Hwahyeon Kingdom — Gyerim Year 312.
A woman moved with unhurried pace, sweeping the floor in slow, deliberate arcs. Dust motes spun in the sunlight that spilled through the open windows, catching the light like sparks in still air. The silence that loomed the house was thick and undisturbed — a kind of silence that had become her companion over the years.
She paused to wipe her brow with the back of a calloused hand, then surveyed the main room. The wooden floor gleamed, the low table shone faintly under the afternoon light. She stretched, her joints protesting with familiar stiffness.
Despite the simple rhythm of her tasks, there was an air of refinement about her—graceful, well-kept, composed. Her robes were of fine silk in muted tones, the embroidery at the cuffs subtle but expertly stitched. Her black hair, gathered into a sleek coil, was fastened by a modest hairpin of polished jade. She carried herself with the quiet dignity of someone once accustomed to proximity with power, and though her household was modest, there was nothing of poverty in her bearing.
"Not bad," she muttered, resting her weight on the broom. "Only took half the day."
Her gaze drifted to a closed door at the far end of the room — older than the rest of the house, rarely touched, never opened. It led to the storage room. The one she'd avoided for what felt like a lifetime.
She stared at it, lips pressing together in thought. Maybe just a quick look…
Before hesitation could root her in place, she leaned the broom aside and crossed the room. The door creaked on dry hinges as she opened it, releasing a breath of stale air that smelled of dust and long-forgotten things.
The room beyond was a tangled archive of the past: wooden crates stacked haphazardly, baskets slouched with age, faded cloth bundles teetering in corners. Dust dulled the colors, cobwebs veiled the ceiling beams like forgotten lace.
She wrinkled her nose. "Should've done this years ago," she muttered and stepped inside.
Reaching for the nearest crate, she lifted—too quickly. It slipped, landing with a soft crash that scattered its contents: old robes, brittle papers, and a small, lacquered box sliding across the floor.
She crouched with a sigh, beginning to gather the spill.
And then she saw it.
Half-buried beneath a fold of faded silk lay a thick, leather-bound book. Its spine was cracked, the cover scuffed and worn. She brushed dust from its surface, fingertips pausing at the ghost of inked characters.
Chorae's Palace Ghost Records.
The title stirred something deep in her chest — a tightening, a flicker of breath caught between memory and regret.
It had been years. A different lifetime. One she had sealed away with trembling hands and a firm resolve.
Her thumb hovered over the edge of the cover. A breath. A smile, faint and fleeting.
"This brings back memories…"
She opened the book.
And the past came rushing in.