When you're a ghost, the city stops being a labyrinth.
It becomes a glass dome — transparent, cold, endless.
I no longer needed buses, taxis, or even narrow alleys; all it took was the will, and I was already where I wanted to be.
My new obsession had a name: Min‑seo.
After that day in the park, I could no longer focus on Do‑yeon.
My attachment to him remained, but now it was tinted with pragmatism — he was dying slowly, dissolving into the air, and I, a useless echo, could only watch.
Min‑seo was my only chance to break through the glass wall behind which my heart was trapped.
***
I returned to the park.
The remnants of his presence still lingered in the air — faint, like a trembling ripple on water.
Not scent, not warmth, but a subtle distortion of space — the border between worlds.
I reached toward it with my mind, an invisible but firm thread, and pulled.
I found Min‑seo in his studio in Mangwon‑dong.
A small room, an old brick building, the smell of mold and photo‑developing chemicals.
For me, it was a shock — a space where life still pulsed, where people breathed in light and shadow.
He sat at a wooden table, bent over a light board, surrounded by negatives, lenses, and glass.
I stood behind him. He felt me.
I saw his shoulders tense, but he didn't turn around.
— Leave, — he whispered.
— I can't, — I answered without a sound, though I felt he could hear my plea inside his mind. — I need your help.
— I said leave, — Min‑seo repeated, his voice now lined with steel.
He wanted to drive me away as if I were an insect, something small and irritating.
I circled the table and sat across from him.
The cold emptiness between us trembled with my words.
— Do‑yeon. You have to help him. He… he's dying.
Min‑seo lifted his eyes — gray, tired — meeting my invisible face.
No surprise, no fear, just a simple, unpleasant acknowledgment.
— Do‑yeon, — he said. There was too much old weight in that name. — I have nothing to do with him. And I don't meddle with the dead.
— You don't meddle? — my laugh was silent, bitter. — You photographed me, Min‑seo. You came to that park for a reason. You knew he'd be there.
His fists tightened on the table.
— I thought I saw a distortion, — he said. — I've seen them since childhood. I know what to do — ignore them. They feed on attention.
— I don't feed! — I leaned forward, almost straining to exist. — I'm bound. To him. I can't leave until he starts living again.
Min‑seo closed his eyes, took a slow breath, then opened them again.
He picked up a leather notebook and began to write something down.
— Here's what you'll do. You'll leave. You'll stop interfering with my work. I'm not a medium, not a guide. I'm Min‑seo, and I want nothing to do with this. Especially if it involves him.
The last word — him — was quiet, heavy with pain.
And I understood: our shared love for Do‑yeon was both the key and the barrier.
***
I stayed. I couldn't leave.
Min‑seo developed his film: Seoul's night streets, people laughing, dancing, living.
They looked like shadows — and I was merely their backdrop.
I began to speak without stopping, using the silence of the dead as my weapon.
— Do you remember how Do‑yeon fell in love with Moonlight Sonata? In the café near the university. You were there. You photographed his hands for the first time...
Min‑seo flinched, but continued working.
— He doesn't play anymore. He blames himself for my death.
— Shut up, — he said softly, but sharply.
Triumph. A crack.
— He painted for you once. Orange and blue. You saw it, didn't you? You saw what he did — he destroyed the light I gave him.
Min‑seo stood up; the chair clattered backward.
He grabbed a Polaroid camera and threw it through me.
The photo slid through my body and landed on the floor — my smile, my face, captured by him in the park.
He had truly seen me.
— If you don't leave, I'll close this studio and never come back! — his voice trembled. — I don't want to be a conduit for someone else's happiness!
I softened my tone, reaching toward his pain.
— I'm not asking you to make him happy with me. I'm asking you to help him live, Min‑seo. He won't survive alone. You know him — you know how he shuts down.
Min‑seo sank into the chair, covering his face with his hands.
A heavy breath. A fight with his conscience.
— Why me? — he asked, his voice dry, brittle as an autumn leaf. — Why not someone else?
— Because you can see. And because you love him.
His eyes filled with moisture.
He looked at the empty space where I sat.
— If I do this, — he said, his voice rough, — it won't be for you. It'll be for him. And so that you'll disappear forever.
— Agreed, — I whispered. — For him only.
***
I stayed seated, watching.
Sometimes being invisible is a curse.
But now — it was a chance to be needed.
If Min‑seo could hold Do‑yeon for even one breath, then my shadow wasn't in vain.
The echo still resounded, and I clung to it — to that last thread of light in this city of shadows.
______________________
"Sometimes I think being invisible is a curse.
But now I understand — sometimes it's the only way to be needed. If he can live even for a single breath, if Min‑seo can hold him, then my shadow wasn't in vain.
The echo still lingers, and I cling to it — the last thread of light in this city of shadows."