The office loosened before it emptied.
A chair leg scraped, then stopped halfway as its owner adjusted it back into place. Papers were tapped into alignment, edges squared against desks that had learned the shape of routine. Someone near the door laughed—too loud for the room, too early for the street—but no one reacted. The sound slipped past like something already leaving.
The clock ticked above them.
Steady.
Unbothered.
"Chae-won, would you like to go out for drinks?"
Her fingers paused on the edge of the desk. The wood there had been worn smooth, grain flattened by repetition. Her thumb pressed lightly into it, feeling the shallow dip where others had rested before her.
Da-eun stood just behind her shoulder.
"Hwan and others would be joining us."
Chae-won didn't turn immediately. Her gaze lifted instead—past the rows of desks, past the window catching the last stretch of light—until it landed on the clock.
A few minutes past seventeen.
The numbers held still. Familiar. Still slightly foreign, like something translated too many times to feel native.
"If you are busy, we can have it some other time."
That pulled her back.
"Yes, sorry."
She turned her head just enough to meet Da-eun's eyes.
"I'm rather tired from the day's work."
A small smile followed. Controlled. Measured to end the conversation without inviting another.
Da-eun held her gaze for a moment longer. Then nodded once.
"Good night. Take care."
The space between them closed without friction. No insistence. No weight left behind.
Chae-won turned back.
The typewriter sat slightly off-center. A sheet of paper remained caught in its rollers, angled just enough to suggest it had been left mid-thought. The ink ribbon carried a faint metallic scent, dry at the edges. Beside it, a small stack of books leaned unevenly, their spines softened where fingers had traced them too often.
She adjusted nothing.
Her hand hovered once—then lowered.
She stood.
—
The street met her without hesitation.
A carriage rolled past, wheels grinding low against stone. The sound carried through the soles of her shoes, a dull vibration that faded only after it had already passed. Voices layered over one another—vendors calling, conversations folding into each other, a sharp shout cutting through before dissolving again.
Someone brushed her shoulder.
Brief.
Firm enough to register.
She shifted half a step, letting the movement pass through her rather than resisting it. The air carried the smell of oil, damp fabric, something frying nearby. It clung lightly to her coat.
"Good evening, Mr. Lê."
Her voice slipped out as she entered the corridor.
"Evening, neighbour."
He didn't look at her when he answered. His key was already turning in the lock, metal clicking into place with a solid, practiced sound. The door opened just enough for him to slip through. Tobacco and starch followed him out into the hall before the door shut again.
Chae-won watched the closed door for a second.
Then turned.
Her hand pressed against her own handle. The metal was cool. The latch gave with a soft resistance before opening.
The apartment waited.
The air inside was cooler than the corridor. Still. It carried a faint scent—wood, something fermented, something that had settled into the walls long enough to belong there.
She stepped in.
Closed the door.
The sound was softer than the one outside. Less final.
Her hand found the gas lamp by memory. The valve turned. A brief hiss—then the flame caught, small at first, then spreading into a steady glow. Light pushed outward, stopping short of the corners.
She moved to the table.
The containers touched down with a quiet weight. Kimchi. Susu-bap. The wood beneath them absorbed the impact, dulling it into something softer.
"I would like some rice."
The words came low. Barely shaped.
She sat.
The first bite was warm. Not hot. Enough to spread through her mouth, into her chest, easing something that had tightened without her noticing. She chewed slowly, gaze drifting—not fixed on anything, just… present.
Another bite.
Her shoulders lowered slightly.
The room stayed quiet.
When the edge of hunger softened into something manageable, her hand moved to the side. The book slid closer across the table, its cover catching faintly against the grain before settling under her palm.
"This might have been a waste of money."
Her thumb brushed across it.
The surface resisted definition. Not smooth. Not rough. Just… worn in a way that suggested time had passed over it without changing its mind.
"conte de fées."
The first time, the words caught.
The second time, they settled.
"conte de fées."
Something small shifted. Recognition, earned slowly, finding its place.
She picked up her chopsticks again—but paused.
"You cost a lot."
Her gaze rested on the book.
The complaint thinned as it formed. Lost its edge before it could land.
She opened it.
—
"Long ago there was a poor but kind-hearted woodcutter…"
The lines moved steadily beneath her eyes. The words formed without needing to be spoken, each one settling just long enough to hold meaning before the next replaced it.
"One day he was coming down the mountain late…"
She lifted another bite. Chewed.
"…around 41:09—the silver sun was setting—"
Her eyes didn't leave the page.
"—when he saw a fire in the forest…"
The room around her softened. Not gone. Just… further away.
"Curious, he crept closer."
Her back pressed lightly against the chair.
"Around the fire sat several dokkaebi…"
The shapes came without effort. Horns. Hair. Clothes that didn't follow rules she understood. Not threatening. Not safe. Just… present in their own way.
"They were drinking, singing…"
Her gaze flickered upward once. Unfocused.
"…and telling stories."
Her breathing slowed.
"In the middle of them lay a club…"
The image sharpened.
Wood.
Weight.
A shape that suggested use without explanation.
A voice followed.
Not from the page.
From memory.
Her father's—animated, uneven, alive in a way that resisted quiet. Hands moving, shaping the air as he spoke.
Her brother leaning forward.
"What is the rich ground?"
And the answer—
"Where myth lives and riches can be made."
Her lips curved slightly.
"When I make it big, we will be able to afford meat."
The smile held—
Then faded.
Her gaze dropped back to the page.
—
"Geum nawa-ra, eun nawa-ra!"
The words pressed differently.
Heavier.
"Gold comes out, silver comes out!"
She imagined the impact.
The strike.
The sound.
Coins spilling—not gradually, not carefully—but all at once.
"I could use some of that magic."
The room did not answer.
She turned the page.
—
The story moved quickly.
Wealth came without resistance. Rice. A house. More than enough layered on top of itself.
"Lucky."
Her plate was empty.
She stood.
The basin caught the plate with a soft contact. Water followed, cool against her fingers, the sound briefly filling the space. She rinsed. Set it aside. Dried her hands.
Returned.
The nobleman appeared.
The theft.
"Gold come out!"
Nothing.
"I said gold!"
Still nothing.
"Stupid."
The word came under her breath.
She placed the utensils down.
—
"A thousand beatings come out!"
The shift landed.
Immediate.
Her lips curved again—slightly more this time.
The rhythm of imagined strikes filled the gap.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
A small sound slipped out.
"Haha."
She reached for her pocket watch. The hinge opened with a familiar resistance. Metal cool against her thumb. The ticking steady, precise.
Time had moved.
She hadn't tracked it.
The watch closed with a soft click.
—
"The woodcutter learned his lesson…"
Her voice softened.
"Don't show off. Don't be greedy."
She stood.
Her back stretched slightly, tension releasing in small increments along her spine.
"Wish father had learned this sooner."
The words lingered.
"But even mother's storytelling did not reach him."
She moved toward the bathroom.
—
Warm water built slowly.
It wrapped around her rather than striking, heat pressing into her skin in a steady, consistent way. Her shoulders lowered. Her eyes closed for a moment.
The sound of water filled the space.
Contained.
Predictable.
"Maybe I shouldn't be spending too much on them."
The words blurred in the steam.
"You truly are your father's daughter."
They hung there.
Not fully judgment.
Not fully acceptance.
She finished.
Dried.
Dressed.
—
The room waited when she returned.
Unchanged.
The book remained where she had left it.
And beside it—
She stopped.
The air felt thicker. Not visibly—just enough that her breath slowed without instruction.
A spiked club rested against the table.
Solid.
Present.
"Goodness."
The word came thin.
She stepped closer.
Each movement measured. The floorboards answered quietly beneath her weight.
Her gaze moved from the book—
To the club—
Back again.
"Could it be…"
Her hand lifted.
Paused.
Hovered.
Then closed.
The wood was real. Slightly rough. The weight settled into her grip, pulling downward in a way that demanded acknowledgment.
She lifted it.
Slowly.
"Giving me money."
The words sounded wrong.
She brought it down.
The impact cracked against the floor.
Then—
Coins.
They spilled outward in a sharp cascade. Silver. Gold. The sound was immediate—bright, uneven, striking against wood, against each other, scattering until friction slowed them.
Her breath caught.
"I am rich."
Louder now.
Unsteady.
Then—
A pause.
Her grip shifted.
"I shouldn't be reckless."
She raised the club again.
Brought it down.
Again.
The rhythm changed. Faster. Less measured. Each strike answered without delay.
Coins spread.
Piling.
Pressing against her feet.
She stepped back slightly, adjusting her balance as they shifted beneath her.
Again.
Again.
Twenty times.
She stopped.
The room held more than before.
Not just visually.
The air felt crowded. Heavy with something that hadn't been there.
"I'm likely not in the right headspace."
Her voice dropped.
"I should sleep."
She lowered the club carefully.
Set it down.
The coins remained.
She crouched.
Picked one up.
Silver first.
Cold.
Then gold.
Heavier than expected.
She placed them aside.
Stood.
The bed waited.
She lay down.
Sleep took her before the room settled.
—
Morning came without sound.
"Ah… morning."
Her voice was softer.
She sat up. The fabric shifted against her skin. Her movements slower, less certain.
Something pressed faintly at the back of her mind.
"I do not seem to have a recollection of last night."
She stood.
Walked toward the bathroom.
"Did I go out to drink with the others?"
The thought fit.
Easily.
She returned.
The table stood empty.
Too clean.
Her gaze stayed there.
A second longer than needed.
"Dokkaebi Bangmangi."
The title sat clearly on the cover.
She looked at it.
Did not reach for it.
"I should write to mum."
The decision settled without resistance.
She turned.
Gathered her things.
The latch clicked as she opened the door.
Exhaustion lingered.
Faint.
Beneath it—
Something sharper.
She stepped out.
The door closed behind her.
Quiet.
Final.