Minjae had long since stopped dreaming.
Or so he thought.
Sleep, in recent weeks, had become uneven. Uneasy.
No more the deep, uninterrupted stillness he'd once relied on. Now, it fractured—too shallow to rest in, too deep to escape.
He would wake with a weight pressing against his chest. Not fear. Not even anxiety. Just… something he couldn't name.
The taste of ash lingered at the back of his throat, and sometimes—if he focused—he could hear whispers.
Names he didn't know, but still recognized.
Places he couldn't find on a map, but which felt like home.
He said nothing about it to anyone.
Not to his parents.
Not to Taesung.
Not even to himself, really.
He just took longer to rise each morning. Sat up a little slower. Kept the windows closed, as if the dreams might seep out if he wasn't careful.
One night, it came sharper.
The dream.
Not fragmented. Not fleeting.
This time, it arrived whole.
He stood on blackened earth, the sky above him torn open by crimson flame. The heat was dry and suffocating, but it didn't burn. Not him.
Bodies—scattered. Some human, some not. All still.
A silence hung over the scene, too vast to break.
Then came a voice.
His voice—but deeper. Older. Stripped of warmth.
| "You chose mercy over dominion."
The air did not carry the sound. It echoed from within.
| "You let them learn, knowing they would forget."
| "Was it worth it?"
He turned. Slowly. Carefully.
There was no figure waiting. No enemy. No friend.
Only a mirror, impossibly standing in the ruins.
And in it—a reflection not of Minjae, but of Valmyros.
Majestic. Towering. Not a boy, not even a man. A creature carved from starlight and fury.
Eyes like burning coals, yet still familiar. Still… him.
Valmyros didn't speak. He only watched. Unblinking.
Minjae reached out, not knowing why. Not expecting anything.
His fingers touched the surface—
And he woke.
His breath came fast, clipped at the edges. The ceiling above him glowed faint with early morning gray. His heart beat unevenly, not from panic, but from memory.
He sat upright, still caught between realms.
The dream hadn't faded.
It remained intact in his mind, like it had simply paused—waiting for his return.
He didn't lie back down.
Instead, he dressed, stepped out quietly, and walked through the sleeping streets.
Later that day, he met Hana for a walk across Hangang Bridge.
It was something she suggested—something casual, she said. She wanted to talk about her brother's wedding, about possibly taking a gap year, about how modern poetry was both overrated and underappreciated at the same time.
Minjae listened.
At least, he made the effort.
But his answers came delayed. Numb around the edges.
Eventually, she trailed off mid-sentence.
"You're somewhere else again," she said.
"I'm always here," he replied.
She stopped walking. "No. You're not."
He followed her gaze out toward the water. The river shimmered under the afternoon sun, a flickering, restless thing. He watched it flow, as if it might carry something useful with it. Something lost.
"Do you ever feel like you were meant for something," he asked quietly, "but you no longer know what?"
She tilted her head. "All the time."
He turned to her.
"Even if that something doesn't exist anymore?"
She considered. "Especially then."
She said it gently. Without trying to explain it away. Without the need to fill the silence that followed.
They walked the rest of the bridge in a quieter rhythm, their conversation replaced by the sound of wind against railing.
That night, Minjae sat at his desk with a book of old world mythology spread open before him. Korean, Norse, Greek—civilizations across continents all attempting the same thing:
To make meaning from the unknowable.
He traced the printed lines with his eyes. Immortals, gods, demons, spirits.
Dragons.
But they weren't like him. Not like Valmyros.
Here, dragons were greedy hoarders. Savage tyrants. Obstacles to be slain by clever mortals. Rarely wise. Never sorrowful.
Just monsters.
He turned another page. Another. But none of them remembered the truths he did.
None of them mourned what was lost.
Eventually, he closed the book.
The silence in the room shifted slightly, as if acknowledging the act.
A soft knock pulled him from the weight of his thoughts.
He opened the door to find his mother standing there, holding a plate of sliced fruit. Apples, pears, and one perfectly peeled persimmon.
"You study too much," she said, offering a small smile. "Eat. Before you start shrinking."
He accepted the plate, returning the smile with one just as faint.
"Thank you."
She lingered at the doorway, watching him.
"You've seemed far away lately," she said. "Not just tired. Different."
"I'm not," he replied, a little too quickly.
Her eyes didn't challenge him. They simply softened.
"You are. Just… don't drift too far, Minjae. Not from us."
Then she turned and left, the hallway light flicking off behind her.
He sat down again, fruit in hand.
He bit into the persimmon first.
The sweetness surprised him. It burst on his tongue, too vivid, too real. Like color in a world that had been grayscale.
Each bite grounded him.
Not entirely—but enough.
Still, a faint ache curled behind his ribs. Not pain. Not regret.
Just a quiet sorrow, shaped like a memory too old for this world.
Not heavy.
Not sharp.
But persistent.
It lived in the background of everything. A subtle thrum beneath each breath.
A part of him that wouldn't leave. Couldn't.
Because it had nowhere else to go.
Outside, a cicada chirped.
One beat, then another. Then silence.
The night was warm.
The kind of warmth that made the world feel still—yet restless.
Minjae stood by the window, the mythology book now closed beside him.
He didn't open it again.
Didn't need to.
The stories he remembered weren't written in ink.
And what lingered inside him wasn't myth.
Not anymore.
Not for him.