The dream
The theory that people who are destined to meet are connected by a red thread.
The wind howled like a wounded creature. Sand lashed his skin. His bare feet pounded across the stone path, bleeding with every step, but he didn’t stop.
he was running.
His voice tore through the night air, breathless, frantic.
“Taehyung”
but the person he was running after didn’t turn.
The man in silver armor, streaked in ash and blood, walked farther away with each step, swallowed by fire and shadows. His silhouette blurred at the edges, like a memory being pulled from his grasp.
“Please, don’t leave me!” he cried again, his voice cracling.
The temple bells rang behind him — sharp, condemning. His anklets jingled like chains. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched.
And then — he fell.
His knees crashed into the earth. Dust choked his throat. The sharp pain in his chest had nothing to do with his body. It was heartbreak — wild and unbearable.
He looked up.
They surrounded him. Silhouettes in red and white, eyes full of fire, spitting words like poison.
“He’s defiled the gods.”
“Tainted. Cursed.”
“The virgin dancer touched by a man. Burn his name from the scrolls!”
Hands pointed . Mouths cursed. Noone helped him rise . his ghungroos had broken , beads scattered like blood across the earth.
unknown
But I loved him...
He whispered — to himself, to the gods, to no one.
The sky cracked with thunder.
He screamed.
But it wasn’t heard.
Jungkook sat up in bed with a gasp, heart pounding like war drums.
His sheets were twisted around her legs. Sweat clung to her skin. His chest rose and fell like he had run miles.
he looked down at her hands.
They were shaking.
The room was dark, silent — safe.
But he could still hear the voices. Feel the dust. The sting of disgrace.
The same dream — always the same — growing sharper every time.
And that name on his lips...
Present jungkook
Taehyung.....
he whispered it without understanding why.
Who was he?
Why did his soul scream for him like it had lost him a thousand lifetimes ago.
Morning crept in slowly, casting pale light through the cracks in the rusted windowpane.
The small apartment stirred with silence. It wasn’t much — just a dim one-room flat tucked behind a noisy street in the older part of the city. The paint on the walls was peeling, like old wounds refusing to heal. A single ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, clicking every third turn like a ticking clock that forgot how to count time.
In the far corner was a cramped kitchen — a cracked stove, chipped ceramic plates stacked over a sink full of yesterday's regrets. The smell of dust, paint, and old wood lingered like it belonged there.
And the bedroom…
It was a space barely big enough for the loneliness it carried. A thin mattress lay on the ground, covered with a faded blanket that once had roses on it — now it was just a ghost of color. The walls were empty except for a single nail,In the far corner was a cramped kitchen — a cracked stove, chipped ceramic plates stacked over a sink full of yesterday's regrets. The smell of dust, paint, and old wood lingered like it belonged there.
And the bedroom…
It was a space barely big enough for the loneliness it carried. A thin mattress lay on the ground, covered with a faded blanket that once had roses on it — now it was just a ghost of color. The walls were empty except for a single nail,where a worn pair of ballet slippers hung like a memory no one asked for.
This was his home.
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