Chapter 4: Echoes in the Rain

The city felt different that night.

When Jiwon stepped out of the café with Minjae, the street lamps hummed faintly, their glow blurred by mist. A drizzle had begun, soft but insistent, the kind that seeped into your bones without you noticing.

Neither of them spoke as they walked. The silence between them was sharp, alive.

Finally, Minjae broke it.

“You saw her too.”

Jiwon nodded, clutching her umbrella tighter. “I thought it was just me… until you said—” She hesitated. “Do you… believe in past lives?”

Minjae’s steps faltered. He glanced at her, dark eyes searching. “I never used to. But lately…” His voice dropped, heavy. “Lately I’m not sure what’s real anymore.”

They stopped under the awning of a bookstore, rain pattering rhythmically around them. Jiwon swallowed, the words clawing their way out.

“In my dreams, I die. Every time.”

Minjae’s jaw tightened. “And I watch it happen.”

Her chest is constricted. Hearing it from him made it undeniable, a truth she could no longer dismiss as imagination.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin. When he unfolded it, Jiwon’s breath caught.

Drawn in rough lines was a woman’s face—pale skin, dark eyes, lips curved in a mocking smile.

Eun Haejin.

“I saw her before you mentioned her,” Minjae said quietly. “She… she was there when you died. I thought I was going insane. But when I saw your sketch today—” His voice faltered. “I knew I wasn’t alone.”

Jiwon touched the napkin with trembling fingers. The paper was damp, smudged, but the face still stared back at her. “She wants something,” she whispered. “I don’t know what, but it feels like—like she’s following us.”

A gust of wind rattled the bookstore’s sign. They flinched, stepping closer under the awning. Minjae’s shoulder brushed against hers, warm despite the cold air.

“Then maybe we should figure out why,” he said.

---

The rain thickened, hammering rooftops and umbrellas. They ended up running the last blocks to Jiwon’s rooftop apartment. By the time they arrived, they were both damp, shoes squeaking on the stairs.

Inside, the small space felt warmer than usual. Jiwon flicked on the lamp, its yellow light soft against the walls lined with sketches and notes. Her sketchbook lay open on the desk, the image of the courtyard glaring up at them.

Minjae studied it quietly. “That place… it looks familiar.”

“You’ve seen it too?”

He nodded. “Stone pillars. Lanterns. Like an old palace.”

Jiwon hesitated, then reached under her bed and pulled out a box. Inside were old charcoal sketches she had never shown anyone. Pages of hanbok-clad figures, wooden gates, swords, lanterns. Scenes she had drawn after nights of restless dreams.

Minjae sifted through them slowly, reverently. “This isn’t a coincidence,” he said finally. “These aren’t just dreams.”

His words sent a chill racing down her spine.

---

Later, as thunder rumbled distantly, Jiwon made tea while Minjae sat by the window. The rain streaked silver against the glass, the sound oddly comforting despite the weight of their conversation.

“Do you think we knew each other?” she asked softly.

Minjae didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the storm outside, brows furrowed. “I don’t just think it,” he said at last. “I feel it. Every time I see you, it’s like my chest remembers before my head does.”

Her cheeks warmed, heartbeat stuttering. She looked down at her cup. “I feel it too.”

The air between them shifted—charged, fragile. For a moment, Jiwon forgot the curse, the fear, the face of Eun Haejin. All she saw was Minjae, close enough that she could hear the steady rhythm of his breath.

Then—

A sharp crack.

The lamp flickered violently, plunging the room into brief darkness. The sound of laughter—soft, feminine—echoed faintly in the air.

Jiwon’s teacup slipped from her hands, shattering on the floor.

Minjae stood instantly, eyes darting around the apartment. “Did you hear that?”

Jiwon’s voice shook. “She’s here.”

The laughter came again, closer this time, curling around them like smoke. The sketches on the desk fluttered as though caught in an invisible breeze. One page lifted and pinned itself against the windowpane.

It was a drawing of Jiwon—her throat marked with a blade, eyes wide in terror.

Her breath caught. She had drawn that weeks ago, not even knowing why.

Minjae grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. His voice was low but firm. “We’re not safe here.”

At that moment, lightning split the sky, illuminating the apartment in a blinding flash.

And in the glass of the window, reflected between them, stood Eun Haejin.

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