Yoorin sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of the forgotten room, the moonlit book in her lap. Her fingertips hovered above the second page, where silver letters still glowed faintly.
She hadn't imagined it. The words had written themselves.
Now, they pulsed gently—like they were breathing.
She whispered to no one, "What are you?"
And the book answered.
Not with words this time, but with warmth. A hum. Like distant wind chimes caught in a summer breeze.
She turned the page.
More writing appeared—elegant and curling like vines—each sentence blooming across the paper just as her eyes found them.
"She was not born under my stars, but she smiled like she belonged there."
"I loved her before I knew her name."
"And even when she forgot me, I remembered her for both of us."
Yoorin's breath caught in her throat.
There was something too familiar in those words. Not in their meaning, but in their feeling. Like a distant bell she hadn't heard in years. Like a melody she once fell asleep to as a child.
Was this… fiction?
A memory?
A message?
She traced the ink with her fingertip. It shimmered softly, like moonlight on water.
Then something inside the room shifted.
The air turned heavier. Colder. The scent of jasmine vanished, replaced by the sharp, metallic edge of rain. The stained-glass moon on the window now glowed with an eerie blue light, casting fractured shadows along the walls.
And in those shadows—just for a second—Yoorin saw a silhouette.
A man.
Not clearly. Just the outline of someone tall, cloaked in black, facing her with his head slightly tilted… as if he was listening.
Her pulse skipped.
She blinked—and the figure was gone.
The book snapped shut in her hands.
Not from wind. Not from her. As if it chose to.
Yoorin stood up slowly, her knees weak. She placed the book gently on the nearest table.
She should be scared. But she wasn't.
Some part of her whispered that this wasn't the beginning of something.
It was the return of something very old.