'...What the hell? Why's he walking like that?'
Ki Yu-chan, waiting in front of the theater for Ha Moo-young, froze at the sight of his friend approaching from afar. He was shuffling along slowly, hunched forward like someone carrying a heavy load on his shoulders.
"What's up with you? You sick or something?"
"Ah. Yu-chan. Nah, let's head inside first."
"Heatstroke?"
"Nothing like that."
A ghost was riding on Ha Moo-young's shoulders. With her long hair swaying wildly, she was kicking her feet like a child throwing a tantrum.
'Ugh. Should've just kept my mouth shut.'
He hadn't known. Ghosts like her, with the temperament of a dwelling spirit, needed a medium to move anywhere else.
'Come to think of it, that warning about not tossing things around outside must be related to stuff like this.'
Other people wouldn't notice or feel a thing, since they couldn't even perceive her existence. But Ha Moo-young was different. With every step, his strength drained away, and the weight pressed down harder.
"Not a kid or anything..."
"Huh? What?"
"Nothing. Just mumbling."
Was she the type who hated her feet touching the ground outside that badly? He'd tried carrying her, then piggybacking, but nothing worked, so he'd ended up slinging her over his shoulder.
As he stepped into the theater, Ha Moo-young muttered.
"You gonna get off now? This is the place you wanted to come to, right?"
Swoosh.
What a finicky ghost. She slowly detached from him, then descended the stairs step by step.
Finally, he could breathe. Ha Moo-young stretched his bent back and neck with a refreshing sigh.
"Whew!"
"What's her deal? You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Don't worry about it. Who's in the theater?"
There were signs of people around, but the stage was empty. Ki Yu-chan shrugged and pointed to the back.
"Some troupe members are here, but they're from another team—not close to me. They're prepping for a show this semester."
"Sounds complicated. Even within one place, they split into teams?"
"Yeah, 'cause it's under the Korea Cultural Foundation. It's old and rundown, but that means a ton of people pass through. Want a drink?"
Ki Yu-chan tossed him a can from the corner. Then the script as well. It was the Shakespeare he'd been reading earlier.
"Testing with this?"
"Yeah. No show's set yet. If we knew what it was, we'd use that, but since we don't, basics it is."
Hmm. Basics, huh. Put nicely, it was solid; put harshly, it was cliché and predictable. Boring, in other words.
Ha Moo-young skimmed through the pages.
'He put in the work. Classic Yu-chan.'
The pages were worn to shreds. Scribbled margins in various pen colors held his interpretations and key points.
Which role to try? As Ha Moo-young pondered, he spotted the ghost peeking out from behind the door.
'...?'
She beckoned slowly, like calling him over. In the dark theater, she looked just like a grim reaper usher with an express pass to the afterlife.
Ha Moo-young took a sip from his drink and stood.
"Gonna hit the bathroom real quick."
"Out the door and left."
"Got it."
He said that, but went right instead, following her around the corner. She stomped her feet excitedly toward a door labeled Storage.
Creeeak—
"Whoa. Dusty as hell."
Props, papers, and boxes towered everywhere. The ghost spun in circles, urging him to hurry. But he would've found it anyway.
"Oh."
Something gleamed in the darkness. Cloudy with dust, but definitely shining.
Ha Moo-young pushed through to the back corner—a space barely wide enough for one person to sit. He reached out and pulled a small box free.
Rustle—
"This it?"
He looked up at the ghost.
A few copies of the Tiger Thorn Tree script and some photos. Familiar face.
Ha Moo-young held a photo next to her.
"Do Ha-i, right? Pretty."
Unlike her current gloomy aura, she beamed brightly in the shot. Hard to imagine depression and suicide from that vibe.
She stared silently at her own photo.
"Guess the folks prepping the play with you boxed this up. About a year ago? Stuff's still here."
With the lead dead, the show must've evaporated.
Tears streamed from her red eyes. Whatever memories or regrets she held, one thing was clear.
'Regret.'
She didn't wipe them, just let silent tears pour. The narrow floor soaked red with blood.
Ha Moo-young stood and wiped her tears.
"Stop crying. Regrets won't change a damn thing now. Think about what's next. I don't know what the afterlife's like, but there'll be stuff to do there too, right?"
Twinkle—
Flower pollen drifted from the photo. Ha Moo-young shook it off and asked Do Ha-i.
"You see this? Like sparkly flower pollen."
She slowly shook her head.
"Yeah, figured. Just me, then. But Do Ha-i. Do Ha-i? Name's kinda crazy. Whoops. Sorry."
She gave him a deadpan look at "crazy," but no big reaction—maybe it was her usual nickname.
Ha Moo-young grabbed two scripts and slipped out of the storage room.
"What's that?"
Ki Yu-chan, murmuring Shakespeare to himself, eyed his friend—who'd said bathroom—with suspicion.
"Found it in the hall?"
"Huh? The hall?"
Lately, his lies were piling up. Ignoring the prick of conscience, Ha Moo-young played it cool.
"Gave it a quick read—looks fun. Wanna warm up with this?"
"Lemme see. Tiger Thorn Tree, huh. First time hearing of it."
Ki Yu-chan flipped through. Ha Moo-young sat beside him and did the same. Do Ha-i crouched in the middle, stretching her face out. Her neck unnaturally long, but... he ignored it.
"The red berries of the tiger thorn tree symbolize the blood of Jesus, and its sharp leaves, the crown of thorns on his head. Those who fell the tiger thorn tree shall know misfortune, for they fell faith itself..."
Odd preface. The play followed a woman claiming to be Jesus's messenger disrupting a village.
The protagonist was Marie. Do Ha-i's role, no doubt.
"Never knew this existed."
"Original play. Was gonna go up but got scrapped."
"What? How'd you know?"
"...Paper stuck in the back. Huh? Where'd it go?"
Ha Moo-young looked around pointedly, lying through his teeth. Ugh, self-loathing hit hard. But Ki Yu-chan didn't care, just kept reading.
"Cutting the tree means killing the woman, right?"
"Seems so. Then the villagers' misfortunes interweave after she dies. Direction's gonna be key."
They huddled, analyzing. It'd been ages since they'd done this—back at the academy with scripts from Director Jeong O-seok.
'Barely a year since I was nineteen, but feels like ancient history. Time flies when you're grown, huh?'
He'd heard twenties pass at double speed, thirties at triple. Past and memories blurring into one.
"Wanna try this? I wanna do this part."
Ki Yu-chan pointed to a page: two men about to chop the tree, facing off with Marie.
"Sure. I'm here to help you."
Perfect timing. He glanced at Do Ha-i.
"Marie with imagination acting?"
"Yeah. Be nice with three, but two works. Pretend we've read it."
No point mimicking her voice and breaking immersion. Ha Moo-young nodded, holding the script loosely.
'Ghost lady. You do Marie's lines.'
Reciting Tiger Thorn Tree lines at Hado Theater! He felt her energy clear up. Flower pollen still drifting.
Ha Moo-young wiped it away, pretending to mop sweat.
"Ready?"
"I'll be the carpenter. You the village head."
"Okay. Let's go."
They stood. Fresh off the read, not memorized. Holding scripts, they gathered emotion.
"Move. Gotta chop this today."
Ha Moo-young started. Do Ha-i squeezed out her line slowly.
—"No. You'll bring misfortune."
Small voice, but resonant. Ha Moo-young glanced, startled. Red tears evoked the tree's berries—deep, poignant.
"Sick of that crap. If you're God's messenger, stop this easy. Why? Can't?"
Ki Yu-chan sneered vilely. His acting—long unseen—had deepened, perhaps fermented in desperate times. Better projection, and something new...
'Fleeting emotions, hit and fade.'
His old flaw: only big amps like laughter or rage lit him up. Now? Natural as water, directed precisely—even in flickers.
"Whoa. You!"
"Huh? What?"
"You're amazing!"
Ha Moo-young laughed, hanging off his shoulder. Despite groans of quitting, Ki Yu-chan was Ki Yu-chan. No escaping acting, Ha Moo-young knew.
"One line and you're gushing?"
"You're way better. For real. Can't feel it yourself?"
"Just doing my daily thing."
No one around to tell him—Director Jeong gone, Kang Bora absent. No one remembered old him. Hyeong-ju? Buried in college life.
"Let's run it from the top. Rotate except Marie. I'll do the youth, bard, and doc."
Full throttle, serious! The two—or three—took stage ends for their Tiger Thorn Tree.
The curtain rose. Clumsy on first read, but they drove it smoothly.
"Hey! Get out! What the hell?"
—"But hanging branches brings luck. The doctor's wife asked."
"That woman's neurotic. Wakes at wind—ignore her."
—"No way! Watch it!"
They layered character analysis on the fly, pouring unique flair. Laughter filled the free vibe.
"Hahaha! Dude! That wasn't it!"
"Who cares? Fits better, right?"
Oblivious to the guest: the troupe leader, drawn by noise. Familiar lines halted him.
'Where'd they find that? And who's he?'
Questions swirled, but he sat patiently. Their youthful spark was pure—youth's gift.
—"So beware the thorns. If blood flows from a cut leaf, Marie will grieve."
An hour later, Ki Yu-chan's final line drew applause from the corner.
Clap clap clap!
"Yu-chan. Better than expected?"
"Huh? Troupe leader!"
"Who's the friend?"
Ha Moo-young fiddled sweat-damp bangs, meeting his eyes. Then—broad grin leaking out.
"Hi. Ha Moo-young."
Flower pollen twinkled around the man called troupe leader—just like in the storage.
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