“Some silences aren’t empty. They breathe. They remember.”
Morning hadn't come. Not truly.
The sky was pale and colorless, like someone had drained the blood from it. Mist clung to the trees like cobwebs, thick and damp. The village looked abandoned again — as if its people had vanished in the night.
Raon crouched by the well near the Widow’s Shrine, his jaw tense.
Next to him, Lira — still dressed in her widow’s disguise — sat on a cracked stone, chewing a piece of dried persimmon like it was the most normal morning of her life.
“You’ve been staring at that well for an hour,” she said. “Planning to jump in?”
“There’s something inside it,” he muttered.
She leaned back, unimpressed. “Maybe it’s a cursed frog. Maybe it’s your reflection.”
Raon didn’t laugh. He was listening.
Last night, he’d heard it again — the scraping sound.
It had started after midnight, low and distant. Metal against wood. Like someone dragging their nails through the earth.
Now, something had changed.
A crack had appeared in the shrine’s foundation — fresh, jagged, breathing cold air.
He nodded toward it. “That wasn't there yesterday.”
---
They both stood, walking toward the crevice. The smell coming from it was strange — sweet, but sharp. Like flowers left on a grave too long.
Raon pulled a small mirror from his sleeve. He tilted it toward the opening carefully.
Lira watched him, curious now. “What do you see?”
His eyes widened. For a heartbeat, he didn’t speak.
Then he whispered, “A face.”
“A human face?”
“Half of one. The mouth was stitched shut.”
She took the mirror, glanced at it herself. Nothing there now — only shadows.
But the air felt different. Heavy. Personal. Watching.
---
Suddenly, the shrine door creaked open.
Neither of them had touched it.
Lira stiffened. “Okay, that’s... new.”
Raon drew his blade.
They stepped inside together.
---
The shrine’s interior was colder than the outside air. It didn’t feel abandoned. It felt occupied — like someone had just been there and might return any second.
The walls were lined with masks — grotesque, chipped, hollow-eyed.
But one mask was missing. The one at the top-right corner. The one with the sharpest smile.
Raon turned to check behind them.
A figure was standing there.
---
It was tall and thin, wrapped in pale cloth like burial linen. Its hands were twisted — fingers bent backward, as if broken.
“You’ve come to feed her,” it rasped. “She waits... hungry.”
Lira stepped forward, unfazed. “Feed who? I didn’t bring snacks.”
Raon glanced at her. “This really isn’t the time for sarcasm.”
“Exactly why I’m using it,” she whispered.
The creature hissed and lunged.
---
The fight was fast. And brutal.
The figure moved like smoke. Hard to strike. Harder to hurt.
Raon blocked a blow and countered, steel meeting cloth — but the creature vanished and reformed behind him.
Lira ducked low, spun, slashed upward — a clean arc, slicing through empty air.
Their bodies moved together — sharp and fluid.
They didn’t speak, but they knew each other’s rhythm now. Every attack, every dodge, perfectly timed.
At one point, Raon stumbled, the creature grabbing his arm. Lira didn’t hesitate. She drove her blade straight through its side.
It shrieked and turned to dust.
---
Silence fell.
Then — the masks began to drop from the walls, one by one, crashing to the ground like shattered bones.
The shrine trembled.
“We need to leave,” Raon said.
Lira grabbed his wrist. “Go!”
They burst out just as the shrine collapsed in a rain of wood, dust, and broken curses.
---
Outside, the air had changed.
A thin ray of sunlight finally broke through the clouds. It fell across Raon’s face like a quiet blessing.
He turned to Lira.
She looked back at him — wind in her hair, blood on her cheek, chest heaving with breath.
And in that moment, she didn’t look like a disguised widow anymore.
She looked real.
Brave.
Beautiful.
He didn’t say anything.
But she noticed the way he looked at her.
And smiled — just slightly.
“Still alive,” she said. “Barely.”
He nodded. “You saved me in there.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” she teased. “I did it for your sword. It’s shinier than mine.”
He laughed — really laughed — the sound echoing through the mist.
---
But deep underground, beneath the fallen shrine, something stirred.
A pale face pressed against the dirt.
Its mouth — once stitched — was now slowly opening.
And from that dark hollow came a whisper.
“Raon…”
---
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