The next morning, sunlight spilled softly through the curtains of Seong Ah's room. The golden glow touched her face as she stirred awake, the memory of yesterday still vivid in her mind—the cheers of the crowd, the weight of the gold medal against her neck, and the warmth of Gyeonwoo's proud eyes fixed on her. She smiled unconsciously, brushing her hair back as she sat up. For the first time in a long while, her heart felt unburdened, as if all the pain, sacrifices, and tears of the past had slowly turned into something beautiful.
Outside, the streets buzzed with the freshness of a new day. The neighborhood was alive—children chasing one another on bicycles, vendors opening their stalls, and the soft hum of life weaving through the air. Seong Ah stepped out with her small bag, her hair neatly tied, as the morning breeze greeted her. She paused for a moment, inhaling deeply, feeling that this day was not just ordinary, but a new beginning.
Meanwhile, Gyeonwoo was already at the training ground, his bow resting at his side as he adjusted his stance under the sharp eye of his coach. His friends—Mo Beom, Jun Ung, Doyeon, and Hyerii—were seated nearby, chatting and laughing, but every now and then, their eyes drifted to him, their pride evident. He had achieved victory yesterday, but today he was already back to training, pushing himself harder, aiming higher.
When Seong Ah finally arrived at the stadium, her steps were light but her heart raced with anticipation. She spotted him immediately—his tall frame, the determined set of his shoulders, the way the bow seemed like an extension of himself. She stood quietly at the edge, watching him release an arrow that hit the target perfectly.
"Perfect shot," she said softly, clapping her hands together.
Gyeonwoo turned, his serious expression melting into a smile the moment his eyes found her. "You're here," he said, lowering his bow. He walked over, brushing sweat from his forehead, his gaze fixed on her like she was the only person in the world.
"I wanted to see how the gold medalist practices," Seong Ah teased, folding her arms.
He chuckled, pulling the medal from his bag and placing it back around her neck in front of everyone. The friends watching from the side cheered, clapping and whistling. Seong Ah flushed, her cheeks warm, but Gyeonwoo leaned closer and whispered, "It looks better on you."
She laughed softly, touching the medal with her fingertips. "You should keep it—it's yours."
"It's ours," he corrected gently, looking at her with a depth that made her heart flutter. "Every arrow I shot yesterday… I thought of you. That's why I won."
Her eyes softened, and in that moment, surrounded by friends, by the echoes of yesterday's triumph, and by the freshness of a new day, Seong Ah realized—this was their new beginning, not just as individuals, but together.
After the cheers died down in the stadium, the day slowly unfolded with a gentler pace. Seong Ah and Gyeonwoo walked side by side, away from the noise of the crowd, carrying nothing but the quiet comfort of each other's presence. The medal around her neck still gleamed under the morning sun, and every time her fingers brushed against it, she remembered his words—It's ours.
They passed through the garden on their way home, the same path Seong Ah had run down yesterday in a rush to see him. The flowers were in bloom, a riot of colors swaying with the breeze, and the soft sound of a fountain nearby filled the silence between them.
"You know," Seong Ah began, her tone light but thoughtful, "yesterday, when I saw that little boy's spirit… I couldn't stop thinking about how much we all carry. Sometimes sadness, sometimes regrets. But then I saw him smile at me before walking away. It felt like he was telling me to let go."
Gyeonwoo listened carefully, his hand brushing against hers as if assuring her without words. "Maybe he was," he replied softly. "And maybe… it's time we stop carrying the weight of the past too."
She turned to look at him, her heart tugged by his sincerity. His eyes were steady, calm, yet burning with quiet passion. And for a fleeting moment, she wished she could freeze time.
By noon, they reached a small café near the training ground, a place where athletes and friends often gathered. The doorbell chimed as they entered, and immediately Mo Beom waved them over, grinning wide. Jun Ung and Doyeon were already seated with Hyerii, who looked relieved to see them.
"There they are—the golden couple!" Mo Beom teased, raising his glass of juice in mock celebration.
Seong Ah laughed, shaking her head. "Don't start giving us titles already."
But Gyeonwoo only smirked, pulling out a chair for her before sitting beside her. "Why not? I like the sound of it."
The group shared stories, teasing and joking, while the café buzzed around them. For once, there was no tension, no looming trials, just the warmth of laughter and the closeness of bonds formed over years.
Later, when the sun began to set and the sky painted itself in strokes of orange and pink, Gyeonwoo and Seong Ah found themselves walking once again, this time along the riverside. The air was cooler, and the city lights began to flicker alive in the distance.
Seong Ah hugged her arms lightly against the breeze. "It feels like everything is changing," she murmured.
Gyeonwoo stopped walking for a moment, his gaze on her. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and held her hand firmly, lacing his fingers with hers.
"Some things don't change," he said, his voice low but certain. "Like the fact that no matter where I go, I'll always want you by my side."
Her breath caught at his words, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked at him, the fading sunlight reflecting in his eyes, and whispered, "Then don't ever let go."
And in that quiet promise, as the river shimmered under the twilight sky, a new chapter of their story truly began.
The river shimmered in the twilight, catching fragments of moonlight as if it held their unspoken promises within its currents. Gyeonwoo and Seong Ah lingered there, fingers intertwined, their silence more intimate than any words.
When the wind grew colder, he gently pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Tomorrow… training starts again," he said, his voice both light and weary.
Seong Ah tilted her head toward him, curious. "Already? You just won gold yesterday."
"That's the thing about dreams," he answered with a small laugh, gazing at the rippling water. "They don't let you rest for too long. If I want to stay at the top, I have to keep pushing forward."
She studied his profile—his determination, the sharp line of his jaw softened by exhaustion—and felt her chest tighten. "And what if… you burn yourself out chasing too much?" she asked quietly.
He turned to her then, meeting her eyes, his expression tender. "Then you'll be there to remind me what matters. Won't you?"
Her lips curved into a smile, gentle yet firm. "Always."
They walked back under the night sky, the streets quieter now, the world slowed down to just the sound of their footsteps. And when they finally reached Seong Ah's gate, Gyeonwoo lingered, as if unwilling to let the night end.
"Goodnight," she whispered, her hand resting against the medal still hanging at her neck.
But instead of answering, he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to her forehead, lingering long enough that she felt his breath warm against her skin. Only then did he step back, smiling. "Goodnight, sunshine."
---
🌅 The Next Morning
The sun rose softly, spilling golden light through Seong Ah's curtains. She woke to the faint sound of birds, her heart still racing from the memory of his words. The medal glimmered faintly on her desk, catching the first light of day, a symbol of him—of them.
As she got ready, she heard a knock at the door. When she opened it, Jiho stood there, looking impatient. "Yah, Seong Ah! You're still not ready? Gyeonwoo's already at the stadium."
She blinked, startled. "Already?"
"Yes, already! He's training like a machine," Jiho huffed. Then, noticing the smile tugging at her lips, she raised a brow. "What's with you? You're glowing."
Seong Ah laughed, brushing past her with her bag in hand. "Maybe it's just the sunshine."
Jiho groaned dramatically. "Oh no… she's in that stage of love."
The two hurried down the street, teasing and laughing, their steps quick toward the training ground. But in her chest, Seong Ah carried a quiet certainty—this was only the beginning.
By the time Seong Ah reached the stadium, the sharp whistle of arrows cutting through air echoed across the wide grounds. The smell of fresh grass, chalk lines, and faint resin from bows filled the morning air.
She slowed when she saw him.
Bae Gyeonwoo stood at the center, his form flawless—back straight, arms firm, eyes unwavering on the target. The bowstring twanged, and the arrow flew like a streak of light, striking the golden center with precision. The sound of applause rose from a few teammates watching.
Seong Ah's heart swelled with pride. He wasn't just Gyeonwoo, the boy who kissed her under the fading stars—he was Korea's champion, someone who carried an entire nation's hope on his shoulders. Yet, when his gaze swept the crowd and landed on her, his expression softened instantly. His lips curved, almost unconsciously, into that smile that belonged only to her.
Jiho nudged Seong Ah from behind. "See that? Even with all those eyes on him, he still looks for you first."
Seong Ah flushed but didn't look away.
When the coach called for a short break, Gyeonwoo jogged toward her, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You came," he said, a little out of breath.
"Of course," she replied softly, adjusting the strap of her bag. "Where else would I be?"
He chuckled, leaning closer, his voice dropping so no one else could hear. "Every time I see you, I feel like I can hit the center a hundred times more."
Before she could respond, his teammate Mo Beom shouted across the ground, teasing, "Yah, Gyeonwoo! Stop flirting and get back here before coach throws a fit!"
The group laughed, and Seong Ah smiled, shaking her head. "Go," she said, giving his arm a light push.
But as he turned, he suddenly reached for her hand, squeezed it tightly, and whispered, "Wait for me. After practice, let's go somewhere. Just us."
Her breath caught, but she nodded. "I'll wait."
The late afternoon sun painted the stadium in shades of gold and amber as Seong Ah and Gyeonwoo slipped out through the quieter exit. His hand brushed against hers, fingers intertwining naturally, as though they were meant to fit that way.
But not far behind them, in the shade of the stadium's tall pillars, a couple lingered. They weren't dressed like ordinary spectators—both wore dark caps pulled low, their expressions unreadable. The woman tugged slightly at her scarf as her sharp eyes followed Seong Ah, while the man leaned against the pillar, arms crossed, studying every move she made.
"She's the one," the man muttered.
The woman's lips curved faintly, though it wasn't a smile. "Yes… the girl who survived that night. No wonder the spirits linger near her."
As Seong Ah laughed softly at something Gyeonwoo whispered, she suddenly felt a chill prickle the back of her neck. She slowed her steps, glancing over her shoulder. The street was crowded with archers, staff, and visitors, yet her gaze briefly caught on the couple standing still among the moving throng—watching.
Her breath hitched. Something about their presence felt… heavy.
"Seong Ah?" Gyeonwoo tilted his head, concern flickering in his eyes. "What's wrong?"
She forced a small smile, shaking her head. "Nothing… maybe just tired." But her fingers gripped his hand a little tighter, as if holding onto him could drive away the unease curling in her chest.
Behind them, the couple exchanged a knowing glance.
"It begins," the man said quietly.
"And she doesn't even know yet," the woman added, her voice like a whisper carried by the wind.
Then, as if they were never there, they melted into the crowd.
That night, the city seemed quieter than usual. Seong Ah sat by her window, the gold medal still hanging loosely on the corner of her desk. She traced its surface absentmindedly, her thoughts not on the medal, but on those two strangers she had seen. Their eyes—cold, piercing, almost too aware of her.
The image wouldn't leave her mind.
Downstairs, her grandmother hummed softly, preparing tea. The warmth of the home should have comforted her, but instead, Seong Ah felt the same chill from earlier at the stadium creep back into her bones.
Suddenly, a thud echoed outside the window.
Her heart skipped a beat. She rushed to look, but found nothing except the faint flicker of a streetlamp, its light sputtering. The street was empty. Almost too empty.
She exhaled shakily and turned back inside—only to freeze.
Across the room, by the doorway, stood a shadowy figure. Tall. Still. Watching.
Her breath caught, but before she could react, the figure tilted its head. In that brief motion, the features became clearer—it was the man from the stadium.
"W–who are you?" Seong Ah whispered, her voice trembling.
The man didn't answer. His gaze lowered to her neck, where the faint mark she had carried since childhood—the same mark her grandmother once called a spirit's blessing—was visible just above her collarbone. His eyes gleamed.
"So it's true," he murmured. "The vessel survived."
Before Seong Ah could move, the lights in the room flickered violently, plunging everything into shadows. Her grandmother's voice rang from the kitchen, calling her name in alarm. But when the light steadied again—the man was gone.
All that remained was a faint scent of burning petals in the air.
Seong Ah's knees weakened. She clutched the edge of the desk, gasping for breath. Somewhere deep inside, she knew this wasn't a coincidence. Those strangers weren't just bystanders.
They were here for her.
Seong Ah's body trembled as she tried to steady her breathing. The scent of burning petals lingered, clinging to her skin like a curse. When she finally gathered the courage to step out into the hall, her grandmother was already there, holding a candle in one hand and a talisman in the other.
"Grandma… I saw him," Seong Ah whispered, her voice breaking. "The man from the stadium. He was here."
Her grandmother's wrinkled face hardened. She set the candle down and motioned for Seong Ah to sit.
"They've come back," the old woman muttered under her breath.
"Who?" Seong Ah asked, though part of her already feared the answer.
The old woman looked at her with sorrowful eyes. "Your parents."
The word hit Seong Ah like a slap. She froze, memories she had long buried clawing their way back—the smell of incense, the cold floors of the shaman's room, the constant voices of desperate clients, and her tiny hands forced to hold ritual bells. The nights she would cry silently, yet still be dragged back into the ceremonies.
Her parents' faces flashed in her mind: a mother who looked at her as if she were nothing but a tool, a father whose hands smelled of money, counting bills earned from her suffering. And then—one day—they were gone. Leaving her behind with nothing but debts and bruises in her heart.
"No…" Seong Ah whispered, clutching the fabric of her dress. "They left me. They abandoned me. They wouldn't—"
But her grandmother shook her head firmly.
"They abandoned you because they thought you were empty. But now… they've realized the truth. The vessel inside you still exists. That is why they're watching you again."
Seong Ah's lips quivered. Her heart ached not from fear, but from the cruel weight of betrayal. The very people who should have protected her were the ones who had shackled her childhood.
And now… they had returned.
Outside the window, the streetlight flickered again, and this time, two shadows passed beneath it. A man and a woman—walking slowly, heads turned toward the house.
Her parents.
The night deepened, and yet Seong Ah could not sleep. Her grandmother's words haunted her, twisting like a knife in her chest. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the gold medal hanging from her mirror—the one Gyeonwoo had placed around her neck with so much warmth, as if it had always belonged to her.
But the weight of the past pressed heavier than gold.
Suddenly, the soft sound of pebbles hitting her window startled her. She quickly moved to the curtains and pulled them aside. Outside, standing with his hands tucked in his pockets, was Gyeonwoo. His familiar smile calmed her in an instant.
She slipped on her sweater and hurried downstairs to meet him.
"You're awake?" she whispered as she stepped into the cool air.
"I couldn't sleep knowing you're still upset," he replied softly, his eyes full of concern. "Something's bothering you. Tell me."
Seong Ah hesitated. Her lips trembled as she tried to form the words. But before she could speak, she felt a presence. A cold gaze lingering on her.
Her eyes shifted—and across the street, a couple stood half-hidden in the shadows. Their faces were older now, marked with the years, but she recognized them instantly. Her chest tightened.
Her parents.
The woman's sharp eyes glinted even in the dark, while the man leaned casually against the lamppost, arms crossed, as though waiting. Watching. Claiming.
Seong Ah's breath hitched, and her fingers instinctively clutched Gyeonwoo's sleeve.
"Who are they?" he asked, noticing the way her body stiffened.
Her throat went dry. Memories of forced chants, heavy beads around her neck, and the suffocating smoke of incense filled her mind. She could still hear her mother's voice ordering her to kneel, her father's greedy laughter echoing whenever clients handed him envelopes of cash.
"They're… the ones who abandoned me," Seong Ah finally whispered, her voice shaking. "My parents."
Gyeonwoo's expression darkened instantly. He turned his head toward the couple, his jaw tightening. "The ones who made you suffer?"
Seong Ah lowered her head, unable to meet his eyes. "They used me for money… made me do shaman rituals when I was a child. And when I was no longer enough, they left me with nothing."
A silence fell between them, thick with unspoken rage and sorrow.
From across the street, her parents didn't move closer. They only stood there, like hunters waiting for their prey to stumble.
Gyeonwoo's hand found hers, firm and steady. "You're not that little girl anymore, Seong Ah. You're not theirs to use. Not anymore."
Her eyes watered, but before she could respond, the woman in the shadows—her mother—smiled faintly. A smile that chilled her to the bone.
It was the same smile she used to wear before forcing Seong Ah into rituals.
Seong Ah froze under that chilling smile, her nails digging into Gyeonwoo's sleeve. Her heart thudded painfully as if her chest remembered the beat of the ritual drums from her childhood. She wanted to look away, to hide, but the weight of her mother's eyes pinned her down like she was still that helpless little girl.
Then, suddenly, her father shifted, stepping out of the shadows. His voice, rough and low, cut through the night.
"Seong Ah."
Her entire body shivered. Just hearing her name in his voice felt like a curse.
"You've grown," he said, almost casually, as if years hadn't passed since they abandoned her. His hands slid into his pockets as he walked closer, while the mother followed, her heels clicking softly against the pavement.
Beside Seong Ah, Gyeonwoo straightened his posture. His presence was firm, like a wall between her and them. He didn't need to say anything—his stance alone made it clear he wouldn't let them touch her.
"What do you want?" Seong Ah finally managed to say, her voice trembling but steady enough to carry across the quiet street.
Her mother tilted her head slightly, her smile never leaving her lips. "Is that how you greet your parents after so long?" she asked sweetly, the venom hidden just beneath the surface. "We've come a long way… just to see you."
Her father chuckled, a deep, mocking sound. "And to congratulate you. Word spreads fast—our daughter has found herself quite a life. Even a champion at her side." His eyes flickered to the medal still hanging around her neck.
Seong Ah's throat tightened. She wanted to scream at them, to tell them they had no right to call her their daughter. But her mother's next words sliced into her before she could speak.
"You owe us, Seong Ah. Everything you are… everything you've become… it started with us. Don't you forget that."
Gyeonwoo stepped forward, his hand tightening protectively around Seong Ah's. His eyes burned as he glared at them. "She doesn't owe you anything."
The air grew heavy, the night eerily still as the four of them stood in silent confrontation.
But then, her mother leaned closer, her eyes gleaming with something darker than greed. "Oh, my dear… you may think you've escaped. But there are things you can't run from. Things that are bound to you."
Her words echoed like an omen.
Seong Ah's breath quickened. She could feel it—the past clawing at her, refusing to let her go.
Seong Ah's fingers trembled against Gyeonwoo's hand, but she didn't pull away. She needed his warmth, his presence to remind her that she wasn't that abandoned little girl anymore. Still, the sight of her parents standing there—their smiles dripping with poison, their voices heavy with manipulation—was enough to drag her back into old scars.
Her father stepped closer, the glow of a streetlight catching the sharp angles of his face. His eyes lingered on her like a predator stalking prey. "You think winning medals and walking in pretty stadiums makes you free?" His lips twisted into a sneer. "You forget who trained you to bow before the gods, who made you dance when the drums pounded."
Seong Ah's stomach tightened. She remembered those nights vividly—the smoke of incense choking her lungs, the way her small hands had been forced to grip a bell, the way her mother's cold eyes had commanded her to smile for strangers who paid for blessings.
Her mother's laugh was soft but suffocating. "You were born for this, Seong Ah. The spirits listen to you. They always have." Her gaze darkened, the false sweetness fading into hunger. "Do you know how much people would pay now, now that you've grown? Now that your face carries beauty and recognition?"
Gyeonwoo's jaw tightened. He stepped slightly forward, forcing himself between Seong Ah and them, his chest rising with sharp breaths. His voice cut through the air like a blade.
"She's not yours anymore."
For the first time, her parents' smiles faltered. Her father's eyes narrowed at Gyeonwoo, as if sizing him up, as if questioning what power this young man could possibly have. "And who are you to speak?" he asked coldly. "Do you know what flows in her blood? Do you know the burden she carries? She is not someone you can protect with mere words, boy."
Seong Ah flinched. Her heart screamed to hide, to run—but then she felt Gyeonwoo's hand squeeze hers firmly, grounding her. He didn't look at her, but she knew what his silence meant. I'm here. I won't let them take you.
Her mother took another step forward, her perfume thick in the air, suffocating, cloying. "You will come back to us, Seong Ah. Whether you want to or not. You can't escape what you are. You can't escape us."
For a moment, Seong Ah's vision blurred, panic rising in her chest. She could almost hear the faint echoes of drums, the wailing chants of spirits only she could hear as a child. But then she blinked hard, forcing herself to focus—on Gyeonwoo's warmth, on the medal still heavy around her neck, on the life she had built away from them.
Her lips parted, her voice shaking but fierce. "I'm not yours. Not anymore. You abandoned me, left me to rot while you took everything from me. You don't get to call yourselves my parents."
The words came out like knives, each one cutting away at the chain that had bound her all these years.
Her father's face darkened, rage flashing for a moment, but her mother only tilted her head, smiling again as if nothing had changed. "We'll see," she whispered. "The spirits don't forget. Neither do we."
And with that, they turned, walking slowly back into the shadows, their figures dissolving into the night like smoke. But the weight of their presence lingered, heavy, suffocating.
Seong Ah stood frozen, her breaths shaky, her chest aching as if an invisible rope had just been cut loose. Tears welled in her eyes, but before they could fall, Gyeonwoo gently turned her face toward him.
"They can't touch you," he said softly, his voice trembling with the effort to stay calm. "Not as long as I'm here."
Her lips quivered as she whispered, "But what if they're right, Gyeonwoo? What if I can't escape it? What if the spirits never let me go?"
He cupped her cheeks, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes burned with a quiet fire. "Then we fight. Together. No matter what comes."
At that moment, Seong Ah finally let the tears spill, not from fear, but from the fragile relief of knowing she wasn't alone anymore.
The night was heavy with foreboding, but wrapped in Gyeonwoo's embrace, she clung to the hope that maybe—for once—her future wouldn't belong to the past.
The words had barely left Seong Ah's mouth—her declaration that they were no longer her parents—when the night split with the sound of flesh meeting flesh.
SMACK!
Her father's hand came down across her cheek so suddenly, so violently, that the force made her stumble backward. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth where her lip had cut against her teeth, and for a heartbeat the world spun around her.
"Ungrateful child," her father hissed, his face twisted with rage, veins standing out against his neck. "How dare you speak to us that way? After everything we gave you, after everything you owe us?"
Seong Ah's cheek burned, her vision blurred with tears. For a moment she felt like the little girl again—helpless, cornered, punished for daring to defy. Her body trembled, old fears clawing their way back up her spine.
But before her father could lift his hand again, another force intervened.
Gyeonwoo surged forward, fury radiating off him in waves. His hand shot out, gripping Seong Ah's father's wrist with a strength that made the older man flinch. His voice, usually steady and calm, now thundered with venom.
"Touch her again," Gyeonwoo growled, his eyes blazing, "and I swear you'll regret the day you ever called yourself her parent."
Seong Ah's mother narrowed her eyes, feigning calm but hiding the flicker of unease in her expression. "You think you can protect her from us? From what she is? She will always come back to us. That's the way it has always been."
Gyeonwoo didn't look at her, didn't waste his glare on anyone but the man before him. His grip tightened, and Seong Ah's father winced, his bravado cracking for just a second.
Seong Ah, clutching her cheek, forced herself to straighten despite the sting. Her voice wavered, but there was steel beneath it. "No. I will never go back. You can threaten me, you can hit me, but you can't control me anymore. Not now. Not ever again."
The air grew tense, thick with unspoken violence. Her parents exchanged a glance—her father shaking his wrist free with a scowl, her mother biting back her anger with a chilling smile.
"This isn't over," her mother whispered coldly. "You can't erase us, Seong Ah. We'll come back when you least expect it."
Then, like shadows, they slipped back into the darkness, leaving only the echo of their cruelty and the lingering sting on Seong Ah's cheek.
Gyeonwoo turned instantly to her, his expression softening as he cradled her face carefully, as if afraid to cause her more pain. His thumb brushed lightly over the reddened mark, his voice low but trembling with restrained anger.
"I'm so sorry you had to go through that," he murmured. "But you're safe now. With me, you're safe."
Seong Ah's tears finally spilled, not just from the slap, but from the crushing weight of her past colliding with her present. And as she leaned into Gyeonwoo's embrace, the night felt heavier than ever, the threat of her parents still hanging in the air like a storm yet to come.