives sent him some money to live on, but they left right after the funeral and I never saw them again. For Beomgyu, aside from his granddad being gone, he acted like he was already completely used to everything else.
Our high school years were pretty simple. Isn't that just how being a teenager is? You care way too deeply about whatever you believe in, even when you don't really know anything yet. In class, we’d listen a bit, daydream, or just nod off looking out the window.
Beomgyu often taught me origami, and I actually tried really hard to learn. All the paper he had was yellow. I asked him why once, thinking it was just his favorite color.
"Yellow feels like happiness, doesn't it? Like a happy color," he said, making a crisp crease in the paper.
Out of everything he taught me, my favorites were the crane and the star. No big reason—the crane reminded me of how we first met, and the star was just the easiest to make. Plus, both of them come with that old idea about making wishes, right?
*A thousand cranes, a thousand stars.*
Beomgyu laughed to himself when he brought it up back then. "Though I don't think I have that much paper."
"Do you have a wish you want granted?" I asked curiously.
He just shook his head like usual. "Never really thought about it."
He answered like hoping and wishing weren't really things he did. Not knowing what else to say, I stayed quiet for a bit, carefully shaping the points of the star I was holding.
"I'll fold stars for you then. So whenever you finally get a wish, you'll be ready."
Beomgyu’s fingers paused, and he slowly turned to look at me. His eyes glistened a little before he let out a soft laugh and nodded.
"Okay. Promise, then."
I gave him my word and kept folding. Back then, we didn't expect anything grand from life; we just took things one day at a time, feeling like time was moving extra slow.
Things between my mom and me stayed quiet and distant. Honestly, it’d been like that even before the divorce. It wasn't like we shouted or fought—we just barely talked and lived in this heavy silence. I’d known my parents had problems since I was little, long before they made it obvious, but I never knew what I was supposed to do about it. Nobody ever teaches you that kind of stuff anyway.
Sometimes relatives would whisper to me, *"You should talk to them and mediate. That's how they'll soften up."*
I don't even remember if I nodded. I just thought it was annoying. I genuinely didn't get what they wanted from me. Was I supposed to talk my dad down on one side and my mom on the other? Even if I did, what was I even supposed to say?
To me, their fighting wasn't some shocking new problem—I just hated how loud and messy it was. I didn't care about what they were arguing over; I just wanted peace and quiet. So I tried to distract myself with anything else I could. Whenever relatives told me to fix things between my parents, I just wanted to yell at them and ask why that was my job.
Before we moved to Haedam, my dad bought me a hamburger. It wasn't even a good burger. He picked me up after school, asked if I wanted food, and I just nodded. We got them from a street cart. My dad, who never ate street food, sat next to me on a park bench that evening and quietly ate his burger.
We didn't talk. I just ate and texted my friends. To be honest, I can't even remember how my dad looked that day. I guess I was already so used to not looking my parents in the eye that I just went through the motions.
When my mom quit her job after the divorce and wanted to move to the countryside, I had no idea what she was thinking. Maybe it was because, out of all the relatives who were against the divorce, my grandmother and uncle were the only ones who supported her.
When we first came to Haedam, my mom helped out at my grandmother's corner store. My uncle worked in livestock. Later, my mom started growing flowers—chrysanthemums in all different colors. My uncle would load them into a small pickup truck and drive them out to nearby towns.
I was so used to seeing my mom in her neat dark-blue office clothes, hair tied up tight, wearing thick black glasses, that it took me forever to get used to her in baggy cotton shirts, hair tossed up casually, working out in the flower beds.
Or maybe deep down, I just didn't want to accept that we were actually going to live in Haedam for good. I felt like if I got used to it, it meant giving in to something I hated. I'm not even sure if I'm fully okay with it now. Looking back, I think I only got used to it because of Beomgyu. Having a friend like him made living here feel normal a lot faster.
After my grandmother passed, my mom got even quieter. She’d do housework, cook, and potter around in the garden. When she was free, she’d turn on my grandmother's old TV and watch dramas.
I used to think my mom and Beomgyu were kind of similar.
Beomgyu had an old radio, too. It was a tiny little thing his granddad used to keep on all the time before he died. It was a cheap brand, bright red—Beomgyu called it an ugly, eye-searing red.
His granddad didn't do much besides listening to that radio. He’d take walks around the village, or go down to the church by the entrance to chat with the priest. At home, he’d just turn the radio up loud and listen.
The paint was peeling off in spots, showing rust underneath. The speaker sounded scratchy, and it barely caught any channels. Even when it did, you had to listen through crackles of static.
After his granddad died, Beomgyu started bringing that radio everywhere. He even packed it in his backpack for school. I noticed, but I never brought it up. And Beomgyu never felt the need to explain it either.
He was always like that—like he believed he didn't owe the world any explanations. And I really liked that about him.
Whenever we were hanging out, Beomgyu would leave the radio playing softly in the background. Aside from the rare moment a channel flickered in with a bit of a song or a news report, it was mostly just a soft, muffled background hum of static.
When we were at the lake, the wind in the willow trees and the crackle of the radio blended together perfectly. Sometimes Beomgyu would drift off to sleep next to me. Watching his chest gently rise and fall with his breathing while he slept so peacefully gave me this quiet sense of calm. It felt... comfortable. Like a place where I actually belonged.
Even in my second year here, I still didn't feel super connected to Haedam. Sure, I knew the whole layout—the dirt tracks, the paved roads, all of it. Beomgyu had shown me around everywhere. But I mean Haedam as a community.
It wasn't a super backward place—it felt more like a tiny town than a village. Since the highest buildings were only one story, the sky felt huge and open. People mostly did farming or raised livestock, doing business with nearby towns. It never grew bigger, but it never shrank either. It just felt like time moved at its own slow pace here.
The villagers were another story. From all of them, I got the exact same vibe: *you're an outsider.* They knew my mom, but with me, they’d subtly avoid making eye contact or talking for too long.
I found it hard to deal with adults, too. Unless it was someone like Beomgyu’s granddad, who was warm and reached out first, I preferred to just stand back and stay out of the way.
Beomgyu wasn't much different. Even though he grew up here, no one was really close with him either. Honestly, out of all the kids our age, I was the only one who hung out with him.
Maybe both of us were just used to existing in places where we didn't quite fit in.
"So, what's the deal with the lake?" I asked Beomgyu one day.
It hadn't really crossed my mind to ask before, because to us, the lake was just our regular spot. But ever since moving here, I noticed how the locals flinched whenever the lake came up. I didn't get it.
Beomgyu paused, fiddling with the radio dial like he was thinking it over. Out on the water, our paper cranes and yellow stars floated gently.
"Elders here haven't liked this lake since the village was first built. Said the feng shui was bad. Some even called it a man-eating lake. To be fair, a lot of people did drown here.
Later on, they held rituals to calm the spirits. But when drownings kept happening almost every year, people got scared. The village elders told everyone to stay away, so people just started avoiding it. My granddad said that fear is still rooted deep here. Nothing’s happened at the lake in a long time, but people are still paranoid."
"Still, to hate it *that* much..."
Beomgyu chuckled at my mumbling. He set the radio down and picked up a flat pebble. With practiced ease, he flicked his wrist, skipping the stone masterfully across the water. It bounced over the surface several times before sinking way out in the middle.
"They say some people got haunted by ghosts. Though nobody can actually prove it."
"Well, neither of us has seen anything yet, right?"
"Maybe we just haven't seen it *yet*," Beomgyu murmured with a slight smirk, stretching out on the grass.
I laid down next to him. Neither of us ever cared about getting our school uniforms dirty.
"Guess they're just superstitious, huh?"
"Yeah. People are scared of anything to do with death. Avoiding it just makes them feel safe."
I nodded. The cool dampness of the ground seeped through my clothes, making my body feel heavy and lazy, like I didn't want to get up.
"What do you think dying feels like, Beomgyu?"
The thought just slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
"Probably when the whole world goes completely quiet, except for you."
His answer settled quietly in my head. He went still for a moment, then kept talking.
"My granddad told me... my mom almost jumped into this lake once. Back when she was pregnant with me."
The sudden confession made my breath catch in my throat. The fading evening light flickered through the leaves in patches. Beomgyu raised a hand, blocking the dim sunlight from hitting his eyes.
"Granddad said he ran after her and brought her back. Sometimes I wonder if she was just exhausted. And whether she even wanted to live when she had me."
The breeze felt like it stopped dead in an instant. Lying there on the grass, I turned toward Beomgyu and pulled him into a quiet hug. He wrapped his arms back around me, his breath coming out faint and shallow against me.
"Well, I'm glad you're here. And I think your mom would be too."
I whispered softly. I felt Beomgyu’s body relax in my arms. He closed his eyes, and I closed mine too.
I breathed in the faint, sweet scent on him—kind of like candy.
And from the old radio beside us, the crackle of static grew just a little louder.
**End of Act I**