The camera glides over rows of flickering candles, their flames bending in an invisible wind. Park Seong-ah kneels in the center of the dim shrine, her half-painted face hidden behind a fox-shaped mask. She chants in low, rhythmic bursts, the beaded tassels on her wrists clicking like clockwork.
A porcelain bowl rattles. The spirit fights back, sending an unnatural chill crawling up her arms.
Just as her voice crescendos, the shrill beep-beep-beep of her phone alarm cuts through the tension. Her eyes widen. "Oh no—school!"
She yanks off the mask, smudges away her makeup with a cloth, and crams her ritual tools into a bag. The shrine's incense still swirls in the air as she bolts out into the night, sneakers pounding the dirt path.
First light spills over Seoul's rooftops. Seong-ah sprints down narrow alleys, hair flying, clutching her textbooks like a shield. She nearly collides with an old man carrying groceries, mutters a breathless apology, and darts onward.
Her shortcut? The school wall. She hauls herself up, skirt snagging slightly, then flops over to the other side with a graceless thud.
"Nice entrance," comes a teasing voice. Pyo Ji-ho, her classmate and unofficial morning commentator, smirks from the walkway. She throws him a glare that's more tired than annoyed.
Night falls again. The shrine's paper lanterns glow amber, swaying gently in the breeze. A bell jingles at the door as Bae Gyeon-woo steps in, his posture casual but eyes distant. His grandmother follows, leaning on a cane.
The moment Seong-ah's gaze lands on him, her vision fractures—
The floor tilts, reality flips. In her mind's eye, he's walking upside down, like the world is rejecting him. A reversed flame flickers around him, dim and unstable. Death's omen.
She blinks hard, but the image clings to her. Her pulse races. He's going to die.
Got it — I'll write that scene like a novel, in multiple paragraphs, keeping the tone suspenseful and detailed.
Seong-ah walked home alone, the night air crisp against her cheeks. The city was quieter now, the lively chatter of the daytime giving way to the occasional hum of a passing car. Her steps slowed as she neared an old apartment block, its rooftop silhouetted against the moon. Something about the stillness above made her glance up—
—and her breath froze.
A shadow stood on the ledge, impossibly thin and unnaturally still. Even from this distance, she could feel the wrongness of it. Its head twitched, jerking unnaturally, until it turned… and its hollow, blackened gaze locked onto something behind her.
Seong-ah spun around.
Gyeonwoo was walking down the opposite sidewalk, hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed as if lost in thought. He didn't see it. He didn't see it.
The ghost's jaw opened wide in a silent scream, its limbs stretching in impossible angles as it leapt from the rooftop—straight toward him.
Her instincts flared. Without thinking, Seong-ah ran into the street, ignoring the honk of a car swerving past. She reached him just as the ghost's claws arched down—pushing him back with all her strength.
But in that instant, something unexpected happened.
Gyeonwoo moved faster than she thought possible, catching her wrist and pulling her toward him. His body turned, placing himself between her and the invisible threat, as if he was the one shielding her. The world tilted; her back hit the pavement, and he was over her, one arm braced beside her head, his other hand gripping her shoulder firmly.
For a moment, it was just the two of them, breathless, their faces so close she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes under the streetlight. He had no idea what she had just saved him from. He thought he was the one rescuing her.
And the ghost… was gone.
Vanished, as if it had never been there.
But Seong-ah's heart was still pounding, because she knew the truth—this wasn't over. Not even close.
Gyeonwoo pushed himself up, offering her a hand.
"You should be more careful," he said, his voice calm but firm, as if she was the reckless one.
Seong-ah stared at him for a second, unsure whether to laugh or scream. "Careful?" she repeated, taking his hand anyway. Her palm was cold, but his grip was warm—steady.
"You ran into the road without looking. What if a car hit you?" he went on, dusting off the shoulder of her jacket like an older brother scolding a kid. He didn't notice her eyes flicking up to the rooftop, scanning for any trace of the thing she'd seen.
It was gone. No shadow, no trace of that twisted figure. But she could still feel it, as if the air itself hadn't fully settled.
"You're unbelievable," she muttered under her breath.
"What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, forcing a smile. "Thanks… for, uh, catching me."
The corner of his mouth curved into that faint smile he always wore when he thought he was being the responsible one. "Don't mention it. I can't have you dying on the way home. My conscience can't take that."
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. He had no idea—no clue that just seconds ago, his life had been hanging by a thread. And worse, she had a feeling this ghost wasn't just a random spirit wandering the city. It had recognized him.
A shiver ran down her spine. She fell into step beside him, keeping her voice casual.
"Gyeonwoo…"
"Hmm?"
"If you ever… see something strange. Don't ignore it."
He glanced at her curiously, brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just—promise me."
He kept a blank face. And left without saying anything to her. Making her frawn
" Why does he always ignore me?" Seong -ah spoke to herself.
That night, Seong-ah found herself standing in front of Ggot Do Ryeong's tiny shop tucked between two closed stalls in the market. The faint smell of dried herbs and candle wax drifted through the air, and the only light came from a single lantern hanging above the door.
Inside, the walls were crowded with talismans, wooden charms, and jars of strange powders. The old man himself was hunched over a table, tracing symbols on a yellow strip of paper with a calligraphy brush.
"I was wondering when you'd come," he said without looking up.
Her breath caught. "You… knew I'd—"
He finally raised his eyes, sharp and unreadable. "You have the look of someone who's seen them. Now, tell me."
So she did. Everything. The rooftop shadow. The feeling of being watched. The way it seemed to reach for Gyeonwoo specifically. By the time she finished, the lantern light flickered faintly, as if responding to her words.
"This one isn't just a wandering spirit," Ggot Do Ryeong murmured. "It's bound to something… or someone."
"Can you stop it?"
"I can slow it."
He moved to a small chest and took out three paper amulets, each marked with crimson ink. One for protection, one for warding, and one to mask a person's spiritual presence. He placed them carefully in her hands. "Keep them close. Hide them well."
The next morning
Seong-ah was already at school earlier than usual, scanning the gates for Jiho. When she spotted him, she jogged over.
"Jiho, I need a favor. No questions."
He looked wary but curious. "That's suspicious already, but fine."
By mid-morning, during break, the two of them put the plan into motion. Jiho distracted Gyeonwoo by calling him over to check something on the notice board. While he was gone, Seong-ah slipped into his desk, pulling his phone from the side pocket of his bag. With quick, careful hands, she slid the smallest amulet into the phone case—just enough that it wouldn't be noticed, but close enough to stay with him.
She put it back exactly how she'd found it just as Jiho returned with Gyeonwoo in tow.
A few minutes later, an unexpected ripple of chatter moved through the hallway. Students began glancing toward the courtyard.
"Isn't that… Gyeonwoo's grandma?" someone whispered.
Sure enough, the elderly woman was walking slowly toward the school entrance, smiling warmly as she greeted the teachers. Her traditional hanbok swayed lightly in the breeze, and her silver hair shone under the sun. She was here to "say hi to the students," but Seong-ah's chest tightened.
Because from where she stood, behind Gyeonwoo's smiling grandmother… the sunlight flickered unnaturally, and a shadow briefly rippled across the ground, trailing her like an invisible thread.
The late morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the school lobby, casting warm rectangles of light onto the polished floor. Gyeonwoo's grandmother arrived with a small basket of rice cakes, her warm smile bright enough to charm the most stubborn teacher. Students whispered among themselves — she was elegant in a simple hanbok, her silver hair neatly tied, eyes carrying the quiet wisdom of someone who'd seen both joy and tragedy.
As she walked toward the front hall, her gaze caught a curious sight — Seong-ah and Jiho, huddled together in a corner near the lockers, their heads bent over a familiar phone.
Gyeonwoo's phone.
Jiho's hands moved quickly, clearly keeping watch, while Seong-ah, with delicate care, slipped a small paper amulet between the phone case and the device itself. They whispered something, glancing around as if they were hiding a secret.
Grandma's lips curved upward in quiet amusement. They didn't notice her at all, too wrapped up in their little mission. When she finally approached, Seong-ah startled, Jiho straightened, and both quickly offered polite bows.
"We're… Gyeonwoo's friends," Seong-ah said quickly, her voice just a touch too high.
"Mm. I can see that," Grandma replied, her tone light but her eyes studying Seong-ah with interest. That same girl from the shaman's warning. The one who had looked at her grandson with that strange, fierce gaze.
They chatted briefly — polite words, harmless smiles — before Grandma moved on, pretending she hadn't seen the talisman exchange. But deep inside, she was already connecting the threads.
Later that afternoon, a tall man with a sharp gaze stepped into the school courtyard, his presence immediately drawing attention. He wore the crisp jacket of a professional coach, bow slung casually over his shoulder.
"You," he called, pointing to Jiho. "Have you ever tried archery?"
Jiho blinked, confused. "Uh… no?"
"You've got the build for it. Good shoulders, steady stance. Our team could use someone like you."
The suggestion made Jiho awkwardly scratch the back of his neck. "Not really my thing."
It wasn't until later — when a few boys passing by mentioned it offhand — that Jiho learned the real surprise: Gyeonwoo wasn't just good at archery. He had been a national-level player. Someone who could hit a target dead-center without even seeming to try.
Jiho glanced at his friend from across the courtyard, who was leaning lazily against a wall, scrolling his phone. He looked so ordinary in that moment. So unaware of the danger swirling unseen around him.
And yet… something told Jiho that archery might not be the only thing Gyeonwoo was unnaturally good at.
Time skip
The sun hung high in the sky, warm and gentle, as Gyeonwoo's grandmother stood at the gate of her quaint traditional home, her hands folded calmly in front of her. The faint scent of blooming azaleas drifted in the soft breeze. She smiled kindly at Seong-ah and Jiho, who followed her silently, their steps slow but curious.
"Come, come inside," she invited, her voice smooth and comforting like a familiar lullaby. "You both must be hungry after all this morning's work."
Seong-ah glanced at Jiho, who shrugged quietly, then they both nodded and stepped through the wooden door framed with delicate paper sliding panels. The house was filled with warm light that danced over polished wooden floors and neatly arranged cushions. The walls were adorned with old family photos and delicate calligraphy scrolls, telling stories of generations past.
Gyeonwoo's grandmother led them into a low dining room where a wooden table was already set, gleaming with the simple elegance of home-cooked care. The centerpiece was a large platter of japchae — glossy, sweet potato noodles tangled with sautéed vegetables, thin strips of beef, and scattered sesame seeds shimmering under the light.
Seong-ah's eyes widened with delight. "Japchae... it smells amazing."
Jiho, usually reserved, allowed a small smile to tug at his lips. "It looks really good."
As they settled down on the cushions, the grandmother poured warm barley tea into delicate porcelain cups. She served the japchae carefully, placing generous portions on each of their plates.
"Eat well," she said softly. "This recipe has been in our family for years. Every bite is made with care, and it brings strength."
Seong-ah took her first bite, the sweet and savory flavors filling her mouth with comforting warmth. She closed her eyes briefly, savoring the taste and the peacefulness of the moment.
Jiho hesitated, then slowly reached for his chopsticks. He took a bite and nodded approvingly. "It's really good," he admitted quietly.
Gyeonwoo's grandmother watched them both with a tender smile. "Food brings people together, you know. Just like friendship and trust."
Outside, the wind stirred the cherry blossoms, sending a gentle shower of petals against the windowpane. Inside the room, the three sat quietly, sharing food and unspoken stories — a simple meal weaving the first threads of connection between them.
Seong-ah carefully set down her chopsticks, feeling a calm settle over her. The warmth of the room wrapped around her like a soft blanket. For a moment, she let herself breathe without the weight of the outside world pressing down.
Jiho's eyes flicked around the room, lingering on the neat stacks of books on the shelf and the delicate porcelain teapot that gleamed in the sunlight. Though he kept his usual guarded expression, Seong-ah sensed something shifting inside him — a crack in his usual armor.
Gyeonwoo's grandmother poured more tea, her hands steady and sure. "You both have been through a lot recently. It's important to take time to rest, to nourish the body and the heart."
Seong-ah looked up, meeting the grandmother's kind gaze. "Thank you. It feels... nice to be here. Like a safe place."
The older woman nodded gently. "That is what a home should be — a place of peace. Sometimes, when the world outside is loud, we must create quiet within."
Jiho finally spoke, his voice soft and a little unsure. "I didn't realize how much I needed this."
Seong-ah turned to him, surprised by his honesty. "Me neither."
For a moment, the three sat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the faint clink of tea cups and the distant chirping of birds outside.
Then, Gyeonwoo's grandmother smiled, a twinkle in her eye. "You remind me of someone — when I was young, I too found strength in simple moments like these."
Seong-ah's curiosity peaked. "Who?"
"A friend," the grandmother said softly, "someone who taught me that even when life is difficult, kindness and patience can carry you through."
Jiho's lips twitched into a small smile. "Sounds like good advice."
"It is," she replied. "And now, it's your turn to learn it."
The afternoon sunlight shifted, casting long shadows through the paper windows. As the meal ended, Seong-ah felt a strange but welcome feeling of hope, as if, just maybe, this humble home could be a new beginning.
The three of them ate quietly, the rich, savory flavors of the japchae lingering pleasantly on their tongues. Jiho suddenly paused, setting down his chopsticks carefully as he looked across the table at Gyeonwoo's grandmother.
"Please take good care of her," Jiho said softly, his voice tinged with concern. "She's the only family he has left."
Gyeonwoo's grandmother smiled gently but shook her head, her eyes calm but firm. "No, no, you mustn't misunderstand. It's not like that."
Seong-ah leaned in, curious, sensing something deeper beneath the words.
She continued, "Gyeonwoo's parents... they live far away. They don't stay with him. So I take care of him, like family."
Jiho's expression softened as he nodded slowly, understanding the weight behind her words.
Seong-ah swallowed her food and then, almost shyly, spoke up. "I'm adopted. My parents left me when I was very young. The Mother Goddess took care of me after that."
She paused, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I've never eaten such delicious japchae before. It tastes... like home."
Gyeonwoo's grandmother's eyes sparkled with warmth. "That is the greatest compliment. Food made with love feeds the soul as much as the body."
The mood lightened, and after they finished eating, Gyeonwoo stood up to help his grandmother clear the table. He moved with quiet care, folding the napkins and stacking the dishes.
Seong-ah and Jiho exchanged a glance, then rose as well.
"I'll show you where you can keep those amulets safe," Jiho said, nodding toward Gyeonwoo's room.
They walked down the polished wooden hallway, their footsteps soft on the floor. Gyeonwoo's room was modest but orderly — a space filled with trophies, certificates, and medals shining under the afternoon light.
As Jiho placed the amulets carefully in a drawer, Seong-ah reached to close the door — but her hand caught on a pile of books and papers.
Suddenly, everything on the desk tumbled down in a loud clatter.
Jiho and Seong-ah froze, eyes wide.
As they hurried to gather the scattered items, their gaze landed on the countless medals sprawled across the floor — silver, gold, bronze — trophies of dedication and hard work.
Seong-ah's breath hitched. "Wow... he's really amazing."
Jiho nodded, pride and admiration flickering in his eyes. "I didn't know he was this good."
Gyeonwoo's achievements spoke volumes — silent but powerful proof of the boy they thought they knew.
As Jiho and Seong-ah knelt on the floor, hurriedly picking up the medals and papers, the door to the room suddenly swung open.
Gyeonwoo rushed in, his eyes sharp and questioning. "What are you doing in my room?"
Seong-ah froze for a moment but quickly composed herself. Without meeting his gaze, she began placing the amulets carefully—here on the shelf, there in the drawer—trying to hide them among his belongings before he could stop her.
Jiho gave her a subtle nod, silently urging her to be quick.
Just then, Seong-ah's phone buzzed sharply in her pocket. She glanced at the screen — a message flashing: Clients are waiting.
Her heart jumped. "I have to go," she whispered, her voice urgent.
Without waiting for a response, she stood up and hurried toward the door, her footsteps light but swift.
Gyeonwoo's grandmother appeared suddenly in the hallway, gently blocking Seong-ah's path.
"Wait a moment, child," she said softly, holding out a small plate with a neatly folded portion of japchae.
Seong-ah's eyes widened in surprise, and she hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe.
The grandmother's eyes searched hers with quiet understanding. "I know who you are. You're the shaman."
Seong-ah blinked, caught off guard. No one had ever spoken about her like that so openly.
"You don't need to hide it here," the grandmother continued kindly. "I have seen the signs, and I trust you."
For a moment, the weight of secrecy lifted just a little. Seong-ah accepted the japchae with a grateful, almost shy smile.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Outside, the world waited impatiently — but inside that small, warm home, an unspoken bond had begun to take root.