Chapter Text
The wind swept through the old station as if nothing there could stop it. It whistled through the gaps in the broken windows, lifting the fine dust that had settled over the wooden benches and making the hanging signs creak, where the names of faded destinations swayed in silence. The tracks, covered in rust and small weeds stubbornly growing between the stones, disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel ahead, and near the platform, rats darted from one corner to another, carrying scraps of torn paper and bits of plastic. Overhead, long iron beams crossed one another, supporting old lamps that had not worked for a long time. Only the moonlight, filtering in through the shattered windows, illuminated the vast central hall, casting wide shadows across the cracked floor.
Mingi sat on the ticket counter, swinging his legs over the empty space. His nearly white hair fell over his eyes, contrasting with his pale skin and the dark uniform he wore, a heavy black overcoat buttoned up to his neck. On his head, he wore a white fabric hat, tilted slightly to one side, as if it were part of a theatrical costume. He hummed softly, a wordless melody that spread through the space. His small eyes followed a distant point along the tracks, where the wind stirred thin curtains of dust.
He felt it before he saw it. The air changed, growing heavier, an unusual silence covering the sound of the wind for a few seconds, and then he saw a figure appear at the station’s main entrance.
He was tall, with a broad and elegant build. He was dressed like a sailor. The white uniform, adorned with golden details on the shoulders and cap, resembled the formal attire worn by naval officers. A fine piece of fabric fell from the side of the hat, swaying gently with his silent steps across the cracked floor as he moved through the station with the rigid posture of someone who had spent a lifetime receiving orders and obeying them without question.
He advanced with slow, uncertain steps over the broken mosaics, looking around, trying to recognize the place, but nothing in his face suggested certainty. His curious eyes, though large and well defined, seemed empty, as if something inside him was missing.
Mingi remained seated at the counter, watching in silence. There was no fear on his face, only a deep calm. The humming stopped, but his lips still moved, reciting something meant only for himself.
The man lifted his face toward him, and for a moment, their gazes met through the dim light. The wind returned to the station, lifting strands of Mingi’s hair and swaying the wide sleeves of his coat.
Nothing else moved. Just two ghosts standing in a place where time no longer existed, separated by meters of concrete and a few years of forgetting.
The man stood still in the center of the hall for a few seconds, looking around as if searching for something, confused, until his eyes finally turned to Mingi.
Without saying a word, he began to walk toward him, each step echoing between the columns, muffled by the wind blowing outside. The fine fabric attached to his cap swayed over his shoulder, brushing against the white uniform. His face retained the same hollow seriousness, with a slight tremor in his eyes.
Mingi stopped swinging his legs and slowly slid down from the counter, setting his feet on the cracked floor without a sound. He remained there, standing, waiting. The hat slipped a little to the side as he lifted his chin to face him.
They stood motionless, facing each other. The wind blew again, lifting pale strands of Mingi’s hair and stirring the light veil of the other man’s white cap. He looked straight into his empty eyes. His expression was calm, but there was something almost broken in it.
The man frowned slightly. His voice came out low and rough, as if he were learning to speak again.
“Who… who are you?”
Mingi watched him in silence. His gaze was gentle, yet distant, like someone who carried endless patience. After a few seconds, he smiled faintly, a small smile, almost imperceptible.
“No one important.”
He tilted his head, studying the immaculate white uniform, the pale, confused face. Inside, he felt a familiar weight tightening in his chest, but outwardly he remained serene.
“You look lost,” he said softly. “Would you like me to show you where you are?”
The man took a deep breath, as if he were about to say something, but only nodded, never taking his eyes off him. There was something in his gaze that felt like a warning, but Mingi did not move. He stood still, waiting, as the man stepped closer until they were less than an arm’s length apart.
The man raised his hand, hesitant, trying to touch him, but stopped midair. His fingers trembled slightly, and in that instant, he noticed. For a second, his hand seemed to lose its color. The pale skin turned too pale, almost gray, and under the moon’s faint light, he could see the structure of the station floor through the flesh. His eyes widened, and he stepped back, pulling his hand away as if burned.
Mingi did not move. He simply watched him with a calm, steady gaze, waiting for that reaction.
The man took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts, but the confusion was so overwhelming that his chest felt unbearably tight. He pressed his lips together, glanced down at the cracked floor, then looked back at Mingi, his voice trembling.
“I… I was…” His voice faltered. He brought a hand to his head, trying to force his memory to return. “There was music… laughter… colored lights…” His brow furrowed deeper. “I think it was at the pier… there was a stage… performers… I remember… lights… the ground wet with rain and beer…” He inhaled sharply, shaking. “It was the last thing before… before I…”
His voice dissolved into the heavy silence of the station. His large eyes were confused, lost, as if they had seen something beautiful and terrible at the same time.
Mingi continued to watch him in silence. Then he took a breath, rolled his eyes slightly, and spoke in a gentle tone that almost sounded like a song.
“Is that all you remember?”
The man nodded slowly, still seeming to struggle against something inside his own mind.
Mingi lowered his gaze to the floor for a moment, then lifted it again and said calmly,
“Come. It’s cold here. I’ll show you a place where the wind doesn’t get in.”
He turned slowly and began to walk through the dark hall. He didn’t look back to see if the man was following. He didn’t need to.
The man hesitated before taking a step, then followed Mingi in silence across the hall. Cast-iron columns projected tall shadows onto the cracked floor as they walked past broken benches and yellowed scraps of newspapers scattered by the wind.
Mingi stopped beside an old, closed ticket booth and turned to face him.
“My name is Mingi,” he said, his voice calm, almost resigned. “Not that it means much here.”
The other man simply watched him, eyes still wide, trying to process what was happening.
Mingi took a deep breath before continuing.
“This place…” He looked around at the empty station. “It’s not exactly the end.” He ran his fingers along a crack in the wooden counter beside him. “Some call it limbo, others purgatory. I don’t really know what it is. I only know that this isn’t where it ends.”
The man lowered his eyes to the floor, confused, his fists clenched at his sides.
Mingi continued, his voice gentle but without any hesitation.
“People pass through here. They wander for a while until they find the right path to move on. Some stay only a few hours. Others, a few days.” He paused briefly, his eyes darkening slightly. “And others… stay much longer.”
The man lifted his face, looking at him with silent fear.
“And you?” he asked, his voice low, almost breaking. “How long have you been here?”
Mingi smiled, but it was a sad smile, barely there.
“Too long to count.”
For a moment, only the sound of the wind filled the space between them. Mingi spoke again, his tone a little lighter, though his eyes still held that melancholic shadow.
“But now…” he observed him carefully. “You’re here. And I don’t have to wait alone anymore.”
The man frowned slightly, confused, before asking, his voice rough with hesitation,
“Wait… for what?”
“For anything,” Mingi replied with a shrug, never taking his eyes off him.
He took a deep breath, his chest rising in an automatic motion, and looked around before facing him again.
“And… how do I leave this place?” his voice trembled. “To… move on? Go back? I… I don’t want to stay here forever.”
Mingi looked away for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. He ran a hand along the brim of his hat, adjusting it without need, before speaking softly.
“Not everyone stays. Some… find the exit quickly. Others wander until they understand what’s missing, what keeps them here.” His eyes returned to him, dark but calm. “The station is in the world of the living, but we are not seen. We’re… trapped between what has already ended and what has not yet begun.”
The man fell silent, absorbing every word, until he asked, almost in a whisper,
“And you? Why… are you still here?”
Mingi raised an eyebrow, a small smile appearing on his lips. It was neither sad nor happy, but the smile of someone who knows more than he says.
“Ah…” he sighed, looking away for a moment before meeting his gaze again, head slightly tilted. “Maybe I still haven’t found the path.” His eyes glinted with a touch of gentle sarcasm. “Or maybe… I just don’t want to.”
He let the sentence hang in the air with that deliberate lightness, almost provocative. He turned slowly, adjusting his hat, and nodded his chin toward the darkness that led to the old access tunnels by the tracks.
“But… if you want to survive your first night here, you’d better follow me.” His tone was soft, carrying a firm confidence, as if there were no option but to obey him. “Before the cold strips away what little dignity you have left in that pretty uniform.”
He turned and began to walk across the hall, light footsteps that made no sound, without looking back. Before disappearing into the shadows, he spoke over his shoulder, his voice sounding like a rough chant in the emptiness:
“And don’t make me carry you, sailor. I’m still mourning my last clean pair of shoes.”
After they entered a room at the back of the station, Mingi watched as the man settled onto a few blankets, still holding a rigid posture, as if it were impossible to relax in a body that was no longer truly a body. The man looked at his own hands, turning them slowly, wanting to confirm that they were still there.
Mingi took a deep breath, resting his arms on his bent knees, and said in a low but steady voice,
“Ghosts don’t really rest, you know?” His eyes met the man’s, which lifted in a start at the word. “But… it’s important to pretend. Close your eyes. Let your mind disconnect, even if just a little, from the habits we carry over from the world.”
The man swallowed hard, looking down at the dusty floor beside him.
“I don’t know if I can.”
Mingi shrugged.
“The first nights are the worst.” His tone was calm, almost practical, but there was care beneath it. “The feeling of emptiness, of not knowing where you are… or why.” He sighed. “But it passes. Eventually, everything passes.”
The man took a deep breath, taking in every word. He remained silent for a few seconds before saying, hoarsely,
“I… I want to leave this place. I want to move on.” His eyes returned to Mingi, filled with fear and confusion. “How… how do I do that?”
Mingi looked away, resting his head against the wall behind him. For a moment, his usual smile disappeared, leaving only a hollow expression.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly, almost in a whisper. “I haven’t done it yet.”
The man seemed to shrink a little, but Mingi soon looked back at him, now with a small smile that, despite its sarcasm, carried a hint of encouragement.
“But… you can start by trying to remember,” he said, raising an eyebrow and resting his chin on his bent arm. “Who you were… before all of this. Your name, your work…” He let out a low, humorless laugh. “Everyone likes to say we need to ‘move on,’ but how is anyone supposed to say goodbye to a life they don’t even remember living?”
The man closed his eyes, breathing deeply. When he opened them again, there was something different there, a small but present determination. He nodded slowly.
“I… I’ll try.”
Mingi smiled, genuinely this time, and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment.
“Good luck with that, sailor.”
He stayed silent for a few seconds, listening only to the distant sound of the wind blowing through the hall. Then he opened his eyes again and said, in a soft, almost lazy tone,
“Ah… if you want to help your mind switch off a little…” His voice was low, but carried a calm confidence. “Try counting how many times the signs outside sway in the wind. The number doesn’t matter…” He tilted his head to the side, light hair falling over his eyes as he smiled. “…what matters is listening until the end.”
The man lifted his head, confused, but Mingi simply closed his eyes again, settling more comfortably against the wall.
“It works better than praying.”
For a moment, the other man remained still. His eyes widened slightly, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. That was exactly what he had been about to do seconds earlier: pray, ask any god or saint to take him out of there, to make him wake up.
When he looked up again, Mingi had already closed his eyes, breathing so calmly that he seemed to be asleep, though ghosts never truly slept.
✥ ═══════ ✥ ═══════ ✥
He opened his eyes slowly, as if the darkness were still clinging to his eyelids. The distant sound of the signs swaying in the wind continued to echo through the station, now mixed with the muffled song of some bird outside.
When his vision adjusted to the faint light seeping through the cracks in the door, he saw Mingi sitting beside him. He was leaning against the wall, one leg stretched out and the other bent, his arms resting on the raised knee. The white hat sat slightly crooked, but he didn’t seem to care.
Mingi’s dark, round eyes were fixed on him, analyzing every detail like someone rereading an old book for the hundredth time and still finding something new. As soon as he realized he was awake, Mingi arched an eyebrow, the corner of his lips curling into a small smile.
“Sleep well… sailor?”
He didn’t answer right away. He took a deep breath, breathing in that cold, damp scent of a forgotten place, before slowly sitting up on the dusty blankets. He ran a hand over his own white uniform, unconsciously smoothing the fabric already yellowed by time.
Mingi watched him in silence, his eyes carrying something that seemed like curiosity and amusement at once. Then he tilted his head to the side and spoke in a light, almost teasing tone:
“You don’t think you were a sailor?” His gaze traveled over the white uniform and returned to the man’s face. “I mean… either that, or you just had a very questionable taste in carnival costumes.”
The man blinked a few times, as if processing the words, before offering a small, tired smile.
“Good morning.”
Mingi let out a soft laugh through his nose, ran his tongue over his front teeth, and adjusted the crooked hat with the tips of his fingers.
“Good morning,” he replied, his voice carrying something warm that was quickly covered by playful sarcasm. “Welcome to another day in paradise.”
He stretched, his back cracking softly, before settling again, still watching him with that attentive look, as if waiting to see what would happen next.
The man looked around, half-expecting the station to have changed overnight. But everything was the same. The dust, the iron beams, the cracked mosaics… even the wind seemed unchanged, always blowing in the same direction.
“Paradise, huh…” he murmured, with a low, humorless chuckle.
Mingi shrugged, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
“Depends on what you consider hell,” he replied, calm and playful at the same time. “At least here no one tells you to do the dishes.”
He laughed quietly to himself and fell silent for a few seconds, just watching him closely. Then he said:
“If you want to try… we can start today.”
The man frowned.
“Start what?”
“Remembering.” Mingi raised one eyebrow, his gaze fixed on him. “Yesterday you said you wanted to leave this place, right? To move on?”
He nodded slowly, still confused.
“So…” Mingi sighed, adjusting his hat. “…try to remember who you were. What brought you here. No one finds the exit without first knowing where they came from.”
The man fell silent, his eyes distant, lost in some faraway memory that stubbornly refused to surface. He ran a hand over the white cap, smoothing the wrinkled fabric.
“And if…” his voice faltered “…if I can’t?”
Mingi took a deep breath before answering. His tone was still light, but there was something firm beneath it.
“Then you’ll have to put up with my company for longer than you’d like.” He smiled, tilting his head as he studied him. “But honestly… there could be worse things.”
The man let out a weak, almost imperceptible laugh and shook his head, defeated but for the first time since he had arrived, his shoulders seemed less tense.
They remained silent for a few seconds, with only the distant sound of the signs swaying in the wind filling the space between them. Then he lifted his eyes to Mingi, who was watching him with that calm, almost lazy smile.
“Why do you talk like that…” his voice came out low, filled with curiosity and a hint of disbelief “…as if you’ve already accepted that you’re going to stay here forever?”
Mingi arched an eyebrow, as if he found the question amusing.
“And isn’t that exactly it?” He opened his arms slightly, gesturing around at the peeling walls and rust-covered tracks. “Welcome to limbo. No one comes here because they want to. But…” his smile grew a little, carrying gentle sarcasm “…that doesn’t mean we can’t make the stay more interesting.”
The man furrowed his brows, pressing his lips into a thin line.
“But… you’ve never thought about leaving?” he insisted. “Never… tried?”
Mingi looked away for a moment, searching the station’s shadows. When he met his gaze again, his eyes were calm, but there was something different there, a deep weariness hidden behind confidence.
“Maybe I’ve tried…” He took a deep breath, adjusting the hat on his head. “Maybe I still try, from time to time.”
Then he tilted his head to the side, the smile returning to his lips.
“But until then, sailor…” his eyes glinted with something almost provocative “…you’re stuck with me.”
The other man lowered his gaze to his own hands, unsure of what to say, while Mingi simply kept watching him in silence.
After a few seconds, Mingi slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up, stretching his body with a small, satisfied sigh.
“Come on,” he said, his voice returning to that calm but firm tone of someone used to giving orders without sounding authoritarian. “Sitting here all day isn’t going to help anything.”
The man looked up, confused.
“Where to?”
Mingi glanced around, then looked back at him with a lazy smile.
“Wherever you want.” He shrugged. “We can start with the station, but…” his eyes traveled over the other man’s white uniform, lingering for a second on his rigid posture “…nothing’s stopping you from going outside. This place is in the world of the living, remember? There are still streets out there. People passing by, cars, street markets…” He tilted his head, his smile widening. “Just don’t get too excited. No one will see you.”
The man swallowed hard, a strange shiver running through him at the thought of walking among people unseen.
“So…” his voice came out low “…I can go anywhere?”
Mingi nodded, turning to leave the room. As he walked down the narrow corridor, he spoke without looking back:
“Anywhere. But in the end, until you remember…” He paused, turning his face slightly, light hair falling over one eye as he smiled. “…you’ll always end up coming back to the station.”
He kept walking, his steps echoing softly over the varied mosaic tiles. The man stood still for a moment before slowly getting up and following him, still unsure whether it was fear or relief he felt at hearing those words.
When they reached the main hall, Mingi stopped near an old, frozen clock, rested his hand against the rusted iron frame, and looked back at him over his shoulder.
“Come on, sailor. Today you’ve got a whole dead world to explore.”
The man looked around, taking in the empty station bathed in the pale light of early morning. Cold wind slipped through the broken doors, carrying the smell of wet streets, coal smoke, and something distant that reminded him of bread baking.
He hesitated before taking his first step. Mingi was already walking ahead, passing through the wide iron doors and stepping out into the street without looking back. The man followed, feeling the icy air hit his face as if it were real, even though somewhere deep inside he knew it no longer belonged to him.
Outside, the streets were mostly empty. Abandoned carts leaned against lampposts, shop windows were closed with newspapers taped over the glass, signs swayed in the wind. Farther ahead, a few people hurried along, carrying bags or pushing wooden carts. None of them looked in his direction.
Mingi stopped on the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat, watching the distant movement with a neutral expression. For a moment, he simply breathed in the cold air, sensing something the other could not. Then he spoke, without turning his head:
“You can walk wherever you want. But be careful.” His voice was calm, but firm. “Don’t forget you’re no longer on their side. There’s no point trying to call out or ask for help.”
The man took a deep breath, swallowing hard as he watched the people hurrying along the other side of the street. His eyes burned, but no tears fell.
Mingi started walking, heading down the street at an unhurried pace, and the man followed, feeling the hard ground beneath his feet, unsure whether that path led anywhere at all or only carried him farther from who he once had been.
They walked in silence through the empty streets. The cold wind rattled rusted iron signs, and old curtains fluttered in windows, even though the houses were closed and lifeless. They passed a bakery with darkened signs, a barbershop with locked doors, and a small grocery store with crates stacked outside.
Mingi walked ahead, steps calm, hands buried in his coat pockets. His eyes took everything in, but they seemed distant, as if none of it were new to him. From time to time, he stopped and glanced back, just to make sure he was being followed.
The man walked a few steps behind, the white uniform swaying gently with each movement. His eyes scanned every detail of the streets, searching for something.
At a crossroads, he stopped. Mingi sensed it and turned, lifting an eyebrow slightly in silence, waiting.
“I…” he hesitated, looking down before lifting his confused gaze to Mingi. “I don’t know if… if this makes sense, but… I think I saw… a pier. Yesterday, when I tried to remember.”
Mingi studied him for a few seconds, taking in every trace of hesitation on his face. Then he took a breath, shifting his gaze toward the street that led south.
“There’s a pier not far from here.” His voice was calm, but now there was a faint interest there, as if this were the first useful information in a long time. “Near the fish market. We can try there.”
The man nodded, relieved at not being ignored, and followed as Mingi turned and resumed walking.
They walked several more blocks. The streets grew emptier and wetter, the smell of salt beginning to mix with the damp cold of the wind coming from the south. They passed dismantled stalls and lampposts coated in rust until, as they turned the last corner, the soft sound of waves reached his ears.
The pier lay ahead, silent, with small boats rocking gently on the dark water. The gray sky made everything feel even colder. Ropes, wooden crates, and fishing nets piled together formed narrow corridors between the moored boats.
Mingi stopped beside him, eyes fixed on the calm sea. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Only the sound of the waves and the soft creaking of the boats filled the space between them.
“So…” Mingi broke the silence, turning his face toward him with a neutral expression. “…do you see anything?”
The man looked at the pier, at the boats, at the wet ropes, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. There was something there. Not a complete memory, but a sensation, like the smell of something that reminds you of childhood without bringing back your mother’s face.
He took a deep breath, trying to reach for that memory that felt so close.
“I…” His eyes filled with tears that did not fall. “…I think this was it.”
Mingi remained silent, simply watching him as the cold wind tousled his pale hair.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of salt mixed with wet coal drifting from the boilers of the moored boats. His eyes scanned the pier as if searching for faces he could no longer remember, footsteps he could no longer hear.
To the left, he noticed a row of stalls lined up beneath thick beige canvas awnings. Some were already open despite the early hour, small oil lanterns illuminating fresh fish and baskets of shrimp. A little farther on, there was a cart with an iron stove fixed to its side, releasing small clouds of white steam into the cold morning air. On top of the stove rested copper pots and a heated griddle, from which the strong, sweet smell of caramelized chestnuts spread across the pier.
He stopped, fixing his gaze on a small iron stand beside the cart. An elderly woman, her hair tied back beneath a checkered scarf, slowly stirred the burnt sugar in a deep pan before pouring it over the chestnuts roasting on the griddle. The scent felt so real that his stomach twisted in an automatic impulse.
Mingi, a few steps behind, watched every movement in attentive silence. He saw him move forward slightly, almost without noticing, eyes locked on the steaming chestnuts.
“Are you hungry?” Mingi asked softly, his voice carrying calm curiosity.
He didn’t answer. He simply lifted his hand, as if to take one of the chestnuts the woman poured into a cone of brown paper. But when his fingers tried to close around the cone, they passed straight through it, as if nothing were there. A cold shiver ran up his arm, and he jerked his hand back abruptly.
His chest rose and fell quickly, his breath faltering, and for a moment he felt like screaming. But before any sound escaped, he felt something warm brush his ear.
Mingi was there, standing so close that the black coat brushed his arm. His voice came out low, almost a calm whisper.
“Focus.”
He closed his eyes, trying to obey, but all he felt was the icy emptiness where there had once been warmth, flavor, life. His hand trembled as he tried again to touch the cone of chestnuts, but nothing changed. There was no heat, no texture—only the cold wind passing through his bones.
Frustrated, he let out a low groan and clenched his fist in the air, feeling tears that never fell burn behind his eyes.
“I… I can’t…” he whispered, his voice broken and bitter.
Mingi stayed beside him without saying a word. He simply watched his hand tremble as the sweet smell of burnt sugar spread across the pier, filling the space between them with something that felt more cruel than silence itself.
He remained standing there, shoulders tense, his hand still clenched around nothing. The sweet scent of caramelized chestnuts seemed to grow thicker around him, as if trying to suffocate him. The crackling sound of sugar popping on the hot griddle echoed in his ears, mingling with the distant sound of waves striking the pier’s pillars.
Mingi remained at his side, watching in silence. His gaze wasn’t pitying, but there was a calm so deep in it that it almost irritated him. After a few seconds, he broke the silence.
“What do you feel, besides the smell?”
The man blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sting in his eyes. His voice came out hoarse and uneven.
“It’s like…” he took a shaky breath “…like I know the taste. But I don’t remember when I ate it. I don’t remember who bought it for me… or if…” He squeezed his eyes shut, frustrated “…if it was me who bought it.”
Mingi tilted his head, studying every tremor in his body, every hitch in his breathing.
“Then start there,” he said quietly, firmly. “Imagine. Close your eyes and try to remember… when was the last time you tasted it? Where were you? Were you alone?”
The man took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as instructed. For a few seconds, all he felt was the cold wind brushing his face. Then, slowly, images began to surface, blurred, like ink spreading through water.
He saw lights hanging from thick ropes, swaying above heads he didn’t recognize. He heard laughter, mandolin music played by men with hats pulled too low over their eyes. He saw chestnuts steaming as they were poured into a cone of brown paper… and a hand taking the cone.
His own hand.
He felt the warmth through the thick paper, even if it was only memory. But before he could see more, everything faded. The sweet taste turned bitter, burning his tongue, and he opened his eyes gasping, his chest rising and falling out of rhythm.
“I…” his voice failed “…I almost did it.”
Mingi simply watched him, his expression gentle but serious.
“You will,” he said, adjusting the white hat on his head and turning his gaze toward the gray sea ahead. “But it’s going to hurt before it gets better.”
The man lowered his head, breathing deeply to steady the trembling in his hands. Mingi looked back at him with that same calm tone that never seemed to change. Without saying anything, he stepped forward, stopped in front of the cart, and extended his hand, passing his open fingers through the warm steam. It looked like a habit, something he did without thinking.
Almost provocatively, he picked up a chestnut fresh off the griddle. To anyone else, it wouldn’t have made sense, but Mingi held it as if he still had the right to feel its warmth. He rolled it between his fingers and, without taking his eyes off the other man, brought it to his lips. He bit into it slowly, as if savoring something he himself knew should no longer exist for him.
The other man watched, frozen. For a moment, everything around them went quiet. The sweet scent filled his chest again, but this time it didn’t hurt, it felt like an invitation.
“Wait,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Wait… please.”
Mingi raised an eyebrow, his teeth still pressing into the chestnut, but he stopped. He stayed there, head slightly tilted, attentive.
The man stepped forward, took a deep breath, and clenched his hand in the air. He breathed again, trying to focus only on the sound of the sea and the crack of the shell breaking between Mingi’s teeth. Then he opened his hand and reached toward the stall.
His fingers trembled as they brushed the warm paper cone. And for a moment, they didn’t pass through it. He felt it, not much like before, but enough. The warm paper, the weight of the chestnuts inside.
A sharp pain shot through his chest, as if something were being torn out of him by force. But he didn’t pull away. He picked up a chestnut, held it firmly between his fingers, and this time, when he brought it to his lips, the taste wasn’t just memory. It was real enough to burn the tip of his tongue.
He let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, as he chewed slowly. The soft crack of sugar breaking between his teeth made him close his eyes for a second. When he opened them, Mingi was still there, watching, now with a short, almost satisfied but restrained smile.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he said calmly, wiping his fingertip with his thumb. “It hurts before it gets better.”
The other man took a deep breath and swallowed the chestnut as if it were the first food he had eaten in an eternity, and it was.
Without saying a word, Mingi turned, stepped out of the narrow corridor of stalls, and gestured with a slight tilt of his head.
“Come. We can go now.”
And for the first time, when he took his first step behind him, the man felt that maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to return from somewhere.
Mingi walked in silence, his hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat, the white hat slightly crooked over his pale hair, tousled by the salty wind. His steps were calm, almost lazy, as if he knew exactly where he was going, even if he didn’t say it.
They left the pier and returned to narrower streets, where the smell of fresh fish gradually gave way to the bitter aroma of coffee brewed hours earlier. They passed dusty shop windows, hand-painted signs with time-worn lettering, small grocery stores with low façades, and half-open doors from which the soft music of old radios spilled out. An Argentine tango played somewhere in the distance, muffled by walls and by the wind cutting through the corners.
The man looked around, taking everything in. Each detail seemed to prod something inside him, but nothing came whole. Only flashes colors, sounds, smells. No faces.
After a few minutes of walking, he was the one who broke the silence.
“Mingi…” His voice came out low, hesitant. Mingi didn’t answer, but turned his face just enough to show he was listening. “How… how do you know all this? About… about eating, feeling, remembering…”
Mingi didn’t stop walking, but a brief, humorless smile appeared.
“Because I’ve already tried everything you’re trying now.” His voice was calm, almost lazy, but there was an old weariness beneath it. “And because every time someone new arrives here, I remember what it’s like to feel all of that again, even if it’s only for a second.”
The man furrowed his brows, lowering his gaze to his own feet as he walked.
“Mingi…” His voice was low again, uncertain. Mingi didn’t reply, only turned his head slightly to show he was listening. “How many times…” He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the tremor rising in his throat. “…how many times have you done this?”
Mingi lifted an eyebrow slightly but kept the same calm pace.
“Done what?”
“Guided…” He gestured vaguely with his free hand, as if it were obvious. “…other people. Ghosts. Souls… whatever they’re called.” He lowered his eyes again. “Don’t you ever… get tired?”
Mingi let out a low, humorless laugh, the cold wind tangling his pale hair as he spoke, his voice steady and soft at the same time.
“No,” he said simply. “As long as I’m here…” He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “…I’ll guide whoever can be freed. It helps pass the time.”
The man frowned, lifting his eyes to look at him, his brow marked by confusion and by the pain beginning to swell in his chest.
“But… and you?”
Mingi stopped for a second, staring ahead as if he could see something beyond the empty street. Then he turned and met the man’s gaze, his eyes calm, almost sad, but not defeated.
“Me?” A small smile appeared on his lips, not reaching his eyes. “I stay.”
They walked in silence until they stopped in front of a dark wooden door that creaked softly in the cold wind coming from the pier. Above it, a hand-painted sign read “Harbor Bar,” the gold letters chipped by time. The smell of stale alcohol, tobacco, and reheated coffee seeped through the cracks, mixing with the damp scent of the street.
Mingi stopped beside the entrance, leaning against the red brick wall plastered with torn posters advertising jazz performances and American cigarettes. He crossed his arms and watched as the other man stared at the door, tense.
The man took a deep breath, the heavy, warm air escaping from the bar burning his cold nostrils. His hand rose slowly toward the handle but stopped before touching it. Without turning his head, he asked in a rough whisper,
“Why here?”
Mingi merely shrugged, his gaze steady on him.
“Maybe it’s part of what you need to remember. Sailors make a few stops here.” His voice was neutral, but as always, there was something firm beneath it. “And I said I’d show you where to look, didn’t I?”
He closed his eyes, gathering his courage, then pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked softly as the gray light of the street gave way to the smoky dimness inside.
The bar was nearly empty. A few round tables of dark wood, crooked chairs, a long counter with tall iron stools. Behind it, shelves lined with green, amber, and blue bottles reflected the weak light of lamps hanging from wires in the low ceiling.
At the back, a man in suspenders and a white shirt rolled up to his elbows wiped glasses with a cloth. Two customers seated nearby spoke in low voices, their words muffled by the soft sound of a saxophone playing from a gramophone near the counter.
He took a few hesitant steps, feeling the wooden floor creak beneath his shoes. The smell of alcohol, tobacco, and cheap perfume tightened his throat so sharply that he had to stop to breathe.
Mingi stepped in behind him but remained near the door, watching in silence with a curious gaze.
The man looked around, his eyes sweeping over every detail: the tables carved with initials, the scuff marks on the floor, the cracked mirror behind the counter.
The sound of his shoes echoed softly on the wooden boards. He passed two tables before stopping at a third, farther back, pressed against the dark brick wall.
Its surface was covered in deep scratches, letters layered over letters, names erased by time. But in one corner, near the edge, two initials were still visible.
“YH.”
He ran his trembling fingers over them, feeling the roughness of the scarred wood. A shiver crawled up the back of his neck, so strong that he had to close his eyes for a second. And then, the flashes came.
A loud laugh. Glass hitting the table. The sweet smell of cheap rum. A large hand slapping his back, calling him “one lucky kid.” A white uniform, just like the one he wore now, but clean, without stains or dust. The saxophone playing somewhere, a slow melody that made his chest ache. And finally, his own voice, loud and alive, saying with a tired smile:
“Yunho. My name is Yunho.”
He forced his eyes open, his hand still resting on the carved initials. His breathing came fast, almost ragged. His whole body seemed to tremble, as if he had begun to feel cold again, truly cold, after a very long time.
Mingi, who had been standing only a few steps away, changed expression instantly. The calm in his gaze fractured into concern, and he moved quickly, firm steps on the wooden floor until he stopped beside him.
“Hey…” he called, his voice low but now edged with urgency. “…look at me.”
Yunho blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the eyes in front of him. His hand was still trembling on the table.
Mingi lowered his head, leaning in until he was at Yunho’s eye level, pale hair falling slightly over his forehead.
Yunho took a deep breath, his breathing still uneven. He looked at Mingi for a second, watching the fear shrink into something smaller in the presence of someone so solid.
“I…” he whispered, feeling the name burn on his tongue. “…Yunho. My name… is Yunho.”
For a second, everything fell silent. The bar, the wind outside, the creak of the beams. Mingi simply took a deep breath and nodded slowly.
“Welcome back, Yunho,” he said, his voice low and calm, but carrying something Yunho couldn’t quite understand.
The name vibrated in his chest like a forgotten sound. Before he could react, Mingi stepped closer and pulled him into a firm embrace. It wasn’t gentle or cautious, but decisive, like someone holding another person to keep them from falling.
The instant he felt those arms around his body, a new wave of memories surged back.
Yellow lights swaying over an improvised stage. Muffled laughter mixed with the sound of a mandolin. A white hat tossed onto the ground beneath old, wet planks. His younger hands holding a thick glass, the amber liquid trembling with the motion of the sea. The sweet taste of caramelized chestnuts on his tongue. A deep voice singing too close, so near that its warmth seemed to burn against his skin.
His chest tightened, a knot forming in his throat. He breathed in against Mingi’s shoulder, catching the scent of wet wood.
When the flashes stopped, his entire body shuddered. On impulse, he pulled away sharply from the embrace, almost stumbling as he took two steps back. His breathing was fast, his eyes wide as he stared at Mingi.
“What did you do?” he asked, his voice rough and shaking.
Mingi frowned slightly but didn’t move. He simply watched him in silence.
“This…” Yunho continued, gesturing with his hands as if trying to grab the air in front of him. “…these images… are they real? Are they my memories, or… or are you putting things in my head?”
His chest rose and fell hard. The sensation of the flashes still burned beneath his skin, leaving everything around him blurred.
Mingi took a deep breath before answering, his voice low but steady.
“I didn’t put anything in you,” he said without hesitation. “I was just here.”
Yunho’s eyes were full of confusion and fear, his hands trembling at his sides.
“But… what if they aren’t my memories?” he whispered, almost a confession. “What if they’re just… illusions? Things confused ghosts see because… because they can’t stand the emptiness?”
Mingi tilted his head, his gaze calm but serious.
“I can’t prove to you that they’re real,” he replied simply. “Only you can know that.”
He took a step forward but kept his distance, his eyes fixed on Yunho’s.
“But if you want to find out…” he said, his voice low, without any trace of irony or sarcasm, “…you’ll have to keep remembering.”
Yunho fell silent, his fists clenched, feeling the weight of that choice press down on his shoulders.
They left the bar without a word. The cold street wind felt even harsher after the stale, heavy air inside. They walked side by side along wet sidewalks, unhurried and without a clear destination.
The streets were emptier than before. Only a few cats darted past, and a yellowed newspaper skidded along the edge of the pavement, caught in the rails of a tram that no longer ran.
Yunho kept his gaze lowered, focused only on his own steps. Mingi walked beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat, saying nothing.
Over the hours that followed, they wandered aimlessly. They passed silent squares, shop windows already closed, fruit stalls where the sweet smell of overripe peels lingered in the air. They sat for a while on a stone staircase, watching couples come and go, the city still alive in small fragments around them.
They overheard fragments of conversations, whispered promises, brief laughter, muffled arguments that dissolved before becoming whole words. At times, Yunho stopped, staring at a scene or a face as if something were about to surface. But nothing came. No spark, no concrete memory, only a vague discomfort, like trying to decipher a letter too faded to read.
Mingi watched him closely but never hurried him. He asked no questions. He simply stayed by his side.
After a while, Mingi stopped and looked toward the horizon, now tinted with shades of orange as the sun began to set. He took a deep breath before speaking.
“Let’s go back to the station,” he said calmly.
Yunho lifted his gaze, confused.
“Why?”
Mingi turned his head, his expression neutral but touched with care.
“The quiet there at night helps,” he explained simply. “Ghosts…” he shrugged, glancing at his own hands before looking back at Yunho, “…need silence to organize what’s still left in their minds. And you…” his eyes softened, “…need time to absorb everything you saw today.”
Yunho breathed deeply, feeling the heavy exhaustion settle on his shoulders. He didn’t answer, only nodded slowly.
As they started walking back, Mingi spoke again, his tone almost lighter, though he didn’t smile.
“I was glad you remembered your name,” he said, his voice low but steady. “It’s the first step. I’m sure that soon…” he paused, looking ahead as they walked, “…you’ll be able to move on.”
Yunho continued walking beside him, feeling a small warmth flicker in the cold that filled his chest. He didn’t know whether it was hope or just another ghostly illusion. But for the first time, he didn’t have the strength to doubt it.
The station welcomed them as if they had never left. Moonlight poured in through the broken windows, casting long shapes across the cracked floor. No sound but the gentle wind dancing among the hanging signs.
Yunho entered first. He walked to one of the benches and sat down with a quiet sigh, his vacant gaze fixed on the empty platform, which drew him in for reasons he couldn’t name. For a moment, it felt as though the entire weight of the day had settled on his shoulders.
Mingi stayed near the door for a few seconds, waiting for a reaction. Then he crossed the hall with slow steps and sat on the backrest of a nearby bench, facing him.
They said nothing for a while. The city was behind them now, along with its agitation and triggers. Everything here returned to suspension, to a time that did not move forward.
“I’ve seen this happen before,” Mingi said, not looking at him. “Memory coming back like a punch. And then… silence.”
Yunho closed his eyes, feeling the lingering vibration at his temples.
“It wasn’t just a memory,” he murmured. “It was like I was… there.”
Mingi nodded faintly, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor.
“That’s how it is. Sometimes the mind finds a breach. And everything rushes through at once.”
Yunho took a deep breath and leaned back against the bench.
“I saw my name. And… for a second, it felt like it belonged to me. But then it disappeared.”
Mingi watched him for a moment, then spoke calmly.
“It may not seem like it, but that’s a good sign. When you don’t have to force yourself to remember, it means you’re closer.”
Yunho fell silent, absorbing the words.
“I just want to understand why this is happening to me,” he said, more to himself than to Mingi.
Mingi gave a short smile.
“You will.”
The wind swept through the station again. This time, it wasn’t as cold.
“The station at night has its own rhythm,” Mingi said, lifting his gaze to the high ceiling. “When everything stops, the mind makes space. It helps more than you think.”
Yunho didn’t answer, but there was no resistance on his face, only a quiet, almost peaceful exhaustion.
Mingi glanced at him.
“Your name… is the first piece of who you were. The rest… comes with time.”
Yunho opened his eyes without moving.
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“No one is.”
Silence again. Lighter now, less dense.
Mingi walked to the other side of the hall and slowly climbed onto the ticket counter, but this time he didn’t cross his arms or hum. He simply stayed there, staring at the cracked glass of the window in front of him.
Yunho lay down on the bench, one arm partially covering his eyes. The station was still, and for the first time, it didn’t feel threatening, just distant.
Sleep wouldn’t come in the usual way. But rest, perhaps, would.
Outside, a cat crossed the empty tracks. And everything fell quiet again. In the dark, memory suddenly revealed itself in fragments.
First, the muffled sound of footsteps on old wooden boards. Then, the squeak of a mirror being turned on its hinge. A small, cramped room. Fabric walls, red curtains, the yellow light of a lantern.
He was standing alone in front of a stained mirror. He wore the same clothes as before, the double-buttoned trousers, the wide-collared jacket. That uniform which he now knew… was not a uniform at all.
It was a costume.
In the reflection, he saw his hands adjusting the buttons, tugging at the fabric to make it sit just right. In the corner of the frame, a black top hat rested on a counter beside a bottle of eye makeup and a small box of stage jewelry.
A hand settled lightly on his shoulder. The fingers were long and steady. The touch was familiar, not because of the gesture, but because of the feeling it stirred. That contact said, you’re ready.
He didn’t turn around. He only looked at the reflection. Over his own shoulder, he saw another figure forming, blurred, but smiling. The face was still hidden in shadow, but the gesture… was unmistakable.
Something warm rose in his chest. It wasn’t fear. It was longing.
The memory didn’t last much longer. The sound of a distant bell echoed, blending with the wind in the station. The reflection faded little by little, like ink running down a mirror.
And then Yunho opened his eyes. The hall was quiet. Mingi was still there, sitting atop the counter with his knees drawn up, eyes fixed on the darkness outside.
Yunho lifted a hand to his shoulder, still feeling the pressure the dream had left behind. He knew, with a new certainty, that those clothes did not define who he was.