Seo Yoon wakes up to the weight of something pressing down on her chest. Not physically. Not in a way she can push off with her arms. But it's there, clinging like humidity in summer heat—a thick, formless pressure that anchors her to the mattress. A heaviness. A presence. A whisper of something unfinished.
She lies still. Doesn't move. Just breathes. Slowly. Carefully. Her fingers twitch against the sheets, faintly curling into the fabric like they're searching for something to hold on to. Her eyes remain open, unfocused, caught somewhere between waking and dreaming. Her mind feels fogged over. Everything is distant. Weightless.
But her heart pounds like she's running.
Why?
She tries to sift through the hazy remnants of sleep. Fleeting flashes of colour. Whispers in a hallway. The warmth of sunlight through dusty curtains. A child's laugh. A song. A game. The creak of a door. A voice in the dark. Something deeper. Something that pulls at the edges of her consciousness like a thread just beginning to fray. But it's all just out of reach. No matter how hard she tries to hold onto it, it slips from her, scattering like ash.
Gone.
She exhales slowly, dragging a hand down her face. The pressure in her chest doesn't ease.
She's just tired. That's all.
She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and plants her bare feet on the cold wooden floor. The contrast jolts her slightly more awake. She sits like that for a while, staring at nothing, before pushing herself up.
The apartment is silent. She moves through her morning in mechanical sequence. Shower. Coffee. Brief breakfast. She lets the water run longer than she needs to, as if trying to drown out the tension simmering under her skin. The news mumbles in the background as she sips her coffee, its voice tinny and far away. Everything is normal. But the weight is still there.
It clings to her shoulders as she steps outside, walking through the city she's lived in for years. The sidewalk hums with the rhythm of morning life. Conversations blur past. Engines rumble. Distant horns. The same vendors, the same students, the same weathered routine of daily movement.
And yet—It all feels distant. Muted. Like she's watching someone else live her life. Her hands tuck into her coat pockets. She walks faster than usual. The kind of fast that says she's trying to outrun something she won't name.
And then—It happens.
A flicker. A break in the world.
For one breathless moment, she is no longer on concrete. The ground beneath her shifts. Not visually. Not physically. But the feeling. Gone is the hard city pavement. In its place—polished wood. Clean. Cold. Familiar.
She stops walking. Her pulse pounds in her ears.
She blinks. And suddenly—She is standing inside a house.
A house she does not recognise.
Except—she does.
Every nerve in her body tightens. She knows this hallway. She knows the light through the curtains. The dust that clings to the air like it's suspended in time. The quiet. The stillness. The ache in her chest. She has been here. Hasn't she?
The memory crashes into her like a wave. She is small. No more than five. Maybe six. The house towers around her, ceilings impossibly high, shadows stretching across the floor like long, searching fingers. She's running. Tiny footsteps on wood. Socks slipping. Breathless laughter. It's a game. Hide-and-seek.
She remembers the giddiness. The way the echo of her own laughter bounced back at her from the walls. The thrill of finding a hiding place. The terror when the lights flickered.
There's another child. A boy. She can't see his face. But she knows him. Not just familiarity. Something deeper. He calls her name. Not "Seo Yoon." Something else.
The memory skips.
She hides behind a curtain. A door creaks open in the distance. Someone hums. Soft. Lulling.
Kkogkkog sumeora.
Her blood chills.
The melody is soft, almost soothing. The kind of song meant for lullabies. For games. For children.
Meolikarag boila.
She sings it too.
She always has.
Her lips move before her mind registers the sound. She's singing. She knows the words. She doesn't know why.
The house stretches out around her. Rooms upon rooms, endless doors. The ceiling grows higher. The windows longer. It doesn't feel like a home. It never did. It feels like a place built to keep you in. Not out of malice, but out of control. Out of someone else's design.
She remembers the whispers. Adults talking in soft tones. Smiles that didn't reach their eyes. Rules spoken like they were for safety. Names given like gifts. But hers never felt like hers. Not really. She didn't choose it. It was placed on her like a sticker. Peeling at the edges.
She tries to look back, to see the boy's face again. She hears him calling. Laughing. Hiding. Playing.
"Soomin-ah!"
The name hits her like a crack of thunder.
Not hers. His.
But it means something.
Everything shifts. She sees a room full of children. Older ones helping younger ones. Some eating. Some folding laundry. Some simply staring into space. Quiet. Too quiet.
She sees a staircase. She sees a woman standing at the top. Smiling. Holding a tray. Calling them all by names they didn't come with.
She blinks. And it's gone.
The street returns. Her breath is ragged. Her eyes sting.
She doesn't know where she is.
Or who she is.
But her legs keep walking.
And the song follows her home.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't a memory.
This was something else.