That night, Joon dreamed.
He was not in the snow. Not in the village.
The air was thick with dust. A lantern flickered weakly, spilling shadows across wooden shelves stacked high with faces — pale, lifeless faces, eyes hollow and staring. Some were half-formed, their features blurred as if abandoned mid-creation. Others were cracked, limbs missing, their mouths twisted into silent screams.
A man sat hunched over a workbench in the center of it all. His shoulders were narrow, his clothes stained with clay and dried blood. His hands — long, trembling, desperate — worked a lump of wet clay, shaping it into something fragile, almost human.
Joon's chest tightened. He knew this man, though he had never seen him. The rhythm of his movements, the furrow of his brow, even the sigh that escaped him — all of it stirred something deep inside Joon's bones.
The man lifted his creation, cradling it in shaking palms. His voice cracked the silence:
"Do you know what it's like to be alone?"
The clay figure said nothing.
The man's eyes glistened with exhaustion. "To spend your life surrounded by hollow things that never answer?"
Still silence.
Joon wanted to scream. To answer. To reach out — but he could not move. He was a shadow, an intruder, caught between witness and prisoner.
The man leaned forward and pressed his lips to the clay's mouth. A kiss — trembling, desperate, a plea for warmth.
"I wish you were real," he whispered.
The lantern flared, casting long, violent shadows across the shelves. The clay face twitched. Eyelids shivered. A breath — faint, shallow — filled the still air.
The dream tore apart in a rush of sound.
Joon woke gasping, snowflakes clinging to his lashes. His body trembled, his chest heaving as though he had been the one kissed into life.
Beside him, Hana stirred. She sat up slowly, hair falling across her face, eyes heavy with sleep. "Another nightmare?" she murmured, voice low and soothing.
Joon's throat ached. "It wasn't a nightmare."
Hana brushed her hand against his cheek, warm and tender. "It's nothing but dreams. Don't let them touch you."
But Joon couldn't believe her. Not this time. Because the man in the dream — the lonely figure with clay-stained hands — had looked too familiar.
And the clay figure he kissed…
It had been Hana.