Seong-ah's gaze softened as the name lingered in the air.
"Jang Yoon-bo…" she whispered, tasting the syllables, letting them sink into her heart. The spirit inside Gyeonwoo's body flinched, as if hearing it spoken aloud pierced through the shadows that bound him.
He looked at her, eyes dark but searching. His voice trembled between defiance and desperation.
"There was… a reason I could never find it," he confessed, his words heavy with centuries of weight. "My name… my self… it slipped away into the hatred, the curses, the sins. And when one cannot find their own name, they wander forever… But you… you found it."
For the first time, Bongsu's voice cracked—not from rage, but from a hollow ache. His eyes shimmered faintly, and his lips trembled as though fighting tears he no longer had.
Seong-ah stepped closer, her divine robes glowing faintly with the grace of the gods who stood behind her unseen. She lifted her chin, her voice calm yet resonant, like a prayer carried by the wind.
"Do you know what your name means, Yoon-bo?" she asked gently.
The spirit blinked, stunned into silence.
"Yoon means sunshine," Seong-ah said slowly, each word wrapping around him like a blessing. "And Bo means wide, vast." She smiled faintly, though her eyes brimmed with tears. "Your name is not a curse. It is a promise—the warmth of the sun, reaching far and wide. A light meant to touch even the coldest corners of the world."
Her words seemed to slice through the suffocating darkness around him. For a moment, the furious energy crackling in Gyeonwoo's body dimmed, replaced by a flicker of something fragile—hope, or perhaps the memory of who he once was.
Yoon-bo's breath hitched. He shook his head weakly, voice breaking.
Seong-ah's words lingered in the still air, her voice like a hymn.
"Yoon means sunshine… Bo means wide. The warmth of the sunshine, reaching far and wide."
For a moment, silence pressed between them. The firelight flickered, dancing across Gyeonwoo's body where the spirit sat rooted. The restless shadows that had wrapped around him seemed to quiet, like children hushed by a mother's lullaby.
Bongsu—no, Jang Yoon-bo—lifted his gaze to her. His eyes, which had been stormy and sharp all this time, softened in a way Seong-ah had never seen before.
And then… he smiled.
It wasn't a mocking smirk or a twisted grin of defiance, but a small, weary, almost childlike smile—the kind that looked like it hadn't touched his lips for centuries.
"Sunshine…" he murmured, as if rolling the meaning across his tongue for the very first time. A quiet chuckle escaped him, barely audible. "What a strange thing… that you, of all people, would see me that way."
The corners of his mouth curved a little higher, gentle, almost shy. The weight of his torment didn't vanish, but in that fleeting moment, it loosened—like a chain slipping from his chest.
Seong-ah felt her breath catch. The smile wasn't filled with malice. It wasn't even sad. It was… human.
The gods watching from beyond seemed to grow still, as if bearing witness to a wound finally touched by warmth.
Seong-ah whispered softly, almost as if to herself, "Yes… Yoon-bo. Sunshine that reaches wide and far."
And for the first time, Bongsu didn't argue. He only smiled, quietly, like a man who finally remembered he once had a name.
"It's a lovely name," Seong-ah whispered. Her lips curved into a trembling smile, even as tears pooled in her eyes.
Bongsu—no, Jang Yoon-bo—looked at her, a faint spark flickering across his face. He did not speak, but in his silence, there was relief. His name had been spoken with gentleness, not fear. His identity, once lost in rage and wandering, had been acknowledged.
The world seemed to still around them. And then, in the distance, the faint shimmer of a graveyard stone appeared. A simple rock, weathered by rain and time, yet touched by the morning light. Golden beams poured over it as though the heavens themselves remembered him.
The inscription etched into the stone glowed faintly, and Seong-ah could read it as clearly as if it had been whispered to her:
"Here rests the late Jang Yoon-bo.
The soul at peace in Hwang Bok."
Her breath caught. "Your place… was always here," she murmured, her gaze softening.
The shamans' chants rose higher outside, drums echoing like the pulse of the earth itself. Do Ryeong's ritual cloth stretched across the ground in a great white cross-shape, glowing brighter with each passing beat. At the center, the knots of the white threads were set aflame, smoke spiraling upward into the breaking dawn. The world between heaven and earth trembled, preparing for closure.
Seong-ah turned back to him, her tears now falling freely. "It's time… Let's begin."
Bongsu's lips curved into a wistful smile. For the first time, he did not resist. "Before you send me off… may I ask one last wish?"
Seong-ah swallowed hard, then nodded.
"…A hug."
The request was simple, yet it pierced through her heart like a blade. She stepped closer, hesitant at first, then wrapped her arms around him. For a fleeting moment, she could feel his warmth, his weight, his humanity. He was no longer the vengeful spirit who haunted, but the lonely boy who had once laughed, loved, and died too young.
Bongsu's arms tightened around her, and he closed his eyes. His voice was low, broken. "…I had forgotten what this felt like."
Seong-ah's throat burned with unshed sobs. She whispered, "Be at peace, Yoon-bo."
They slowly pulled apart. She was crying openly now, but there was no fear in her tears—only compassion.
And then, his form began to unravel. A faint shimmer, a soft glow, like morning mist dissolving in the sun. His spirit separated from Gyeonwoo's body, drifting backward.
Gyeonwoo collapsed with a gasp, his body trembling as if waking from a long nightmare. His chest rose and fell weakly before his eyelids fluttered open.
"…Seong-ah?" His voice was hoarse, but his eyes—dazed as they were—found her instantly.
She didn't wait. She rushed to him and threw her arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly as though she feared he might disappear again.
"Gyeonwoo!" she cried, her tears soaking into his robe. "You're back… you're really back."
He raised a trembling hand, resting it against her back. "I… I thought I'd never see you again."
Behind them, Bongsu's spirit stood watching. His figure was faint, nearly transparent now. But his eyes… they were warm. For the first time in centuries, he wasn't twisted by rage or sorrow. Instead, he looked at the two of them with quiet affection, almost like an older brother watching his siblings embrace.
He smiled faintly. Not bitterly, not regretfully. Just… peacefully.
As the last of the ritual cloth burned, smoke coiled upward into the sky. The shamans lowered their drums. Grandma's lips trembled as she clasped her hands together, whispering, "It is done."
Bongsu turned his gaze toward the graveyard stone where sunlight fell, his name etched into eternity. With one last look at Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo, he inclined his head slightly—as though in gratitude.
And then, slowly, Jang Yoon-bo's spirit turned away. Step by step, his figure faded into the light until only the glow of the sun remained where he once stood.
The morning was quiet. The drums had ceased, the bells had stilled, and the air felt lighter. The curse that had lingered for generations had finally lifted.
Seong-ah stayed kneeling by Gyeonwoo, clutching his hand. She was still crying, but this time, her tears carried hope.
Gyeonwoo leaned against her shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's gone, isn't he?"
Seong-ah looked at the horizon, where sunlight spilled across the land. "Yes," she said softly. "At last… he's at rest."
Seong-ah sat quietly, her tears finally slowing, though her chest still ached from the goodbye. Her mind wandered back—just minutes ago—when Bongsu had smiled faintly through Gyeonwoo's lips and told her, "I always wanted to hug you… because I saw how you carried everything on your little shoulders."
That memory replayed over and over, soft but sharp, and for the first time, Seong-ah smiled through her tears. His words had been simple, yet they lingered like sunlight warming the coldest part of her heart.
Outside the abandoned house, the ritual continued. The shamans knelt in silence, and one by one, they placed flower petals into a great bowl, arranging them in the shape of a blooming lotus. Flames were lit, and the petals caught instantly, curling into ash. The fire was not red but dark, almost black, as if devouring not only flowers but the remnants of a centuries-old sorrow.
The black smoke swirled into the morning sky, heavy yet strangely cleansing, rising until it blended with the air. As it rose, a soft shimmering figure appeared at the threshold—the Mother Goddess' spirit, calm and radiant. Her gaze lingered on Yeomhwa, who stood apart from the others, her hands folded tightly, her lips pressed into silence.
Their eyes met. For a brief moment, the goddess' expression softened, as if acknowledging the path Yeomhwa had walked—the sins, the sacrifices, the loneliness. Yeomhwa bowed her head slightly in return, though her face remained unreadable.
The ritual was done. The curse was ended. Yet not every bond could heal so easily.
Later, when the others had begun to disperse, Yeomhwa turned to leave. Her steps were light, almost soundless, as though she wished to disappear unnoticed into the world.
But a voice stopped her.
"Wait."
She turned. Gyeonwoo was standing behind her, still weak but steady enough to hold himself upright. His eyes, clear now without Bongsu's shadow, searched hers.
"…What is your real name?" he asked.
Yeomhwa blinked, caught off guard. "Why do you ask?"
"Because," he said softly, "calling you by your real name would be better than… than just 'Yeomhwa.'" His voice carried no malice—only sincerity.
For the first time, a crack appeared in her carefully guarded mask. She smiled, but it was a bitter smile, the kind that carried years of regret. Slowly, she walked closer, her hand lifting as if to touch his cheek.
But before she could, Gyeonwoo stepped back, putting distance between them.
The smile on her lips faltered. She let out a quiet breath. "…I see. You're still afraid of me."
His silence was answer enough.
Yeomhwa lowered her hand, her expression softening into something distant, weary, yet resigned. "Don't force yourself to forgive me, Gyeonwoo. Some wounds… aren't meant to heal in this lifetime."
She straightened her posture, turned her eyes toward him one last time, and whispered, "Take care."
With those words, she stepped past him. The morning light caught her figure as she walked away, her silhouette shrinking against the path until the shadows swallowed her entirely.
Gyeonwoo stood where he was, watching her leave. His hands clenched loosely at his sides, conflicted, but he said nothing. Seong-ah came quietly to his side, slipping her hand into his. Together, they looked out at the road, where the past had finally begun to fade, even if some scars still remained.
---
Yeomhwa's footsteps echoed softly as she walked further and further from the abandoned house. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if invisible chains still clung to her ankles. The voices of the shamans, the sound of the crackling ritual fire, the faint laughter of Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo behind her—all of it faded into the distance, until only silence remained.
When she reached the edge of the forest path, she paused. Her hand lifted instinctively to her cheek, brushing the skin where Gyeonwoo had once let her touch him, long ago. The memory burned, sharp and tender all at once.
"Afraid of me…" she whispered to herself, the words tasting like ash. She tilted her head back, staring up at the morning sky where smoke from the ritual still drifted. Her lips curved into a faint smile, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
She remembered the boy he had been—the laughter, the warmth, the way he once trusted her without hesitation. And then she remembered the choices she had made, the path that separated them forever.
"…Don't forgive me," she murmured into the empty air. "It would only bind you to pain again."
Her hands trembled briefly, but she clasped them tightly together until the shaking stilled. Then, with a deep breath, she pushed the weakness away, wrapping herself once more in composure.
The wind carried the scent of burning petals to her, faint and sweet, mingled with the bitterness of smoke. She looked back only once. From afar, she could see Seong-ah and Gyeonwoo standing together—close, unbroken, bathed in sunlight.
Her smile softened at the sight. A whisper left her lips, too soft for anyone to hear.
"Live well… both of you."
Turning away, she disappeared down the winding path, her figure swallowed by the forest's shadows.
And though her presence was gone, a lingering heaviness remained in the air—like the trace of a ghost who had loved too deeply and too wrongly to ever stay.
The forest was endless. Every step Yeomhwa took crunched against fallen leaves, yet it felt as though the ground swallowed her whole. The further she walked, the quieter the world became, until even the sound of her own breathing seemed foreign.
She stopped beneath an old tree, its branches crooked like a thousand reaching hands. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to sit, her back pressing against its bark. She closed her eyes.
The silence was unbearable. Memories clawed at her—Gyeonwoo's smile from childhood, his tear-streaked face when he pulled away, the trust she had shattered with her choices. She pressed her hand against her chest as if to stop the ache.
And then—
A soft light shimmered before her, faint at first, like fireflies gathering in the shadows. Slowly, the glow took shape: a tall, graceful figure draped in flowing robes, eyes carrying the warmth of the universe itself. The Mother Goddess.
Yeomhwa froze, her lips parting.
"…Why… are you here?"
The goddess's gaze was not stern, nor was it condemning. It was gentle, steady, as though she had been waiting for this very moment.
"Because even those who falter," the Mother Goddess said softly, "must not be abandoned to walk in darkness forever."
Yeomhwa's breath caught. Her hands trembled as she gripped her robes.
"But… my sins… I—"
"Your sins remain," the goddess interrupted, her tone neither cruel nor forgiving. "But redemption is not erasing what you've done. It is carrying it, learning, and still choosing to walk toward light."
For the first time, Yeomhwa's tears slipped freely down her cheeks. She bowed her head, ashamed, yet some part of her heart ached with fragile hope.
The Mother Goddess lifted her hand, and in her palm appeared a single white thread—untangled, unknotted, pure. She placed it before Yeomhwa.
"This thread is not to bind others," the goddess said. "It is yours alone. Follow it, and you may yet find peace."
Yeomhwa hesitated, staring at the thread as if it were the heaviest thing in the world. Finally, with shaking fingers, she picked it up.
As the light faded, the forest seemed less suffocating. The weight in her chest was still there, but now it beat in rhythm with something steadier—something like hope.
She stood, clutching the thread in her hand, and whispered to the vanishing glow:
"…Thank you."
Then she began walking again, but this time her steps felt lighter—not of a woman condemned to wander, but of someone searching, slowly, painfully, for her way back to the light.
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After few years
The arena was alive. Flags waved high, chants of encouragement echoed, and banners with the words "Road to LA 2028" flapped against the early morning breeze. The archery field stretched long and vast, every target set like a silent judge waiting to see who would falter, who would rise.
The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium:
> "Welcome to the Second Trial Day of the 28th National Assembly Archery Tournament! Today, the best recurve archers from across the nation will battle for their place in the Los Angeles Olympics!"
The crowd erupted, and for a moment, all eyes darted to the young man standing at the front of the line. Park Gyeonwoo. His reputation had already begun to precede him—an archer of quiet intensity, with an uncanny calmness that unsettled even seasoned competitors.
Gyeonwoo inhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on the bullseye. The cheers faded in his ears, replaced by the steady beat of his own heart. For him, this wasn't merely about medals or fame. Every arrow carried the weight of promises—of spirits that had once lingered, of a girl who had once stood at his side, guiding him with words he could never forget.
> "Shoot as if you're speaking your heart."
The whistle cut the air. The first round began.
Archers raised their bows in unison, the sight of dozens of strings being drawn back like an orchestra preparing its first note. Gyeonwoo's arm was steady, the string pulled to his cheek, his breath timed with the trembling of the world around him.
The release was silent but powerful. His arrow sliced through the air, spinning with grace before striking the dead center of the target.
"Ten points! A flawless opening from Bae Gyeonwoo!"
his excitement matched by the audience's thunderous applause.
But while others glanced around at the crowd or exchanged quick nods with their coaches, Gyeonwoo only lowered his bow, eyes still on the target. His lips moved faintly, as if whispering something to himself—a quiet prayer, or perhaps a message to the past.
One by one, rounds passed. Some competitors faltered, their arrows straying into the eight or seven rings. Others held strong, but none with the same unwavering calm as Gyeonwoo. His consistency was unnerving. Every arrow was not just shot—it was delivered, as though his spirit was guiding it straight into the heart of the target.
By midday, the sun was merciless, sweat dripping down foreheads, bows trembling in tired hands. The mental pressure was crushing; a single slip could shatter months of preparation. Yet Gyeonwoo stood tall, his form unbroken.
As he nocked another arrow, his eyes flickered—not to the target, but to the sky for a fleeting second. He could almost see Seong Ah's silhouette in the shimmer of heat rising from the ground, her voice steady in his mind.
> "You're not alone, Gyeonwoo."
His hand released. Another perfect ten.
The crowd roared again, but his gaze lingered softly on that vision in the sky, his chest tightening—not from nerves, but from something deeper.
And so, as the trial pressed forward, it became clear to everyone watching: Park Gyeonwoo was not simply competing. He was chasing destiny.
The sun grew hotter by midday, sweat trailing down his temple, yet his movements remained precise. His focus did not waver. When he nocked another arrow, his eyes briefly flicked upward, to the shimmering summer sky.
And in that shimmer, just for a heartbeat, he thought he saw her again—Seong Ah in her heaven-and-earth fairy dress, smiling gently.
His lips curved faintly.
The string slipped from his fingers.
Another perfect ten.
The crowd thundered again, but his heart was quiet, full only of the echo of a promise—an unspoken bond between the past and the present.
On that field, it became clear to everyone: Bae Gyeonwoo wasn't just competing. He was carrying something greater, something sacred, with every shot he made.
The stadium rang with cheers, waves of excitement rolling across the field like crashing tides. The crowd was alive with anticipation, their voices blending into a thunderous chorus that carried the weight of hope and pride.
From the stands, Mo Beom leapt to his feet, clapping so hard his palms stung, grinning as he sat beside a girl who mirrored his joy. Just a few rows ahead, Kim Jun-ung and Do Doyeon cupped their hands around their mouths, shouting Gyeonwoo's name with wild energy that made those around them laugh. Beside them, Hyerii stood tall, her posture proud, her voice firm as she added her cheers to the sea of noise, her face glowing with excitement.
"Gyeonwoo! Gyeonwoo!" the chants echoed, louder with each wave, spilling across the arena like a storm.
But somewhere behind that noise, away from the focus of the crowd, another voice cut through.
"Seong Ah! Seong Ah!"
It was Jiho, waving his arms, his voice strained as he tried to push through the chaos of sound.
Far from the roaring stands, a figure in a blue frock hurried along the broad walkway that led through the gardens and towards the stadium. Her curly dark hair bounced with each step, catching the sunlight in strands that glowed like bronze. Her shiny, armor-dark eyes burned with determination, her pretty dark lips parted as she breathed heavily from her sprint. The strap of her bag swung at her side, bumping against her waist with each stride.
It was Seong Ah.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, not from exhaustion but from anticipation. She wanted—no, needed—to see the final rounds. To see her Gyeonwoo win.
Her phone vibrated against her palm, Jiho's voice loud through the speaker.
"Hey! Where are you? Come faster!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Seong Ah puffed back, her words spilling out between breaths as she picked up her pace.
The wide path stretched before her, lined with trees, their leaves glowing in the late afternoon sun. Light filtered down in golden patches, casting long shadows on the walkway. But halfway down, her footsteps faltered, her body freezing as her eyes caught sight of something unusual.
There, near the bend in the path, a small figure sat alone.
A little boy.
He was curled into himself, knees hugged tightly to his chest, his head buried as his shoulders trembled. He didn't make a sound, but the way his body shook spoke louder than any cry could. The cheers from the stadium seemed to fade away, swallowed by an eerie silence that surrounded him.
Seong Ah's breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she lowered herself onto a nearby wooden bench—wide, worn with age, and stretched enough to hold more than one person. Though there was distance between her and the boy, her eyes softened as they lingered on him.
He cried quietly, without sound, without words. Just trembling, just the hollow grief of someone unseen.
Seong Ah folded her hands on her lap, her gaze heavy with sadness. She didn't speak, didn't move closer. She simply sat there, waiting, knowing that sometimes even spirits needed the comfort of being acknowledged.
Minutes passed. The trembling slowed. The boy's silent sobs grew softer.
Then, without warning, a familiar shadow stretched over her.
"What are you doing here?"
The voice was steady, calm, and it belonged to Bae Gyeonwoo. His bow was slung casually at his side, his breathing measured from the competition. His brows furrowed as he glanced at the space in front of her.
Seong Ah looked up at him, then pointed softly. "A small boy's spirit was crying here…"
But when Gyeonwoo followed her gaze, he saw nothing. Just the empty path and the sunlight flickering through the leaves. He tilted his head slightly, confusion flickering across his expression, but he didn't question her. Instead, he nodded once, clueless but accepting.
"I see," he said quietly, standing beside her in silence.
Seong Ah's eyes remained fixed on the boy. And at that moment, the little spirit slowly lifted his head. His tear-streaked cheeks glistened, but there was something fragile in his expression now—a faint, trembling smile.
Seong Ah felt her lips curve into a soft smile in return, a tear slipping free as she watched him.
And then, gently, the boy rose to his feet. His small figure shimmered faintly as he turned away, walking slowly into the light until his presence faded completely, leaving only a strange warmth behind.
Seong Ah's chest tightened with recognition. She knew.
It was him.
The little boy Yeomhwa had once seen pedaling a bicycle down a sunlit street. The boy whose spirit had been claimed by the reaper after the accident. His sorrow, his loneliness—finally eased.
She lowered her gaze, whispering a silent prayer. Beside her, Gyeonwoo didn't speak. He simply remained there, standing close enough to make her feel grounded, his quiet presence a comfort she didn't realize she needed.
And together, in that moment, they shared something neither could explain: a fragile connection between the living and the departed, between grief and release.
Behind them, the stadium roared louder, the living world celebrating victory. But here, on this quiet path, another victory had been won—a forgotten spirit had been seen, remembered, and gently set free.
The last glimmer of the boy's spirit faded into the light, leaving behind a silence that wrapped around them like a soft veil. Seong Ah's lashes fluttered as she exhaled, a quiet sigh of both sorrow and comfort. Her gaze lingered on the path where the little one had vanished, her heart heavy yet strangely at peace.
Beside her, Gyeonwoo watched her profile carefully. The way her eyes carried both strength and sadness, the way her lips trembled with unspoken emotions—something about it struck him deeply. She looked fragile yet radiant, like someone holding the weight of two worlds.
Without thinking, he stepped closer. His shadow mingled with hers, and before she could react, his hand rose, fingers brushing against her cheek.
Seong Ah blinked, startled, turning slightly toward him. "Gyeonwoo…?" she whispered.
But he didn't answer.
His palm cupped her face fully now, warm and steady against her skin. In the next breath, his lips pressed against hers. Firm at first—like an impulsive act he couldn't stop—then softer, more desperate, as though he had finally allowed himself to feel everything he had been holding back.
Seong Ah's eyes widened, her body frozen in surprise. Her heart raced, the stadium's distant roar echoing in her chest. She should have pulled back, said something, stopped him. But she couldn't. The warmth of his mouth, the intensity in the way he kissed her—it melted every wall she had carefully built around her heart.
Gyeonwoo pulled back only for a second, his forehead resting against hers, his breath ragged. But the pause was fleeting. His lips moved again—this time brushing across her cheeks, her jawline, her forehead, her temples. He kissed every inch of her face like he was memorizing her, like he was afraid she might slip away at any moment.
Seong Ah's hands trembled before they finally found the courage to rise, clutching the front of his shirt. She felt his heartbeat hammering beneath her touch, fast and wild, echoing her own.
Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles between his kisses, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself sink into the moment.
Around them, the world continued—cheers, footsteps, the wind brushing through the trees—but none of it reached them. It was just him. Just her.
Two souls tangled together in a quiet storm of longing, fear, and something deeper than either could name.
The boy's spirit disappeared into the distance, leaving only silence in its wake. Seong Ah sat still on the wide wooden bench, her eyes following the fading light until it was gone. A quiet ache lingered in her chest, the kind that made her feel as though she was both losing something and being reminded of life's fragile beauty.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the gentle shift of movement beside her. Gyeonwoo had been standing close all this time, his gaze never leaving her face. There was something in the way she looked now—so strong, yet so unbearably tender—that stirred something uncontrollable inside him.
Without warning, he stepped forward, his hands lifting to her cheeks. His touch was warm, steady, almost trembling as though he was afraid she would disappear if he let go.
Seong Ah blinked up at him, startled. "Gyeonwoo…?" her voice broke softly, uncertain.
But before she could say more, his lips pressed against hers.
It was sudden, like lightning striking without warning. For an instant, her breath caught in her throat. Her mind screamed she should pull back, ask him why, remind him of the place they were in. But her heart—her heart betrayed her. It raced wildly, urging her to stay still, to let herself drown in the feeling.
His lips were firm at first, then softened, lingering as though he had been waiting years for this moment. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and Seong Ah felt her entire body weaken, every wall inside her trembling.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against hers, his breath uneven, almost shaky. His voice was low, rough. "I've wanted to do this for so long."
Before she could answer, he kissed her again. This time slower, gentler—yet filled with a desperation that made her chest ache. His mouth trailed down, brushing against her cheeks, her temples, her jawline, then back to her lips. Each kiss carried unspoken words, emotions he couldn't bring himself to say.
Seong Ah's hands trembled as they clutched the fabric of his shirt, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath. Her eyes burned, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming tide of emotions crashing within her.
She had carried so much—loss, responsibility, loneliness. Always giving, always holding everything on her own. And here he was, kissing her like she wasn't alone anymore. Like someone finally saw her.
Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles between his kisses. A small tear slid down her cheek, and Gyeonwoo brushed it away with his thumb, only to kiss the spot tenderly right after.
The world outside kept moving—the cheers from the archery ground, the rustle of the trees in the garden—but to them, time had frozen. It was just his warmth, his breath, his lips whispering against her skin.
And for the first time in a long time, Seong Ah allowed herself to forget everything else… and simply fall into him.
Seong Ah's breath was still uneven, her cheeks flushed, when she finally leaned back just enough to look into Gyeonwoo's eyes. His hands remained on her face as though he couldn't bear to let go, but there was a soft smile tugging at his lips now—gentle, triumphant, and full of something she couldn't name.
She blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself, and whispered, "W-what about the competition? You were supposed to be on the field…"
At that, Gyeonwoo's lips curved into a deeper smile, the kind that carried both pride and mischief. "I already won." His voice was calm, but there was a glow in his eyes as he continued, "The finals ended just before I came here. I hit the last arrow straight into the center."
Her eyes widened, realization dawning. "You… you won?"
He chuckled, nodding once. "Gold. For us. For all the years of waiting, training, fighting through every trial… I won it."
Seong Ah's lips parted, and her eyes glistened with pride. The heaviness she had carried earlier seemed to lift, replaced by joy that filled her chest like sunlight. She reached forward and gripped his hands, whispering, "I knew you would. I always knew."
Together, they rose from the bench and began walking toward the stadium. The sound of cheers grew louder, waves of applause echoing through the air as spectators celebrated the victory. Friends who had been waiting—Mo Beom, Jun Ung, Do Doyeon, Hyerii, Jiho—were all on their feet, clapping, whistling, calling out Gyeonwoo's name with shining faces.
But then, in front of everyone, Gyeonwoo stopped walking.
The golden medal, still warm from being placed around his own neck, gleamed against his chest. He lifted it carefully, turning to Seong Ah. The crowd fell into curious murmurs as they watched.
Without hesitation, Gyeonwoo placed the medal gently around Seong Ah's neck. The ribbon slid against her skin, the heavy disc resting against her chest like a crown of victory.
Seong Ah's eyes widened, stunned. "Gyeonwoo… this is yours—"
"No." He cut her softly, his gaze unwavering, voice steady and full of conviction. "It's ours. Every arrow I released, every target I hit, every sleepless night… it wasn't just me. You carried me through it all. You're the reason I could stand here today."
The stadium, caught in the intimacy of the moment, erupted into applause and cheers. Some whistled, others clapped louder, as if recognizing that the victory wasn't his alone.
Seong Ah's lips trembled as a radiant smile spread across her face. Tears welled in her eyes, but this time they were pure, glistening with pride and happiness. She touched the medal with her fingers, then lifted her gaze to meet his.
Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world had stopped again—only this time, it wasn't in secret. It was in front of everyone, a shared triumph that belonged to them both.
Gyeonwoo's smile softened, and as the cheers washed over them, he whispered just for her, "You're my gold, Seong Ah."
She let out a small laugh, choked with emotion, and whispered back, "And you're mine."