Chapter Text
The car smoothly turns around the bend in the path, dirt and gravel crunching beneath the tyres as Hanbin drives down a long stretch of road. He had left the paved road behind him twenty minutes ago, at around the same time the Naver Maps app on his phone he used to navigate started failing him. The arrow marking his location has been spinning wildly on the screen for the last few minutes, apparently as lost as Hanbin feels. He drums his hands against the steering wheel, humming along to the song playing across the Bluetooth connection—something that blessedly still seemed to work, though Hanbin is now incredibly happy that he had downloaded a couple of playlists before he left the inhabited world.
Just when Hanbin thinks he might be lost, the endless sea of green in front of him parts to reveal a wrought iron gate. Hanbin’s foot presses down on the brake pedal almost on a reflex, the car slowing to a crawl as he comes closer to the iron structure. It is ornately formed, with vines curling around the bars, and a dragon staring down at him from one of the bollards, its clawed paws tucked together in front of its lean body, jaw parted in a snarl.
Before Hanbin realises what is happening and before he can start wondering if he’s actually in the right place, the gate parts soundlessly in front of him, a clear indication of what he is supposed to do. Hanbin’s heart beats in his mouth as he urges his car forward, though his knuckles have turned white around the steering wheel with how hard he is gripping onto the leather cover.
All too soon, another structure appears in front of him. It is a huge building made of pale bricks and plasterwork, all thin spires and arches and intricately decorated window sills on top of a massive structure that might as well be the size of a castle, for all Hanbin knows.
Rosewood Academy, the most prestigious academy for witches on this side of the continent. This is the place his father has lived most of his life and consequently breathed his last breath.
Hanbin parks his car to the side of the massive fountain taking up half of the round plaza in front of the stairs leading up to what must be the main entrance of the Academy. There’s already a man waiting there for Hanbin, wearing a glittering vest over a buttoned shirt, his hands neatly joined behind his back. From the lines around his eyes and mouth, Hanbin would guess him to be in his seventies, but his hair is still glossy black and his physique remains quietly powerful. This can only be Yeon Byunwook, the headmaster of the Academy.
With shaking hands, Hanbin undoes his seatbelt and twists around to grab his weekend bag from the backseat of the car. Then he takes a few deep breaths, steadying his nervous heartbeat, and exits the car.
The air is the first thing Hanbin notices. It smells cleaner here, like fresh grass and the stream that Hanbin used to play in when he was still living with his mother in Cheonan. He knows that magic surrounds the Rosewood Academy like a mist, turning all who accidentally enter these woods around until they’re back on the correct paths, so that nobody can come close who is not supposed to be here. But it apparently doesn’t only keep people out, but also the smell of smog and exhaust that has seemed to settle across the rest of the peninsula like a persistent beast.
“Sung Hanbin!” calls Yeon Byunwook, alerting two of the students that are standing close by, their heads bent together. When they turn to stare at Hanbin critically, mild distaste in their expressions, he lengthens his strides with urgency, eager to catch up to the headmaster sooner rather than later. Hanbin runs up the stairs two at a time, his long legs carrying him easily, and bows in front of Byunwook.
The headmaster clasps his hand on Hanbin’s shoulder, a friendly gesture. Hanbin looks at him, and finds the man smiling back at him with a warm expression. “Welcome to Rosewood Academy,” the headmaster says. “Despite the fact that I would have rather that it were under different circumstances, it is good to see you. And I must say that you are Haeseong’s boy in flesh and blood. You look just like your father.”
It is something Hanbin had heard often from his father’s magical acquaintances, who popped in every few years to refresh the silencing spell on the necklace Hanbin dutifully carried around. You are an exact copy of your father. They knew better than him. The last time Hanbin had seen his father in the flesh, he had been seventeen.
“Thank you, sir,” he says, dutifully lowering his head. “And thank you for inviting me so warmly.”
Byunwook waves his hand and turns around, a clear indication for Hanbin to follow. “The Academy has always been proud to be your father’s home, so this is the least we can do for his son. It is undoubtedly regrettable that he had to go so soon and so cruelly, but rest assured that we are doing everything in our power to catch your father’s killer. His death will not be in vain.”
Hanbin bites his lip and stays quiet, following the headmaster through the door into the massive hall. Different doors and twisting staircases disappear into various sections of the main building, but Hanbin cannot even begin to wonder where they all would lead to. Byunwook takes him up the main staircase opposite of the doors, pointing casually at a few of the doors to show Hanbin where they lead to. The dining hall. The kitchens. The greenhouse. The dens. Hanbin’s mind spins, unable to catch up with the flood of information, but they luckily stop in front of a large, double door. Byunwook easily lets himself inside.
It must be his office. The walls are covered in wood panelings and towering bookcases filled to the brim with books. Hanbin reads The Moon Witch’s Guide to Moon Phases, Casting Spells Underneath the Full Moon, and A Guide to Nightflowering Blooms. In the middle of the room stands a large, mahogany desk, with comfortable seats positioned on both sides. The window behind the desk looks out into what must be the courtyard of the Academy, showing groups of students dotted around the field.
“Please,” says Byunwook. He gestures. “Take a seat.”
Hanbin does, his fingers balled in his lap, and looks down at his knees. “Were—” Hanbin’s voice breaks embarrassingly, so he clears his throat before he continues. “Were you the one who found my father?”
Byunwook’s eyebrows push together in warm compassion, and he slowly shakes his head. “It was your father’s assistant, the earth-gifted witch Jiwoong who found him,” he says. “He was very close to your father when he was still alive. I have actually asked him to be your guide for the next few weeks, while you pack up your father’s things.”
That was what the letter from the Academy had said, when it arrived a handful of days ago to Hanbin’s front step. After Haeseong’s untimely death, they were lucky to find his will. In it, he had said that he wanted his entire estate to pass on to Hanbin, and had requested Hanbin personally to come get it.
What was Hanbin to do but say yes?
With his mother’s blessing, he had taken his car down from Seoul, taking a quick stop in Cheonan, and had then continued on to Daegu. Somewhere in the forests south of it lies the Academy, which can only be found if you know where it is. Or, in Hanbin’s case, when you have a letter that shows you the way, and allows you to pass the spelled wards.
“I am once again grateful for your generosity,” says Hanbin. “I know you don’t usually allow outsiders onto your grounds.”
“You are Haeseong’s son.” Byunwook sounds a bit choked up, and he coughs into his fist, eyes suspiciously shiny. “He has always been a good and dear friend of mine, and notwithstanding that a formidable witch and teacher. When his will said that he wanted you to be here, there was never a doubt in my mind that you were welcome. I hope you’ll treat the Academy as your second home, even if it’s just for a bit.”
The headmaster stands from his chair and beckons Hanbin towards the window. From here, up relatively high, the students below seem to be the size of dolls. One of them seems to be levitating a small rock above his head, while a crowd of onlookers has gathered around him, seemingly heckling him on. A ways away behind them, another group of witches has settled down in the grass, their bags spread around them. One of them is leaning back on his elbows, but he seems to stare straight at Hanbin, even though there is no way he is actually looking at Hanbin through the glare of the glass.
“We are, of course, not your typical academy,” Byunwook says, nodding down at the students, the witches. “But all of these kids have lived amongst the barren before. They know how to behave, and they know how to act. Should any of them act out or act difficult, you are always welcome to find me or Jiwoong, and we will make sure the appropriate measures are taken.”
Hanbin has known from a young age that he was not just barren, but mundane. It is the word the witches use for halfling offspring, the ones born to one witch parent, that did not show any indications of possessing arcana. But he’s always known of the magical world. That had been the price of growing up on the fringes of it, of interacting with it but never really being a part of it, starting with his first test at the tender age of four, which is the earliest age a witch child might exhibit signs of magical abilities. His father and another man in a dark, bespoke suit had come to his mother’s house, and had taken Hanbin’s test. The result had been mundane, wholly magicless. Hanbin has no memories of that except for one vague recollection, of sitting in his father’s lap and reaching for the shiny pendant he wore around his neck. His father had slapped his grubby little fist away and had sternly forbidden Hanbin from ever touching something imbued. It hadn’t been until he was eleven that he learned what that word meant.
There had been two other tests, at seven and thirteen, but only because they are mandatory. The result had been glaringly the same, and so Hanbin had dutifully wore his silencing necklace to ensure that he never accidentally revealed prohibited information. Not that anyone would take him seriously, or that there was anyone to actually listen to him.
“I hope you’ll feel at home here,” Byunwook continues, obviously unaware of Hanbin’s musings. “As much as the Academy was a home to your father, we hope to extend the same warmth to you. There are no areas of the Academy that you can enter that are forbidden to you. Everything that is not for your eyes, has been spelled in such a way that you cannot stumble over it. And since you are mundane, I have tasked Jiwoong with your safety. Not that there's anything here that could seriously endanger you—but just in case.”
Hanbin ducks his head. The name Jiwoong is not unfamiliar to him, though he’s never met the guy before. But Haeseong had sent Hanbin’s letters, a handful of them every year, and the last few had mentioned Jiwoong’s name. This is someone you can trust, his father had written. Go to him, if you cannot go anywhere else. Hanbin has always believed those words, somehow. Though he hadn’t known his father that well, he’d never pegged the man as a liar.
“The Academy has long been a place of safety for witches all over the continent,” says Byunwook, and his jaw tightens. “And a place where we could be ourselves. Or, at least, that is what it should have been.” He sighs. “You can tell that I feel very strongly about this place. As the headmaster, it is my duty that I keep everyone on the campus grounds safe. I hope you’ll believe me when I say that that is my aim, now more than ever before.”
Silently, Hanbin nods to show that he has heard the older man. His father had been safe until someone had seen it fit to kill him. And since no one has been apprehended yet, anyone out there could theoretically be his father’s killer.
A knock sounds on the door, startling Hanbin from his thoughts.
“Ah,” says Byunwook, perking up slightly. “That must be Jiwoong.”
Jiwoong is gorgeous. He has an angular face with neatly arched eyebrows, and skin as dewy as a cherry blossom. His hands are warm and steady when he shakes Hanbin’s hand, and then pulls him forward into an impromptu embrace. When Hanbin presses his nose into Jiwoong’s neck, shaking from the adrenaline crash as well as the gentle touch, the other smells like fresh earth and wet tree bark. It would’ve been an unpleasant combination for anyone else, but Jiwoong is an earth-gifted witch. The smell obviously belongs to him.
“Sung Hanbin,” Jiwoong murmurs, his voice thick and rumbling warmly. His hands curl around Hanbin’s shoulders as he pulls back to look him in the eyes. “The pictures Haeseong showed me do not do you justice. You have grown up well.”
Pictures? It is news to Hanbin that his father had pictures of him, and that he had shown them off to Jiwoong. The earth witch had been his father’s assistant, and his closest confidant. And Jiwoong’s eyes glimmer with truth and quiet knowledge, so he is not lying. But why would Haeseong have shown him pictures of Hanbin? When they had met up in real life, Haeseong had always been coldly distant to such an extent that he had felt more like a faraway uncle rather than his own father. It feels weird to match that image of him in Hanbin’s mind to the man who had seemingly shown him off to his assistant.
“It is good to see that the two of you are getting along well,” says Byunwook behind them. “Hanbin will need a friend on campus.”
Hanbin startles. He had forgotten about the headmaster’s presence. Byunwook does not seem offended at being left out of their little circle, and he and Jiwoong nod respectfully at each other, easy smiles on their faces.
“With your permission, I will take Hanbin to his room to get settled,” Jiwoong says to the headmaster.
“Of course.” Byunwook sits down at his desk again, a clear sign of dismissal. “Hanbin must be getting hungry as well. I tried to start on a tour when we walked here, but you know how expansive the grounds are. So, perhaps you can show him around a little bit too, so that he won’t get too lost.”
“Certainly,” says Jiwoong. The corner of his mouth curls into a smile and he jerks his head towards the door. “Shall we go, Hanbin-ah?”
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Hanbin is assigned a room in one of the dormitory halls that lie in the four cardinal directions from the main building. Jiwoong points to the plate above the door, a mosaic bird in flight. “You are in the Swallow,” he indicates. “This building lies towards the east, so you can always walk away from the setting sun if you get lost on campus. Students are arbitrarily assigned rooms across the four halls to encourage inter-family mingling. A society is only as strong as the ties that bind it together, and witches tend to stick to what they know.”
The fourth years are the only students to have rooms to themselves, and so Hanbin is assigned one of the empty ones. When Jiwoong leads him inside, pressing the heavy brass key that he used to unlock the door into Hanbin’s hand, Hanbin is awkwardly surprised to find how modern the room looks. There are lights scattered around, and an air conditioning unit is situated against one wall, though the bed is still a dramatic four-poster with drapes tucked against the sides. In one wall, a massive window reaches from the ceiling to the floor, with a sliding door in it that leads to a small circular balcony overlooking the lush forest below.
“This is nice,” says Hanbin, putting his bag on the bed. “Thank you for accommodating me so well.”
“It is our pleasure,” Jiwoong says. “At least it is mine.” He sighs, putting his head down. “It would have been better for us to have had this meeting in a different way. Your father did talk about bringing you here, but there was always something that came up, or a reason why the timing was wrong. Nevertheless, I will do everything within my powers to guide and support you, and you can always come to me with any sort of questions you might have.”
Hanbin remembers then that, according to Byunwook’s words, Jiwoong was the one who had found his father’s lifeless body in his office, where he had met his cruel, early end. Strangulation, the official reports had said. When a witch is killed, there’s no official police interference, but a special division within the government called the Department of the Arcane that takes the investigation on them. And despite the fact Haeseong’s murder had taken place on a busy campus, no witnesses had come forward, and no evidence was found. A murder, yes, but one that has no identifiable perpetrator.
“Thank you,” murmurs Hanbin, his throat dry and his eyes stinging.
“I’ll leave you alone for a bit to get settled in.” Jiwoong twists his wrist to reveal a watch. “Dinner starts in forty-five minutes, so I’ll be back to pick you up by then. Take a rest for now, if you can.”
The room is connected to its own private bathroom with a deep tub and a wide shower head. Hanbin sticks his hand underneath the stream to check the water pressure, unsurprised to find that it is much better than his shower back in his shitty Seoul apartment. On the opposite wall to his bed is a large closet, so he takes his clothes out of his bag and sticks them in the drawers, hanging up his hoodies. Looking at the things he took with him, it probably isn’t enough to last him throughout the next few weeks, but he hadn’t been given a lot of information or a lot of time to prepare when the letter had appeared on his doorstep.
But the nicest part is probably the little balcony, with the patch of deserted forest below. He sticks his head out the door, eyes tracing lazily across the trellises hung against the brick wall to the side of the railing.
When he is done with all of that, he takes his phone out of his bag, and manages to scrounge up one bar of signal hanging over the railing of his balcony so that he can send a text to his mother that he has arrived and is settling in well. He doesn’t receive a reply, but that doesn’t worry him too much. If his mother remembers to charge her phone once every few days, he counts it as a win.
Afterwards, he does as Jiwoong suggested, and curls up on his bed, one arm behind his head. The blank ceiling offers him nothing of interest, and he actually finds himself dozing off. It seems like the day of driving and new impressions had clearly tired him out. He doesn’t dream.
It must not be that much later when he is awoken by a knock on the door. He sits up, flattening his hair with his hands, and meets Jiwoong at the door. The witch has changed into something more comfortable, a cardigan and slacks, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Good to see that you look more rested,” Jiwoong says, his eyes scrunched up in sweet little half-moons.
Hanbin scratches the back of his head, embarrassed. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”
The mess hall, where breakfast, lunch, and dinner are served, is in a massive hall branching off from the main building. Hanbin watched a few of the Harry Potter movies, but never in order, and faintly remembers the hall where the main protagonist used to take his food. But it is no comparison to the real deal, to the arched ceilings and the chandeliers spilling golden light across the tables below. The hall is almost completely filled up with students, chattering with each other across the tables as they eat slices of juicy pork and spoonfuls of what looks to be hot tofu soup, the selection of foods still overwhelmingly Korean despite the fact that the atmosphere that hangs around campus is quite westernised.
Jiwoong leads him to a little alcove to the side, where they line up to grab trays that they fill with rice and pork and marinated side-dishes and bowls of stew. Hanbin’s mouth waters at the sight of the quality and the fragrant smell of the home cooked food. Jiwoong is kind enough to not make a comment when his mountain of pork belly slices wobbles and nearly topples as they walk back to the main mess hall.
They find an empty spot at the end of one of the long tables, and Jiwoong hands Hanbin a pair of chopsticks and a spoon from a wooden box. “Breakfast is from seven to the start of classes, lunch is from twelve forty-five to two, and dinner starts at six thirty. Outside of that, if you’re hungry, you can always go and bother the kitchen staff for a snack. They’ve been made aware of your presence and your name, so you shouldn’t have any problem with them.”
Hanbin looks up from where he’d been neatly separating his chopsticks and smiles at the earth witch. “Thank you, hyung.”
Jiwoong winks. “I know a growing boy when I see one.”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“See? Growing boy.”
The food is incredible, full of warmth and flavour, and Hanbin has to do his best not to either attack his tray like a starved dog or start crying in the middle of the mess hall. The kids already think him weird and avoid him if they can. He doesn’t need to give them another reason to stare at him.
During bites, he chats with Jiwoong, politely ignoring the way the other goes slightly misty-eyed whenever Haeseong is mentioned. Apparently, he’d been a good student of Hanbin’s father, so much so that the teacher had personally asked him to stay at school to be his teacher’s assistant and help him with his research. Jiwoong had eagerly said yes, personally uninterested in a job in any local council or the Department, as most other witches in his influential earth-gifted family did after graduating the Academy. He had helped Haeseong with preparing his classes, which were only given to third and fourth years, and helped him on his independent research—of which he was quite close-lipped about what that actually entailed. Magic, he’d said, waving his head with a funny look on his face. It would go above your head.
Still, despite the fact that there’s three years and entire worlds between them, Hanbin feels a certain camaraderie with Jiwoong that he hadn’t expected to find. Connected as they are through Hanbin’s father, he’d still forecasted a certain divide between the two of them. Jiwoong was simply too far away. But the other is funny and soft in equal measures, and he easily matches Hanbin’s energy.
If it could’ve been anyone accompanying him during the upcoming few weeks, Hanbin is glad that it’s Jiwoong.
As they are leaving the mess hall again, Hanbin takes a quick glance around and notices that there’s a kid sitting by himself a few tables over. He’s got his head down, dark hair spilling across his thick eyebrows, and seems to push his food around his tray. The other students seem to keep a carefully curated distance from him, and he seems to accept that, his gaze not straying away from his broad, pale hands. To Hanbin, the boy doesn’t look dangerous or unusual at all—there seems to be no reason for him to sit by himself like this, shunned by his peers.
If he can, Hanbin would like to talk to that boy in the upcoming few days. Just to figure out what he’s like. After all, if there’s anything he’s learnt, it is that the outcasts should stick together.
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At night, alone in his room in this unfamiliar place, it hits Hanbin that his father is dead. He is startled to find that he is crying, tears dripping down his cheeks.
It’s not like he misses his father, really. You can’t miss someone that you haven’t known, and Sung Haeseong was always just a shadow at the periphery of Hanbin’s life. He dipped in and out of view as it pleased him, always keeping a carefully curated distance. But like a fool, Hanbin had hoped that would change at some point, that he could become a normal person with a regular relationship with his father. His father’s murderer had put an end to those thoughts for once and for all. Hanbin would never get to know his father past the stories his mother told him. He’d never get to know why his father thought it fit to start a relationship with a woman outside of the magical community and even have a son with her.
Hanbin rubs angrily at his eyes, cheeks flushed from his tears. He rises from his bed again, where he’d curled up without any idea of what to do with his time otherwise, and hunts around for his sneakers. He slips a hoodie over his head, the hood snagging onto his curls, hands curling around the handle of the glass door that leads to the small balcony outside.
It’s easy enough for him to climb down the railing and then scale down the side of the building with the use of the trellises. He was thirteen once, living with his mother in their stately house on the edge of Cheonan that was definitely funded by his father, knowing there was an entire world that was interlaced with his own world that he could never touch, could never scrape his hands open on. He’d been climbing down the walls for as long as he could remember, running through the fields and letting the sunlight pour down his cheeks. Compared to that slippery house, the cracks where he’d jammed his fingers in, the trellises are child’s play. Before he knows it, he’s on the ground, taking stock of his surroundings. He’s alone, not a soul in sight, just like how he planned.
The floor is springy beneath his feet, and the forest full of life. Hanbin has to squint against the darkness, letting his eyes adjust to the muted light of the moon peeking out from between the pale clouds overhead. Hanbin is pretty sure that they call this place the Sunlit Forest around here, but all he sees right now is dark shadows and the hesitance of his own footsteps.
He wanders around aimlessly, walking until his breathing has evened out and it feels like his heart has picked up its easy one-two rhythm again. Then he finds the biggest tree he can find and climbs up the branches until he feels like the wood just won’t splinter beneath his weight. Rosewood Academy looks like a sleeping dragon from here, a singular chimney spitting up a plume of smoke at the far end. Most of the lights in the windows have been dimmed by now, the students turning in early enough for their early start tomorrow. But there are a few more rebellious types, clearly, golden drops of light spilling out against the large shape of the stone building.
It’s easy to make out the wing where he stays in, the Sparrow, and from there he can gather what the others are. Hare, Fox, Tiger. Hanbin engraves the various buildings in his memory. Who knows that , at some point, it might come in handy.
By now, the trees whispering in the breeze below him, an owl calling out its solitary greeting a little bit further down into the valley, Hanbin has calmed down completely. His father still weighs heavy on his mind, like he is carrying a corpse full of missed opportunities around, but at least it feels like he won’t think the walls are closing in on him when he’ll go back into the building.
So he jumps down from the tree, hopping nimbly from branch to branch, and landing only slightly awkwardly. His ankle protests some, but Hanbin just wiggles his foot, and then starts down the same path he took before, back towards the dormitory building he previously left behind him.
As he exits the patch of forest, the sound of a snapping twig sounds somewhere to Hanbin’s left, too heavily to have been a woodland creature. He spins around, heart pounding in his throat, and comes face to face with a silhouette in the trees. Squinting his eyes, Hanbin takes a hesitant step forward, and the figure takes shape in front of him as the cloud that had long obscured the moon is pulled away by a gust of wind, light cascading down onto the scene surrounding them.
There’s a boy there, staring back at him from in the treeline, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. The silver moon casts shadows across his angular face and his dark hair, seeming to embrace him like how one would embrace a lover. A silver brooch is pinned to his chest, just above his heart. But his eyebrows are dark and bushy, angled down as the two of them make eye contact across the clearing. There is no denying that the other boy looks displeased to see Hanbin there, his pouty lips pulled into a moue of displeasure. Ah, this must be one of the witches that are vehemently against interacting with the barren, the mundane. It is funny, Hanbin reflects wryly. Where there are differences, people will always be wary of each other to such an extent that they may fear interaction with those they do not know.
A pity. The boy is beautiful in an ethereal way.
Hanbin shakes his head, and continues walking back to the wall, trying to will the boy out of his mind. When he looks back over his shoulder, just once, the other has already disappeared into the trees.
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The following morning after breakfast in the main mess hall, Jiwoong takes Hanbin to Haeseong’s office. It sits at the end of a long hallway, a single door with an intricate pattern around the rim and a heavy brass door handle portraying the sun's rays. The copper plate next to the door reads Sung Haeseong, Head Teacher of Magical Innovation.
Jiwoong pushes inside without preamble, and Hanbin follows behind a bit more timidly. The room is a veritable mess, with stacks of leather bound books scattered around, piles of messily scattered papers, a massive antique globe in one corner, and star maps and diagrams of the moon phases carelessly pinned to the empty spaces between the hulking book cases crammed against every wall. A few potted plants are lined up on the window sill between scattered crystals, but they seem to have wilted, their leaves brown and shrivelled. It doesn’t surprise Hanbin that his father is bad at taking care of plants; even when he’d still seen the man, he’d always been preoccupied with his research.
“Wow,” says Hanbin, dumbly. “I guess it will take me a longer time than expected to get through this.”
“You can take all the time you need,” Jiwoong reassures him, smiling at Hanbin from the corner of his eye. “In fact, I had expected to have to pack all of this up and send it to you. That was my understanding of the will Haeseong had written up.”
Hanbin frowns. “I know what my father’s will says. It was included with the letter.”
Shrugging, Jiwoong walks across the room to crack the window, letting in some fresh air. “Perhaps Haeseong changed it just before he died. He had never been worried about dying, but he knew that with his line of work, it might come sooner than later. Maybe something happened that changed his mind.”
“I guess.” Hanbin bites down on his bottom lip, unsure where to even start.
“Listen,” says Jiwoong, scattering. “Byunwook told you that you can spend as long as you want cleaning and packing everything up, but I am here to help you. There are a lot of delicate things here, so you can always ask me. But it was always your father’s intention to give all of these things back to you, so that you could decide what you wanted to do with it.”
Me? Hanbin thinks, wildly, but doesn’t voice. To be honest, he doesn’t even know what he would do with it—and it’s not like he even can do anything with it. But he just ducks his head at Jiwoong gratefully.
The earth witch smiles. “I’ll leave you to it for now, Hanbin-ah. Please call for me if there is anything you need or anything I can do for you.”
As the door swishes closed behind the other, Hanbin starts in the first place he sees, which is the massive desk in the middle of the room that seems to have been cut from one piece of wood. It’s a mess of papers with diagrams, scrawling notes, drawings and maps, ink stains from the fountain pens his father seems to prefer, and a paperweight resting on top of a stack of notebooks in the corner.
With a sigh, Hanbin lifts the paperweight and holds it up to the window to check the meticulous details in the sunlight. It’s a carved winged lion, its proud mane curled around its neck and the wings draped across its back, fur tipped tail curled around the paws. Hanbin idly thinks that he might keep the figurine after all of this is over. From everything that is scattered around the room, it seems to be the only thing that doesn’t seem to have a purpose other than aesthetics. His father had never struck him as a sentimental person, but Hanbin is. After all of this is packed up and shipped off to storage, he wants to keep a memory of his father.
And the next moment, Hanbin is doubled over, his ears ringing as if a bell was struck right next to his head, forehead screwing up in pain as he claps his free hand over his ear. It doesn’t help, of course, but only a mere reflex, the fingers of his other hand seizing around the figurine with so much force one of the carved edges cuts his palm open.
Hanbin, says his father’s voice, cutting through the noise—and it is undoubtedly his father, that familiar cadence, the way he rounds his syllables textbook-perfectly, the rise and fall of his tone. Hanbin straightens, the voice seeming to come from everywhere, from nowhere all at once, ringing all around the office. His heart seizing in his chest, Hanbin grips onto the paperweight like a weapon, but his father’s voice continues, uncaring of his shock. If you are hearing this, then I am dead. And if I am dead, then everything is about to change for you. But I won’t let you be alone.
So, please take a seat and listen carefully.