The Creepy Dream

They moved from room to room, silence occasionally broken by creaking wood or distant bird calls. The house was large, filled with forgotten furniture and relics of lives long gone.

“Look at this library,” Jungkook said, eyes lighting up as he entered a room lined with dusty shelves. “It’s perfect.”

“For you, maybe,” Minji muttered. “I just want a clean bed and decent lighting.”

“There’s charm in the imperfections.”

“There’s mold in the corners.”

That made him laugh—just briefly—but Minji didn’t smile.

As night fell,

they shared a quiet meal in the kitchen, lit by a few dim bulbs. Neither spoke much. The silence now wasn’t peaceful—it was sharp, full of everything they weren’t saying.

Later, in the bedroom, Jungkook turned to her, hesitant.

“Minji.”

She didn’t respond.

“I miss you,” he whispered. “Let me hold you tonight.”

She turned her back. “I’m tired.”

“Minji, please—”

“I said I’m tired,” she snapped. “Not in the mood for playing perfect couple in a haunted house.”

Jungkook sat up, frustrated. “This was supposed to help us reconnect.”

“Maybe you should’ve tried reconnecting before things broke,” she hissed, eyes narrowing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She stared at him, cold. “You’re always chasing something—your next book, your next idea. I’m just here, waiting. Always waiting. And I don’t want to anymore.”

Silence.

He stood abruptly, chest tight. “Then don’t.”

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The couch creaked under his restless body. Moonlight bled through the broken blinds, casting pale streaks across the floor. The fire had died hours ago, but the cold in the room felt unnatural—like it came from inside the walls.

Jungkook pressed a cushion over his face, trying to shut it all out.

The silence.

The ache.

Her voice still ringing in his ears—

“I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Eventually, sleep took him. Not gently. Not kindly.

In his dream

Jungkook stood in a hallway he didn’t recognize.

The wallpaper was elegant, cream and gold. Chandeliers shimmered. Laughter—light, innocent—echoed down the corridor. A child’s laughter.

He followed the sound.

A glimpse of a boy, maybe in his teens, slipping into a sun-drenched room. White shirt. Loose curls. Barefoot.

Something in Jungkook’s chest tightened.

He stepped into the same room—an old-fashioned dining room, bright and warm. The boy sat at the table, humming softly, arranging wildflowers in a vase. He didn’t look up.

Then—

A shadow moved behind him.

Two figures entered the room. A man and a woman. Their faces were blurred, but their voices were sharp. Cold. Angry.

“You think this is normal?” the man growled.

“You’re ungrateful. After everything—” the woman spat.

The boy stood, trembling, vase still in his hands.

“You’re not our son!” someone screamed.

Glass shattered. The vase hit the floor. Blood dripped.

Jungkook reached out. “Wait—!”

But his voice made no sound.

He watched helplessly as the boy fell—like he’d been struck down by something heavier than hands. His eyes flickered with confusion... betrayal... then nothing at all.

The room turned gray. The warmth drained out.

The scene blurred.

A shovel.

Dirt being thrown.

The base of a tree.

A hand sticking out of the earth.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

And then, in the silence—

A voice, soft and broken, whispered behind Jungkook:

“Why did they stop loving me?”

He turned around—but no one was there.

Only cold air.