The Ones Who Remember

Ji-Hoon's fingers tightened around his phone, his throat dry.

"I’m the only one who remembers you."

The whisper sent a cold shiver through his spine.

He swallowed. “What do you mean?”

Silence.

“Who are you?” His voice was lower now, barely above a whisper.

Still, nothing.

Then—just as he was about to curse and hang up—the whisper returned.

"Find the red house at the end of Seongbuk-dong. Before it’s too late."

A sharp click. The line went dead.

Ji-Hoon slowly lowered the phone. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Seongbuk-dong. The rich part of Seoul. He had no connections there. No reason to be there.

And yet…

The voice knew him.

It remembered him.

And in a world where his very name was vanishing, that was enough to make him move.

By the time Ji-Hoon reached Seongbuk-dong, the streets were eerily quiet.

The upscale neighborhood was lined with traditional hanok houses, mixed with modern glass mansions, a strange blend of Seoul’s past and present.

But Ji-Hoon wasn’t looking for a mansion.

He was looking for a red house.

His footsteps echoed as he walked down the street, scanning the homes. Most of them were dark, their owners asleep. A few had security cameras glaring at him like watchful eyes.

Then, at the very end of the road—

There it was.

A small, old hanok house with faded red paint peeling off its wooden walls. A single lantern flickered on the porch, casting shadows that seemed too long, too twisted.

Ji-Hoon’s breath hitched.

This was it.

But something felt… wrong.

The air around the house was heavy, as if the street itself had been cut off from the rest of the city.

No cars. No voices. No wind.

Just stillness.

Like a graveyard.

Ji-Hoon hesitated for only a second before stepping forward. His boots crunched against the gravel as he reached the front door.

He knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

He was about to turn back when—

The door creaked open.

The inside of the house smelled like dust and ink.

Ji-Hoon stepped inside cautiously, his senses on high alert.

The living room was small and cluttered, stacks of old newspapers covering nearly every surface. A single lamp cast a dim glow, barely pushing back the darkness in the corners.

And in the middle of the room, sitting in an old chair—

Was a man.

A frail, elderly man, his skin pale, almost translucent under the weak light. He wore a simple hanbok, his silver hair neatly combed back.

His eyes, however—

They were sharp. Too sharp.

Like they had seen far too much.

Ji-Hoon swallowed. “Are you the one who called me?”

The man didn’t move.

Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he gestured toward the newspapers stacked on the floor.

Ji-Hoon hesitated before kneeling down and flipping through them.

His breath caught in his throat.

Every single newspaper had something in common.

They all contained articles written by him.

His missing bylines.

His stories, cut out, saved, preserved.

Someone had been keeping track of him.

“Who are you?” Ji-Hoon asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The old man finally spoke.

"You don’t remember me."

His voice was hoarse, like it had been unused for years.

Ji-Hoon’s stomach twisted. “Should I?”

The old man stared at him for a long moment before sighing. He reached beside him, pulling out a photograph.

Ji-Hoon took it.

And felt the world tilt.

It was an old photo, yellowed at the edges. A picture of three people standing in front of this very house.

A woman.

A man.

And…

Him.

Ji-Hoon’s own face, staring back at him from decades ago.

But the date at the bottom of the photo—

1982.

Before he was born.

Ji-Hoon’s breath came short, his pulse hammering in his ears.

“This isn’t possible,” he whispered.

The old man’s gaze didn’t waver. “You were never supposed to remember.”

Ji-Hoon looked back at the photo, his mind spinning.

If this picture was real—if this man knew him from decades ago—

Then who the hell was Ji-Hoon?

And more importantly—

Why was someone trying to erase him?

At exactly 1:13 AM, Ji-Hoon’s phone buzzed again.

This time, he didn’t even have to look at the screen.

He answered.

The whisper was waiting.

"Now you see, don’t you?"

Ji-Hoon clenched his jaw. “Tell me who I am.”

The whisper let out a slow, breathy chuckle.

"Not yet."

Ji-Hoon gritted his teeth. “Then tell me why I’m being erased.”

The voice went silent for a moment.

Then—

"Because someone made a mistake.

"And now, you have to disappear."

"Some memories are stolen. Others are buried alive."

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