The winter he never left

Chapter 11: The Echoes of Forgotten Dreams

The night Seorin slipped into sleep, it was as if a veil lifted and the weight of her waking life dissolved. Her body remained still on the bed in the royal suite, but her spirit crossed into a world not bound by time or reason. The room around her faded—walls melting into mist, curtains dissolving into pale ribbons of light—until all that remained was a vast, endless field bathed in silver-blue moonlight.

The air was perfumed with something ancient—jasmine, perhaps, or something older—and every step Seorin took into this dream-realm echoed with the rustling whispers of the past. Her bare feet didn't touch grass or earth but instead found purchase on soft petals that stretched endlessly, like a meadow born from memory.

She walked slowly, instinctively drawn to something—or someone—waiting beyond the field. Her breath caught as familiar fragments began to shimmer into shape ahead of her: the faint outline of the palace she had grown up in, though it now stood faded and crumbling. Ivy twisted along its marble columns, and faint flickers of golden butterflies flitted through the broken archways.

But it was the figure standing in the archway that drew her breath away.

"Mother?" she whispered, the word catching like a fragile thread in her throat.

The woman turned. Hair like starlight swept down her back, and her eyes—those same almond-shaped pools of warmth—softened as they met Seorin's. "My Seorin. You've come far, haven't you?"

Seorin surged forward, tears rushing to her eyes as she tried to embrace her, but her arms passed through the image like wind through mist.

"You're not real," Seorin whispered, shaken.

"I'm real where it matters," the apparition said gently, her smile tinged with melancholy. "This dream… this space… is made from your soul. From everything you've buried to protect yourself."

Suddenly, the air grew colder. The petals beneath Seorin's feet darkened, wilting with each breath. The palace crumbled further in the distance. And then came the whisper—a low, seething hum.

"She doesn't deserve forgiveness."

Seorin turned sharply. Shadows began to spill across the sky, swirling into a storm that bled color from the horizon. The warmth vanished.

And from the darkness stepped Eun-woo.

But not the Eun-woo she had known. This version was wreathed in black smoke, his face half-covered in a cracked porcelain mask. His blade was bloodstained, and his eyes were hollow.

"You lied to me," he said, voice thunderous despite the calm setting. "You left me to rot in the silence."

"No—Eun-woo, that wasn't—"

"Don't." He raised the blade. "You deserve to suffer. Just like I did."

Seorin stumbled back, her heart pounding. This wasn't just a dream. It was her guilt, her fear, and her love twisted into torment.

But then—

Light flared behind her. A silver thread slithered through the air and formed a glowing line that wrapped around her wrist.

Selah's voice rang out, though her form did not appear. "Breathe, Seorin. Anchor yourself."

Seorin took a breath. Deep. Anchoring. And then she remembered.

The dreams weren't just dreams—they were memories. Or echoes of things yet to come.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the warmth that had once lived between her and Eun-woo. The joy, the pain, the promises. When she opened them again, the figure before her trembled, cracked, and shattered like glass.

The storm lifted.

She was alone again in the meadow.

But now, the sky above shimmered with constellations she had never seen. And far beyond the hills, a figure waited.

Not her mother.

Not a monster.

But a boy. Younger than her. Dressed in tattered ceremonial robes of the eastern province.

She recognized him too late.

Jin.

Only… not quite.

The boy raised his hand slowly and touched his lips, a symbol of silence.

"Beware the mirror," he said. "It shows more than truth."

And with that, he disappeared.

---

Seorin awoke gasping, covered in sweat. Selah was sitting by her bedside with a bowl of water and a damp cloth. Her face was tight with concern.

"You've been asleep for two days," she said.

Seorin blinked, the weight of the dream still pressing against her skull.

"I saw them," she murmured. "Mother… Eun-woo… Jin."

Selah froze. "Jin?"

Seorin nodded. "But he was different. And he warned me about something… something called 'the mirror.'"

Selah stood, pacing. "Then it's begun. The dreams aren't just dreams anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a relic," Selah said, her voice hushed. "Buried deep beneath the ruins of the first temple. A mirror that reveals not what is—but what the heart hides. If Jin showed it to you, it means the path you're on will demand a truth you're not ready to face."

Seorin sat up, despite the pain still clinging to her limbs. "Then I have to find it."

Selah turned sharply. "Are you sure? The mirror can destroy you. It doesn't lie—but the truth can break what little remains of you."

Seorin met her gaze, fire returning to her chest. "I've lived with lies long enough."

---

That night, Seorin prepared to leave for the temple ruins.

But she wasn't alone.

At the gates of the palace, cloaked and ready, stood Ha-joon. His face unreadable, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade.

"I'm coming with you," he said simply.

Seorin frowned. "Why?"

He stepped forward. "Because the truth isn't yours alone anymore. We all have something buried in that mirror."

Their journey would take them beyond the capital, into a land forgotten by time and corrupted by sorrow. The mirror awaited.

And with it, the secret that would change everything.