It happened without warning.
Joon and Hana had been sitting with a small group near the firepit, the flames licking higher against the snow-heavy night. One of the villagers — a young girl with hair braided in neat black ropes — was telling a story, her voice bright and eager.
"And then," she said, eyes shining, "the crow spread its wings over the moon, and—"
Her words cut off.
Joon blinked. The space beside him was empty.
The girl was gone.
Not walked away. Not stumbled off into the dark. One heartbeat she was there, cheeks flushed with laughter, and the next she was simply… erased.
The circle of dolls froze. None spoke. None even looked at the space she had occupied.
Joon's throat closed. "Where—"
Hana's hand clamped around his wrist, nails digging into his skin. Her smile was gentle but her grip was iron. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't ask."
"But she—"
Her eyes cut sharp as glass. "Don't."
The fire crackled on. The others began to murmur again, as if nothing had happened. A man leaned in to finish the girl's story, his voice seamless where hers had left off.
Joon couldn't breathe.
He stood abruptly, snow crunching underfoot, and staggered away into the dark. Hana followed, her steps too quiet in the silence.
"Joon," she called softly, catching his arm. Her touch was warm, but her eyes brimmed with something else now — fear. "Please. Forget it."
He turned to her, voice shaking. "Forget? She disappeared."
Hana's lips parted as if to answer, but no sound came. At last she pressed her forehead to his shoulder, trembling faintly. "If you keep asking, the snow will take you too."
Joon froze.
Her words sounded less like a warning and more like a law. Something that had been true long before he ever awoke in this world.
He wrapped his arms around her, though his own body shivered. Her warmth should have soothed him. Instead, it only deepened the question tearing at him:
What are we?