The sound of his alarm never reaches him.
Ji-ho wakes up before it, staring at the ceiling in the dim morning light. His body feels heavy, sinking into the mattress, but his mind is alert—too alert. There's a feeling that tugs at him, something subtle, something just beneath the surface of consciousness, like a word on the tip of his tongue that refuses to come out.
It's nothing.
He exhales through his nose, dragging a hand down his face before sitting up. The air in his apartment is still, almost stagnant, the kind of silence that feels too present. He's always been a light sleeper, but lately, sleep feels like an obligation rather than a necessity. Something to pass the hours. Something to make the next day come faster.
His alarm buzzes softly, the vibration barely a hum on his nightstand. He reaches over and turns it off without looking. His eyes remain fixed ahead, lingering on the half-open wardrobe across the room. The darkness within seems deeper than usual.
He shakes his head.
Just tired.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stands, his bare feet pressing into the cold wooden floor. He rolls his shoulders, stretching the stiffness from his muscles. His body moves automatically, carrying him through his morning routine like second nature.
Bathroom. Mirror. Workout. Shower.
The water scalds his skin, but he doesn't adjust the temperature. He lets the heat seep into him, hoping it will chase away the unease clinging to his bones. His fingers press into his temples, his wet hair slicked back as he lets out a slow breath.
He doesn't know why he feels this way.
But it's there.
Lingering.
By the time he steps out of the shower, the bathroom mirror is fogged over, hiding his reflection. He wipes at it with the side of his hand. His own face stares back at him, beads of water trailing down his jaw, his dark eyes unreadable.
For a moment, he hesitates.
Something about his reflection unsettles him.
Not in a way he can explain. Not in a way that makes sense.
His fingers twitch at his sides before he exhales and looks away, reaching for the towel draped over the rack.
Routine. That's all this is.
A normal morning.
He dresses swiftly—black slacks, a simple grey button-up. His hands move through the motions, tucking in fabric, adjusting his sleeves. But when he reaches for the last button at his collar, his fingers tremble.
He stills.
The shake is subtle, barely noticeable.
But he notices.
His breath hitches, and he lowers his hands to his sides, watching them for a moment. The tremor fades just as quickly as it came. His jaw tightens.
Maybe he's just hungry.
That's it.
Nothing else.
He moves to the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. The bitter scent fills the air, grounding him in familiarity. He leans against the counter as he takes a sip, the warmth spreading through his chest. The cup rests easily in his hands, steady now.
Good.
His phone buzzes on the counter.
He glances at it—just a notification from a group chat he rarely engages in. He doesn't bother reading it. His attention shifts to the window, the morning sky still a dull grey, the city coming to life beyond the glass.
Routine.
That's what he needs.
He grabs his bag, his coat, slipping his phone into his pocket as he steps out into the hallway. The air outside is crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain from the night before. His steps are quiet against the pavement, the city humming around him as it always does.
The bus stop is the same as it was yesterday. And the day before that.
A student leans against the railing, scrolling through his phone. An older woman adjusts the groceries in her cart, shifting the weight of the bags. A man in a suit checks his watch, exhaling in quiet impatience.
Nothing has changed.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
So why does it feel like something is wrong?
Ji-ho tightens his grip on the strap of his bag. His eyes flicker across the street, watching the storefronts light up one by one. The coffee shop he passes every morning has just opened its doors, the scent of roasted beans curling into the air. The shopkeeper outside the convenience store is stacking boxes, pausing to nod at a familiar customer.
He knows these sights.
These people.
This city.
And yet—
His chest tightens.
It's like walking into a room you've lived in for years, only to find that something—something small, something imperceptible—has been moved. Like the air itself is rearranged, bending just slightly wrong.
Ji-ho exhales, forcing himself to look away.
This is ridiculous.
He's just tired.
That's all.
He boards the bus when it arrives, taking his usual seat near the window. The city passes by in a blur of neon signs and early commuters. He watches them absently, his reflection faintly visible in the glass.
His own face looks back at him, slightly distorted by the movement of the bus.
For a brief second, he swears it looks like his reflection is watching him.
And then the moment is gone.
Ji-ho presses his fingers to his temple, shutting his eyes.
This is just another day.
Another morning.
Another routine.
But somehow, it feels like something is beginning to crack.
As the bus slows at his stop, Ji-ho hesitates for a fraction of a second before stepping off. The weight in his chest lingers, but he shakes it off, adjusting his bag strap. He walks toward the bookstore, feet moving automatically—until a quiet thought surfaces in the back of his mind.
The bookstore is a twenty-minute walk from his apartment.
So why did he take the bus?
The bell above the door chimes softly as Ji-ho steps inside.
The warm scent of paper and ink greets him—a familiar comfort. The bookstore is quiet, as it always is in the morning, the shelves casting long shadows under the soft glow of overhead lights. It should feel normal. Routine.
But something feels slightly off.
He shakes it off as he moves to the staff area, slipping his bag into the small locker and pulling out his name tag. Yoon Ji-ho. The letters stare back at him, crisp and clear. He pins it to his shirt before heading to the front counter.
"Joeun achimieyo." (Good morning.)
One of his coworkers greets him, barely looking up from where he's rearranging the receipt booklets.
Ji-ho forces a small smile. "Joeun achimieyo."
The store begins to wake. The slow trickle of customers starts—some browsing aimlessly, some with purpose. Ji-ho moves through the motions. Restocking shelves. Answering inquiries. Scanning books. His hands work on autopilot. His voice repeats the same polite phrases.
Then—
A woman enters, her coat damp from the lingering morning mist. She walks with quiet confidence, her eyes scanning the shelves before she approaches the counter.
"Silryehaeyo." (Excuse me?)
Her voice is light, polite. Ji-ho straightens slightly.
"Yes, how can I help you?"
"Do you have The House with No Doors?"
Ji-ho doesn't even think. He turns, steps toward the aisle, and reaches for the exact book without hesitation. The weight of it settles into his palm before he even registers the title.
The woman watches with mild surprise. She tilts her head slightly as she takes the book from his hands.
"Jonghwaki odie inneunji algo gyesyotkkunnyo." (You knew exactly where it was.)
Ji-ho blinks.
His fingers tighten slightly around the book as something prickles at the back of his mind.
He doesn't remember ever selling this book before.
Doesn't remember ever holding it. Ever recommending it. Ever touching it.
But his hands knew exactly where to go.
"A, ne."Ah… yes.
His voice sounds thin.
The woman thanks him and heads to the register, but the sensation lingers—an odd, weightless detachment, like his body had moved without him.
He shakes his head, forcing himself back into the rhythm of work.
Later, another customer approaches. A man in his 30s, holding his phone as he glances between the screen and Ji-ho.
"Gwichanke haeso jwesonghajiman yogiso hwayangsijangeuro ganeun gajang joeun bangbobeul algo gyesingayo?" (Sorry to bother you, but do you know the best way to get to Hwayang Market from here?)
Again, the response is immediate.
"Go two blocks down, take a left at the intersection, then walk straight until you see a bakery with a blue awning. The market entrance is across from it."
The man nods in thanks and leaves.
Ji-ho watches him go.
Then—his stomach turns.
Hwayang Market.
He's never been there before.
He's never even passed by it.
He doesn't even know what it looks like.
Yet, the words had left his mouth without hesitation.
His pulse thrums in his ears.
Why did he know?
How did he know?
The answer doesn't come.
For the rest of his shift, the feeling clings to him.
Like something is slightly out of sync.
Like his body is moving through the day, but his mind is lagging just behind, watching, trying to catch up.
By the time his break comes, his fingers feel cold.
He flexes them slowly, watching them move—his own hands, his own skin.
But for the first time in a long time, a whispering thought curls at the edge of his consciousness:
Are they really mine?
Ji-ho stacks books at the counter, his hands moving mechanically.
The store is quiet. A lull between customers. The soft rustle of pages turning, the distant hum of music playing through the overhead speakers—it all blurs into background noise.
His mind drifts.
Then—
A flicker of something.
A sudden image, unbidden.
A man standing in front of him.
The faint sound of an apology.
"Joesonghamnida."
Ji-ho blinks, his fingers tightening around the book in his hands.
The memory sharpens.
The one-man protester.
The man with the sign.
His chest tightens.
The intensity in the man's gaze, unwavering. Searching. As if he had been looking for something.
For someone.
Why?
He hadn't thought much about it then. Just another stranger in the city. Another fleeting moment in a life filled with them.
But now, the memory feels heavier.
Something inside him stirs, unsettled.
Then—another memory.
The bookstore entrance.
His coworker calling his name.
"Yoon Ji-ho."
And outside—
The woman from that day.
Standing there.
Staring at him.
His fingers twitch slightly at the memory.
He remembers the way she froze.
The way her eyes had stuck to him.
The way he had cut eye contact first.
Stepped back inside.
Why does it suddenly feel like those moments were connected?
His mind pulls at the thread, but the thought is slippery. Just out of reach.
He forces himself to focus.
It doesn't mean anything.
They were just moments. Just coincidences.
He's just tired.
That's all.
Right?
Ji-ho's shift ends.
He steps outside, inhaling the crisp night air as the city sprawls before him—alive, pulsing, shifting with its usual rhythm.
The neon signs flicker. The smell of street food drifts through the air. The sounds of cars, conversations, and distant laughter weave together into the familiar urban symphony.
Everything is normal.
And yet—
His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag.
The day had been… strange.
Not in any obvious way, but in the small things.
The subtle disconnections. The fleeting, unplaceable familiarity.
His body had moved before his mind. His hands had reached for books he didn't remember ever touching. His mouth had spoken words that felt borrowed, not his own.
The woman at the counter. The way she smiled and said, "You knew exactly where it was."
The stranger asking for directions. How he had answered without hesitation, only to realise afterward that he had never even been to that place.
And then—the ghosts of memory.
The one-man protester. The intensity of the man's gaze. The unshaken certainty in his posture. Ji-ho had looked away first, but now—now he could still feel it, clawing at the edges of his mind.
Then, the woman outside the bookstore.
The way she had stood there, frozen. The way she had stared at him like she had seen something she wasn't meant to. And how, for some reason, he had been the one to break eye contact first.
Everything today felt like it had been nudging him toward something.
Like unseen hands were pulling at invisible threads.
He exhales sharply, shaking his head.
It's just exhaustion.
That's all.
Then—
His phone vibrates.
He slows his steps, frowning as he pulls it from his pocket.
Unknown Number.
A flicker of unease tugs at him.
He hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen.
A normal person wouldn't answer.
But Ji-ho—
Ji-ho presses accept.
Silence.
Not empty—waiting.
The kind of silence that isn't just the absence of sound, but something deeper. Something that breathes.
A slow, creeping chill snakes up his spine.
"…Hello?"
No response.
Then—
Soft humming.
Ji-ho stiffens.
The melody is delicate, almost gentle, threading through the silence like a whisper.
Something about it tickles the edges of his memory.
Faint. Familiar.
A lullaby? A game?
He tries to grasp it, but it slips through his fingers, dissolving before he can hold onto it.
His chest tightens.
The humming continues, slow and deliberate.
Then, a voice.
Soft. Too close.
"Don't look."
The call disconnects.
Ji-ho stops dead in the street.
"What the fuck is going on?"
The city keeps moving around him.
But he—
He cannot move.