The winter he never left

Chapter 6: When Memories Start to Bleed

The past didn't ask permission before it returned. It came quietly, slipping beneath skin and breath, folding itself into dreams, until waking felt like remembering, and memory felt like pain.

Ji-hye woke up with ink on her hands.

She didn't recall writing anything the night before, but when her eyes adjusted to the morning light seeping through her bedroom window, she saw the open journal beside her. Her handwriting was unmistakable—except it wasn't in Korean. Not fully. The symbols were curved, ancient, reminiscent of calligraphy she had only ever seen on preserved parchment in history museums.

Her fingertips tingled. Her breath came in shallow bursts.

She whispered to herself, "I didn't write this."

But her body told her otherwise. Her muscles ached as if they had been holding a brush for hours. Her nails had faint black stains beneath them.

She flipped back through the journal. There were more pages filled with the same script. She couldn't remember any of it. Not when she wrote it. Not what it meant. But the rhythm of the lines soothed her, as if the words had once been prayers she knew by heart.

Downstairs, her kettle screamed. She left the journal behind and descended into a haze. The ground under her feet felt softer than wood, almost like packed dirt. She blinked, and it was her kitchen again. Still, the illusion rattled her.

Eun-woo had said nothing since that night by the river. She hadn't dared reach out.

But she couldn't stop thinking about the way his hand had held hers. The way the red thread had shimmered. The way it had burned.

---

Eun-woo stood in the library's restricted archives, his medical ID granting him access to materials usually reserved for historians. He wasn't searching for diagnoses today. No. He was looking for history.

And he found it.

The Chronicle of Hanseong Curses, 1837.

He turned the brittle pages carefully, the scent of aged paper sharp in his nose. The illustration stopped him cold.

A woman in red robes. Kneeling. A blade at her chest.

Her face—Ji-hye's face—etched in ink.

The text beside the image read:

"Lady Seorin, soul-bound to Harin, the prince's protector. Their bond was cursed to repeat, a cycle of love and sacrifice, bound by betrayal."

His hands trembled.

He read on. The curse demanded one pure soul every hundred winters. The only way to break it was for the blade to be sheathed when the time came—for love to overcome prophecy.

He closed the book. He remembered.

---

1837.

The memory arrived like a wave. Cold. Loud. All-consuming.

He stood in the snow. Harin. Sword drawn.

Seorin was before him, her eyes wet with tears that refused to fall. She wore ceremonial red, the color of brides and blood.

She stepped forward.

He stepped forward.

And still, she opened her arms.

The sword slipped. Blood stained the snow.

---

Ji-hye stood outside the ruins of an ancient shrine. The walls were mostly gone, vines crawling over stone. She didn't know why her feet had brought her there. She had taken the train south of the city, then walked for nearly an hour.

But now she stood before the steps. And the place felt like it had been waiting for her.

She climbed slowly.

Inside the ruins, the wind was still. Snow covered the stone floor like a burial shroud.

She walked to the center.

Closed her eyes.

And whispered, "I'm sorry."

The wind stirred.

Behind her, footsteps.

She turned.

Eun-woo.

His face was pale. Lips chapped. His eyes shimmered like stormlight.

"You came," she said.

He nodded. "I remember."

"Me too."

They walked toward each other.

He reached out. Their fingers brushed.

The red thread appeared.

It didn't glow gently this time.

It flared.

Ji-hye gasped. Her knees buckled.

Eun-woo caught her just before she hit the ground.

"Seorin," he whispered.

Her eyes opened, but they weren't Ji-hye's.

They held centuries of sorrow.

He held her tighter.

The red thread between them began to burn at the center.

Eun-woo looked down. His wrist was blistering where it touched hers.

"I won't lose you again," he said. "I swear."

She smiled faintly. Her body trembled.

And then— the red string snapped.

Her body went limp.

The snow began to fall again.