Autumn had finally claimed its reign.
The city had become damp, gleaming like glass over which the reflections of life flowed.
Seoul, at this time of year, had always been beautiful — but now I saw only decay: slow, almost ceremonial.
Everything that once inspired me had turned into a set frozen between frames of a film: wet asphalt, dim lamplight, steam from coffee in the windows of all-night cafés.
For the living, it was a season.
For me — eternity.
***
I watched Do‑yeon.
Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn't do otherwise.
Ghosts don't choose where to be. Their attachment is a chain woven from love, regret, and all the words that were never spoken.
He no longer pretended.
He didn't eat. Didn't wash his hands. Didn't open the windows.
He lived in the same old gray hoodie in which I once painted his portrait.
It smelled of coffee, paint, and loneliness.
Every day he passed by the studio — that same room where my last canvas hung, turned to the wall. He never entered, but sometimes lingered by the door, as if listening.
And I was always inside.
Sitting on the floor where the trace of his shoe had once been left in paint, waiting — the way one waits for the tide, without faith but out of habit.
Sometimes I thought that time did not move for the dead.
But I was wrong.
For us, it moves differently — stretching like a breath before the final word.
***
At night, I found him in the kitchen.
He was standing by the open refrigerator, staring into the dim white light without blinking.
Time seemed to have stopped.
— What are you doing, Do‑yeon? — I asked, though I knew he couldn't hear me.
He took out a carton of milk. I recognized it instantly — the same one that had been there for several days.
He brought it to his lips. One sip. Then another.
No grimace. No reaction.
As if he only wanted to confirm that he could still feel something.
I shouted, tried to slap his hand.
My fingers passed through his skin, leaving only a faint shiver in the air.
He didn't notice.
He just closed the refrigerator and stayed there in the dark, as if he had forgotten why he came.
— You can't disappear like this, — I whispered. — Don't leave yourself behind while I'm still here.
But my words drowned in the emptiness.
***
The days became identical.
Time flowed thick and viscous, like warm resin.
I began to notice something strange: if I thought about an object for too long, it started to tremble slightly — as if the air around me was responding.
It was my way of touching the world.
Not with my hand — with thought.
I chose a photograph — the one where we were laughing in the subway.
It stood on his bedside table beside a dried branch of lavender.
I focused on it, trying to pour all my will into the glass, hoping that something, anything, might change.
Sometimes, when he slept, the lamp on the nightstand flickered — barely noticeable, as if someone nearby was breathing.
I didn't know if he saw it, but I believed he felt it.
***
When he finally left the apartment, I was frightened.
It was the first time in two weeks.
He simply put on his coat and walked out without looking back.
I followed him — not as a shadow, but as a breath.
We walked through narrow alleys where the asphalt glistened after the rain.
People passed through me without noticing, and every time, it felt like a blow.
At the end of the street was a small, neglected park with peeling benches.
He sat down.
He sat for a long time, staring into nothing.
Then he took out a cigarette.
He had never smoked in front of me.
We had promised each other — no cigarettes, as long as we lived.
And now he was breaking that promise, and only I could see how his hand trembled.
— Don't, — I said. — You promised.
He struck the lighter. The flame reflected in his eyes.
The smoke passed through me — sharp, cold.
I wanted to turn away, to leave, not to watch.
But at that moment, I saw him.
***
On the next bench sat a man — dark-haired, with his hair tied back in a low ponytail, a camera resting on his knees.
I recognized him immediately.
Min‑seo.
The past we never spoke about.
His first love.
My envy — quiet, unspoken jealousy, a shadow in the corner of our life.
He was watching.
But not Do‑yeon.
Me.
I didn't believe it at first.
He didn't blink, didn't look away.
His eyes narrowed — not in fear, but in recognition.
And then he raised the camera.
Click.
A sound louder than a scream in my world.
I froze.
Took a step forward.
— Can you see me? — I asked.
He didn't answer.
Then, slowly, with a touch of disdain, he shook his head.
— No, — he said quietly. — I see nothing. And I don't want to.
He stood up quickly and left.
But I knew — he had seen.
Even if he denied it, even if he was afraid — he had seen.
***
After that, everything changed.
I couldn't calm down.
Every time Do‑yeon closed his eyes, I remembered that look in Min‑seo's eyes — cold, alive, real.
It meant connection was possible.
Someone could see.
The night passed in restlessness.
I wandered through the apartment, again and again trying to make objects respond.
The lamp flickered more often than before.
The mirror in the hallway seemed to breathe.
— Min‑seo, — I whispered, — I'll find you. You have to help me.
And nearby, beyond the wall of sleep, Do‑yeon whispered my name.
Quietly. Barely audible.
As if he knew I hadn't left.
As if he believed.
______________________
"Sometimes I think my voice is just the wind wandering through empty streets.
No one hears, no one answers.
But if even one person can see me — even for a moment — then I still exist.
I am not light. Not darkness.
I am a memory that refuses to die."