The lights dimmed inside Gallery 7 of the Seoul Metropolitan Museum of History, casting a hush over the marble-paneled space as though the building itself respected the relics it housed. Only the soft shuffle of shoes and a faint mechanical hum accompanied the quiet procession of visitors moving past the velvet partitions.

At the center of the gallery, suspended under recessed lighting, stood the crown jewel of the museum’s "Time and Myth" collection: a single vertical canvas nearly two meters tall, encased in glass, shielded by subtle pressure sensors.

The room always felt colder here.

' Subjects Unknown (ca. 1400s)

Artist Unknown – Oil on handmade gossamer paper

Excavated 2089, Former Gyeonggi Province Ruins

"The Twin Star Lovers" '

Most visitors gave it a glance and moved on fascinated by the age, the mystery, the romantic title but to them, it was just another piece of myth posing as history. Yet one woman lingered.

She stood alone at the edge of the group, wrapped in a navy wool coat, a museum lanyard hidden beneath her collar. Her gaze was fixed, unmoving, the kind of attention reserved not for art... but for ghosts.

The painting was stunning. Or eerie. Or both.

In the foreground sat a royal figure on a slightly raised dais—his posture relaxed, but undeniably regal. He wore a richly detailed hanbok of navy and jade, lined in gold, the pattern so intricately painted that the threads seemed to shimmer. His hair was tied back loosely, not in the ceremonial topknot one would expect, but more casually like a man interrupted at leisure. His expression wasn’t stoic like most portraiture of the time. He looked almost surprised. Or amused. As if he'd just turned his head to listen.

His right hand rested palm-down on his lap.

His left hand open, almost vulnerable reached outward toward the shadows.

And there, partially obscured by the darkened interior behind the throne, was the second figure.

He emerged from the gloom like something breaking through memory.

Lean, bare-chested, the gleam of a shoulder tattoo inked in looping script that resembled nothing known from that era. His hair fell freely around his face, a strand swept across one brow. His mouth was parted slightly caught mid-laugh or breathless silence. His hand hovered mere inches from the prince’s.

You could feel the tension.

The air between them almost seemed to vibrate, painted so delicately it created the illusion of motion. Not quite touching. But not separate, either.

A museum docent spoke quietly to the group.

“Despite being categorized as ‘Joseon-era,’ this work contains pigments that weren’t used in Korea until centuries later. The canvas itself is unique gossamer paper coated with what appears to be a synthetic binding, though no lab has been able to replicate it.”

The woman didn’t blink.

She stepped closer to the display, just beyond the red velvet rope, and leaned forward.

Something in her chest twisted.

Not recognition more like remembrance.

Like the sensation you get when you dream of someone you’ve never met, then see them the next day on the street.

Like déjà vu, but inside your bones.

She tilted her head.

“The one in the back... he looks like Jungkook.”

A college student nearby snorted softly. “Who?”

“Jeon Jungkook,” another whispered. “From BTS. Old K-pop guy. My grandma used to wait, no, I think he was in a VR opera?”

“No, you’re thinking of the musical. Twin Star Lovers: A Dynasty in Eclipse. That was based on this painting.”

The docent continued:

“There is, in fact, an old folk legend, dating back hundreds of years of a crown prince who fell in love with a celestial visitor. In most versions, the visitor was a star spirit who fell to earth during a meteor storm and took human form. Some believe this painting is an allegory. Others suggest it’s a romantic fantasy. Or...” The guide hesitated, voice quieter now. “...a memorial.”

As the group drifted away, the woman remained.

Something about the painting clung to her. It wasn’t just the detail. It was the way the prince’s eyes weren’t focused straight ahead, they were angled slightly, caught mid-turn. He wasn’t posing.

He was looking at the man behind him.

Like he'd heard his voice.

Like he was just about to say something.

The lights in the gallery flickered once.

Barely noticeable.

The woman blinked.

Maybe a power calibration. She stepped back slowly, still staring.

Behind her, a junior archivist passed through the security gate with a scanner. His job was routine, verify the sensors, run a climate check, note fluctuations in temperature or light exposure.

Everything was normal... except for one anomaly.

In the high-res visual archive from the day before, the second figure’s hand hovered a full three centimeters from the prince’s.

Now, when the AI overlay recalibrated... the fingers were closer.

Almost touching.

The scanner flagged it.

“Deviation: Possible micro-shift in pigment alignment.”

The archivist frowned, tapped the glass, reset the visual field. “Weird glitch.”

Then he walked away.

Behind him, the painted prince continued to sit, frozen in the moment he always was. One hand resting, one hand reaching. His face full of quiet, searching stillness.

And in the shadows...

the man with wild hair leaned forward just a little more.