Chapter Text
A wound that just won't heal
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”
— William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)
The key of the grand Georgian townhouse turned with a solid, satisfying click. Jungkook stepped over the threshold into the hushed warmth of the entrance hall, the damp Edinburgh chill still clinging to the wool of his overcoat. The silence of the home was a familiar comfort, broken only by the soft, distant sound of a melody he couldn’t quite place.
He shrugged off his coat and gloves, handing them absently to the waiting stand, his attention already drawn upward towards the source of the music. A smile, automatic and effortless, touched his lips. He knew that tune. It was the one she always hummed when she was content.
He found her in their bedroom, bathed in the soft, late-afternoon light that streamed through the tall windows. Hikari was seated at her vanity, a beautiful, lacquered piece she’d brought from Kyoto. Her head was tilted to the side, and her focus was entirely on the task at hand: drawing a silver-backed brush through the length of her hair. It fell like a cascade of raven silk, so dark and straight and shiny it seemed to swallow the light, a stark, beautiful contrast against the pale peach of her dressing gown.
Jungkook leaned against the doorframe, content for a moment just to watch her, this private ritual of hers that he loved. She caught his movement in the mirror’s reflection, and her dark eyes—always so full of gentle light—crinkled at the corners as her smile bloomed.
“So, tell me, Mr. Jeon,” she began, her voice a soft, melodic tease that held a note of playful accusation. “Were you so very busy today that you forgot your way home again? If you keep on gifting all your precious hours to your work, who, pray tell, is going to look after me?”
Jungkook’s chuckle was a low, warm sound in the quiet room. He pushed himself off the doorframe and crossed the space between them in a few brisk strides. He didn’t answer immediately, instead placing his hands gently on her shoulders, feeling the delicate bones beneath the silk. He leaned down until his face was beside hers in the mirror, his own reflection a contrast of sharp, tailored lines against her softness.
“You know I am a fool for you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into an intimate register meant only for her. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. “Every ledger I balance, every ship I schedule, it’s all for this. For us. I promise, my love, just a little while longer. Then you will have my every hour, and you will grow tired of me.”
He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead, inhaling the subtle scent of jasmine that always seemed to linger on her skin.
Hikari was, without question, the most beautiful woman he had ever known. It was a fact he had accepted as simple truth since they were children running through the gardens of her family’s estate in Japan. A childhood friend, the daughter of his father’s most esteemed business partner. They had been inseparable until his family’s move to Edinburgh had forced a continent between them. Years later, when she had arrived in Scotland to study, the gawky girl had vanished, replaced by this poised, breathtaking woman. He, too, had changed from a boy into the man they now called ‘Sire Jungkook’ in the business pages, a title born of old family wealth and his own relentless ambition.
But here, in this room, he was just Jungkook. And he was hers.
Hikari was everything a man could want in a wife. She was not only wise, pretty, and elegant, but also deeply kind. To Jungkook, she was the kindest person he had ever known. Her heart was gentle and soft.
She was also incredibly understanding. She never complained about his busy schedule or asked him for expensive gifts. She never started arguments, choosing instead to be a supportive and caring partner. She was a wonderful wife, and Jungkook loved her more than anything.
"You always promise and promise," she murmured, her smile softening the gentle tease in her words. She rose from the vanity and turned into his embrace, her fingers finding the crisp lapels of his suit jacket, holding him close.
Jungkook’s arms instinctively encircled her waist, drawing her against him. The scent of her jasmine perfume was a balm after the long day.
"Well, this time, I mean to fulfill it," he said, his voice low. A sigh, heavy with a weariness that went beyond business, escaped him. "I know, Hikari. I know you deserve so much more than the fragments of time I can give you. It… it hurts me, too. There are days I am tempted to throw all of this away," he confessed, his gaze sweeping around the grand, silent room, "and take you back to Kyoto. Just the two of us, away from all of this."
He left the "certain reasons" unspoken—the weight of family expectation, the legacy he was bound to, the countless employees who relied on him. The chains of his duty were invisible but strong.
Hikari gently cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his temples. Her touch was cool and calming. "Shhh, don't think too much, Jungkook," she whispered, her dark eyes holding his with unwavering love and understanding. "I am not going anywhere. We have time."
He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers, allowing her quiet certainty to soothe the restless guilt in his heart. For a moment, in the warm sanctuary of their room, with the evening light fading to dusk outside their window, he almost believed her.
The moment was shattered by the sharp, insistent ring of the telephone downstairs. The spell was broken. Duty called, its sound a cold intrusion into their warmth.
Jungkook sighed, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly. He gave her one last, tight squeeze before reluctantly letting go. "I should get that," he said, his voice already shifting back into the tone of the man who had responsibilities to manage.
Hikari simply smiled, that same understanding smile that both sustained him and filled him with a profound sense of longing. "Go," she said softly. "I'll be here when you're done."
He turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood hallway, growing fainter as he descended the stairs to answer the call.
Alone in the quiet room, Hikari turned back to the mirror. She picked up her brush, but her hand stilled. Her reflection showed a faint trace of the loneliness she would never speak aloud, a quiet sigh lost in the settling silence of the large, empty house.
The air in the common room was thick with the scent of damp wool and old wood. Outside, a sombre, chilling rain fell steadily over Edinburgh, tapping a rhythm against the windowpanes.
Taehyung stood motionless before one of the tall windows, his form a silhouette against the dull, charcoal-grey light. His hand was stretched out through the slightly opened window, slender fingers extended to feel the drizzle wet his skin. His eyes, a deep and warm brown, were fixed on a void, seeing nothing in particular, yet seemingly attuned to a world only he could perceive.
"What are you doing here, Tae?" a soft voice inquired.
Jimin settled on the worn windowsill beside him, following his friend's gaze out into the misty morning. The sky was a blanket of leaden grey, typical for late October. Fall had settled deeply into the city, painting the cobblestone pathways with a mosaic of orange and yellow leaves, their vibrant colors a stark, beautiful contrast to the haunting Gothic architecture—a sight Taehyung had only ever known through description.
"It has been raining all morning now," Taehyung remarked, his voice a deep velvet murmur that seemed to absorb the room's quiet stillness.
"It has," Jimin agreed softly, his eyes tracing the water droplets as they trailed crooked paths down the glass.
A long moment of comfortable silence passed between them, filled only by the sound of the rain and the distant echoes of the orphanage around them.
"Jimin," Tae continued, his voice dropping to a hushed, almost secretive tone.
"Hmm?"
"I wish I could see the rain," he whispered, the words hanging in the air, heavy with a lifetime of longing. "And not just feel it."
A pang of sorrow tightened Jimin's chest. "Oh, dear," he breathed out, his own voice thick with emotion. He shifted to look at his friend's profile—the strong nose, the soft lips, the elegant slope of his jaw. "Taehyung, you're the strongest and bravest person I know. You've lived your entire life like this, and you never complain. And that... that breaks my heart more than anything." He reached out, placing a comforting hand on Taehyung's arm. "I wish you could see it. But more than that, I wish you could see how beautiful you are."
Taehyung’s entire universe was mapped in the long, cold hallways of St. Margaret’s. As far back as his memory could reach, there was only the echo of his own footsteps on stone floors, the chill of the damp air, and the endless, unwavering dark.
His world had never known light or color. He had been born blind, his tragedy waiting for him at the very beginning. He was told that Sister Alicia had found him on the orphanage’s steps, a silent infant swaddled in a thin blanket, left in the crisp Edinburgh dawn. He was a child of the threshold, belonging nowhere.
His life was a study in silence and absence, yet he never voiced a complaint. He became the intelligent, calm boy in the corner who asked for nothing and caused no trouble. He learned the geography of St. Margaret’s by touch and sound—the number of steps from the dormitory to the dining hall, the specific groan of the third stair on the main flight, the feel of sun-warmed glass in the common room window on a rare bright day.
In that world of echoing isolation, he had one single, steadfast point of light: Park Jimin.
They had met when Taehyung was nine, a quiet ghost of a boy already adept at making himself small. Jimin, a year older and brimming with a warmth that seemed to defy the institution’s chill, had simply decided Taehyung would be his friend. He had walked over, taken his hand, and started talking, and he had never really stopped.
From that day forward, they were joined at the hip. Jimin became his guide, his protector, and his window to the world outside the darkness. He was the only person Taehyung could truly look up to, the only connection that made the vast nothingness feel a little less empty.
It wasn't as if they hadn't tried. Over the years, various doctors had been consulted about Taehyung's condition. The diagnosis was always the same, delivered with a mix of clinical pity and finality: the only chance for sight would be a corneal transplant.
That single sentence contained two impossible hurdles. The first was a donor—a rare and tragic gift that seemed like a fantasy. The second was a sum of money so vast it was incomprehensible within the walls of St. Margaret's. The kind of money that belonged to men in fine coats who lived in the New Town, not to forgotten orphans in the Old.
Slowly, that small, fragile hope had wandered into the abyss, forgotten by everyone but perhaps Jimin, who still sometimes dared to dream of miracles.
Yet, Taehyung was, in his own way, content. He was not a boy given to self-pity or ingratitude. If the world had denied him sight, it had compensated him with another gift: a voice.
He sang with a beauty that could still the entire dormitory. It was a deep, velvety instrument, capable of conveying a profound melancholy one moment and a surprising, soaring joy the next. When he sang, the long, cold hallways of St. Margaret's felt a little less bleak, and for a few moments, he could paint pictures with sound that were more vivid than anything he could ever have seen.
The steady rhythm of the rain against the windowpanes was a soothing backdrop to their quiet companionship. Jimin watched his friend for a long moment, the sight of him standing so still and solitary tugging at his heart.
"You'll catch a cold standing there like that," he said, his tone soft and laced with a concern that went deeper than just the chill.
Taehyung didn't turn, but a faint smile
touched his lips. "It's just water, Min. It doesn't feel cold to me. It just feels... alive."
With a sigh that was more affection than exasperation, Jimin replied, "Only you could find a way to romanticize an Edinburgh downpour. Come on, away from the draft. I nicked a few biscuits from the kitchen. They're the digestives you like." He gently placed a hand on Taehyung's arm, guiding him from the window.
A grateful smile warmed Taehyung's features as he turned toward Jimin's voice. "You'll get in trouble because of me one day," he murmured.
"And it will be worth it if I get to see you smile like that," Jimin countered, his voice warm. "Besides, someone has to keep you from becoming a complete statue in the window." He led Taehyung to a worn bench, pressing a biscuit into his waiting hand.
"Thank you," Taehyung said, his fingers tracing the familiar shape.
"Don't mention it," Jimin said, a playful warning in his tone. "Seriously, don't. Or Sister Agnes will have my hide."
A rich, warm chuckle escaped Taehyung, a sound that seemed to push back the room's inherent gloom. He took a small bite, content to simply listen as Jimin launched into a story about the morning's minor dramas, his voice a comfortable and steady presence.
For a while, the world outside with its impossible dreams faded away. Here, in this dusty room with the rain as their soundtrack and a stolen biscuit, things were simple. They had each other, and for now, in the long, cold hallway of their lives, that was enough to keep the darkness at bay.
Jimin watched his friend, his heart aching with a familiar blend of love and sorrow, and made a silent promise, as he had a thousand times before, to always be the one to pull Taehyung back from the window and give him something real to hold onto.
The polished glass of the vanity reflected a image that brought a soft, contented smile to Hikari’s lips. With a final, satisfied pat to her perfectly styled hair, she felt a familiar pang of longing. She missed him. The large, elegant house felt emptier with each passing hour he spent at his firm.
Decisively, she stood and smoothed the lines of her tailored dress. Just as she turned to leave, the door opened to reveal Miss Edith, the housekeeper, her arms laden with fresh linens.
"Miss Edith," Hikari said, her voice bright with purpose, "could you please see to the dinner while I am gone? I will be back with Mr. Jeon soon. I am going to his firm."
Edith, a gentle woman whose kind eyes and capable hands had been a constant in the Jeon household since before Hikari had even arrived from Japan, offered a warm, knowing smile. She had watched the young mistress blossom here and cherished her gentle nature.
"Yes, my lady," she replied, her voice a comfortable, familiar sound. "Of course. Shall I have Cook prepare something special for your return?"
"Perhaps. Thank you, Edith."
With a final, grateful smile, Hikari swept from the room. Stepping outside, she was met with an unseasonable chill that bit through her coat. The sun, a rare and fading burnt orange disc in the thick, foggy sky, was nearly set, casting long, eerie shadows across the cobblestones. The Edinburgh evening was settling in, a damp and gloomy shroud.
She quickly descended the steps and slipped into the waiting car, the familiar scent of polished leather enveloping her.
"To Mr. Jeon's firm, please," she instructed the driver.
The engine purred to life, and the car pulled away from the curb, carrying her and her hopeful surprise into the deepening twilight.
The polished black motorcar crunched to a halt on the gravel drive, and Jungkook alighted, the weight of the day already beginning to lift from his shoulders. The silent, grand house was his sanctuary, and she was its heart. He pushed the heavy door open, expecting to be met with the soft sound of her humming or the gentle rustle of her turning a page in the library.
Instead, the entrance hall was silent, illuminated by a single lamp. The emptiness felt… wrong.
“Hikari?” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. He shrugged off his overcoat, his movements brisk with sudden, low-grade concern. “Darling?”
It was Miss Edith who appeared from the shadowy corridor, her usual calm demeanor touched with a flicker of surprise at the sight of him. “Sir? You’re home.”
“Where is Hikari?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.
“Why, she left for your firm hours ago, sir,” Edith explained, her brow furrowing slightly. “She said she was going to surprise you and that you would both return together for dinner.”
A coldness that had nothing to do with the Edinburgh evening seeped into Jungkook’s veins. The firm. He had been there all afternoon, buried in ledgers until well past seven. No one had announced her. No message had been brought to him.
“She never arrived,” he said, the words feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue. A prickle of unease, sharp and cold, traced its way down his spine. Hikari was punctual. She was predictable. If she said she was coming, she would have come. Unless…
The shrill, sudden ring of the telephone shattered the silence like a gunshot. Jungkook jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. Edith moved to answer it, but he was closer, his hand closing around the cold Bakelite receiver.
“Jeon residence,” he barked into the mouthpiece.
The voice on the other end was formal, laced with a practiced, grave courtesy. It was a voice that belonged in hospitals and official buildings. It asked if he was Mr. Jeon, husband of Hikari Jeon.
‘No,’ his mind screamed, a silent, instinctual denial. ‘This is not happening. This is a wrong number. A mistake.’
But his voice, flat and numb, replied, “Yes. This is he.”
The voice continued, its words precise and devastating, each one a hammer blow to his soul. There had been an accident. A motorcar collision on the North Bridge. The conditions… the rain-slicked cobbles… a skid…
The world did not so much shatter as it simply… vanished. The ornate wallpaper, the polished floor, the worried face of Miss Edith—it all receded into a muffled, grey haze. The only thing that existed was the voice detailing the injuries. Critical condition. Severe head trauma. The Royal Infirmary.
‘No. No. No.’ The word was a mantra of pure, unadulterated agony in his mind. ‘This is my fault. I was working. She was coming to me. She was coming to me and I wasn’t there. I was buried in stupid, worthless papers while she was—’
He didn’t remember dropping the receiver. He didn’t remember the clatter as it swung from its cord, hitting the wall. He only knew a pain so absolute, so physical, that it felt as if his chest had been ripped open. A raw, soundless scream locked itself in his throat, choking him. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his mouth as if to physically hold the horror inside.
Every promise he had ever made to her, every time he had chosen work over her, flashed before his eyes, now transformed into instruments of exquisite torture. The image of her, smiling in the mirror just that afternoon, was replaced by a vision of glass and twisted metal and rain.
His Hikari. His light. His love.
Gone.
And in that moment, standing in the silent hall of the home they had built together, Jungkook felt his entire world fracture into a million irreparable pieces.