The Dreams

[Morning — Observation Room 71-A]

The door slid open with a soft mechanical hiss. Lieutenant Kim stepped inside, carrying a single porcelain cup on a saucer. Steam curled upward from the barley tea, the faint scent of roasted grain trailing behind him — warm yet fragile, as if it might vanish if she breathed too deeply.

Yun sat on the bed, knees drawn slightly up, her gaze fixed on the pale blue sky beyond the reinforced glass. She didn’t move until the cup touched the table beside her with a muted clink, the sound strangely loud in the sterile quiet.

“Good morning, Yun,” Lieutenant Kim said gently.

“Morning,” she replied, barely above a breath.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

He pulled out the chair and sat, studying her expression as if searching for hairline cracks. “You fainted two days ago — right after I said a certain word.”

Yun’s gaze flickered toward him. “Yes. I remember… you said ‘seed,’ and then—” She paused, brows knitting. “—I collapsed.”

“No dizziness since then? No strange sensations?”

She shook her head. “No. Just… dreams.”

His tone sharpened. “Dreams?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, as if the word carried more weight than it should. “But they feel like they’re not mine. Someone else’s.”

For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze followed hers to the sky — a perfect, indifferent blue. “Do you think it’s connected to something from the sky? You’re always looking at it.”

Her lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Outside, a single white cloud drifted across the horizon until it disappeared.

He slid the saucer closer. “Why don’t you try the tea first? I think it’ll help you relax.”

Her eyes shifted to him — calm, unreadable. “You know I don’t need to drink, right?”

“I know. But you didn’t refuse when I mentioned it earlier… so I assumed you might.”

Her fingers brushed the rim of the saucer — porcelain warm beneath her touch, almost inviting her to lift it. After a pause, she said softly, “Yes… I can.”

Yun reached for the cup with deliberate movements, as though testing whether the warmth would retreat. She lifted it, letting the faint steam curl against her cheek, carrying that mellow roasted scent.

A brief pause at her lips, then a small sip.

Her eyes lowered, gaze unfocused, as if the taste pulled her somewhere distant. When she set the cup down, her fingers lingered on the handle.

“Well?” Kim asked.

“It’s… warm,” she said at last. The tone was quiet, almost uncertain, as if she described more than temperature.

A faint smile touched his mouth. “That’s good.”

Yun tilted her head slightly, studying the pale golden surface. “It feels… gentle.”

Kim’s gaze softened. “Nice, isn’t it?”

She watched the steam rise. “Like holding a small piece of the morning… before anyone else has touched it.”

He let the image settle before speaking. “You have a way of describing things.”

“It’s just what I see.”

He leaned forward slightly. “And what do you see… when you dream?”

Her hands stilled around the cup. “…Two shapes,” she said slowly. “They’re never close, but they’re always looking at me.”

“People?”

“I don’t know. One is surrounded by blossoms that wilt when she smiles. The other… walks through fire.”

“And they speak to you?”

She shook her head. “No. But…” Her gaze stayed on the tea. “One will give us blessing, love, and kindness. When she looks at me, I feel… safe. Wanted. Like the world itself would open its arms.”

Kim listened, posture still but tense. “And the other?”

Her eyes lifted, calmness sharpening. “The other will give us destruction. Her steps are storms. Her voice is the sound of a city falling. Yet… the silence after feels almost clean.”

“Clean?”

She nodded faintly. “Like rain washing blood from stone.”

He studied her. “Do you know who they are?”

“No,” she whispered. “But it looks like they know me.”

His gaze lingered on her profile — her eyes not on the glass, but beyond it. “Yun… do you remember anything from before?”

Her fingers tightened on the cup. “No.”

“Nothing at all?”

A pause. Then a slower shake of her head. “I feel like I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because every time I try… it feels like the thing I’ll find won’t let me go.”

The steam drifted between them, vanishing into the sterile air.

“You know… most people want to know about their lost memories, even if it hurts,” Kim said quietly.

Yun’s gaze met his. “I’m not human, remember?”

He didn’t answer right away. The quiet stretched, filled only by the faint hum of ventilation. “Even so… you feel. You dream. That’s human enough.”

“Feeling and wanting aren’t the same.”

“Then what is it you don’t want to find?”

A faint crease touched her brow. “What if I’m dangerous?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Should I take that as a warning?”

Her gaze held his — then, just for a moment, her lips curved into a small, almost wicked smile. “Do you need one?”

Kim’s eyes sharpened, but he didn’t move. The smile lingered before fading. That smile wasn’t an accident.

Yun tilted the cup back, letting the last faint trace of barley warmth touch her tongue. When she lowered it, the pale porcelain was empty, the thin ring of steam gone.

Kim’s gaze flicked to the cup. “Seems you enjoyed the tea.”

Her fingers lingered on the handle before she set it down. “It reminded me of something I’ve never had.”

He studied her for a beat, then rose from the chair, the scrape of its legs barely audible. “Okay. I think that’s enough for me to write a morning report.”

Yun’s eyes followed him, her tone casual but edged with something more. “Does your report decide if I can see the sky without glass?”

He paused, studying her expression. “You mean… going outside?”

A faint curve touched his lips. “Sure. Let’s go out tonight.”

Her head tilted just slightly, the way a curious child might at an unexpected gift, and an innocent smile brightened her face — light, unguarded, almost too human. “Thank you, Kim Joon-seo. I’ll be waiting.”

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