Chapter 4: The First Death
The abandoned shrine emerges from the trees like a bone half-buried in earth.
Wooden beams sag under decades of rain. Moss drips from the eaves. A rusted bell hangs silent in the alcove. But your eyes go straight to the back—where a circular stone well squats beneath a tangle of vines, its wooden lid rotting and splintered.
The air drops twenty degrees as you approach.
You grip the shovel in one hand, the flashlight in the other. The lid comes off with a groan. Dark water stares back at you, still as glass. At the bottom, something glows—faint, amber, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
"Hello?" Your voice echoes down the stone walls.
For a long moment, nothing.
Then the water ripples. A shape rises from the depths—not a body, but a face formed from shadow and reflected light. No gender. No age. Eyes like empty sockets.
"You came." The voice is ancient, dry as fallen leaves. "I wondered how many petals would fall before you found me."
The spirit knows about the diary. It knows about Byulseo. It probably wrote the modern Korean line itself.
"Who are you?" you ask.
"I am the keeper of the vow. The one who granted your bride her second chance. And her third. And her fourth." The face tilts. "Do you know how many times she has found you?"
You shake your head.
"Seventeen lives. Seventeen times she has searched for you, loved you, lost you. And seventeen times she has returned to this forest, weeping, begging to forget so she could start again." The spirit's voice softens, almost pitying. "She is tired. More tired than you can imagine."
Your chest aches. "Then let her go. Let her stay."
"It is not so simple. A vow was made. A price was paid. To break it, something of equal value must be offered." The eyes narrow. "Are you willing?"
"Yes."
"Then first, you must prove your love is not simply guilt. Or loneliness. Or habit." The water churns. "You will relive her first death. You will feel what she felt. See what she saw. And if you turn away—if you flinch—the offer is withdrawn. Do you accept?"
You swallow. "Yes."
The well erupts.
Cold water wraps around your ankles, your knees, your chest. You try to scream, but water fills your mouth, your lungs—
Then you are somewhere else.
A forest, but different. Older. The trees are younger, thinner. No house. No village. Just a dirt path and a woman slumped against an oak.
Byulseo.
But not the Byulseo you know. This woman has the same face, the same light red hair, but she wears a hanbok of deep violet, and her cheeks are flushed with fever. Blood soaks through the fabric at her side—a wound from an animal, or a bandit, or a fall.
You try to run to her. Your feet will not move. You are a ghost here, watching.
A traveler kneels beside her. Young. Dark hair. Kind eyes. Your eyes.
The original you.
"Stay with me," the traveler says, pressing a cloth to her wound. "Help is coming."
Byulseo smiles, weak. "There is no help. Not for me."
"There is always help."
She reaches up and touches his face. "You are kind. I wish I had met you sooner."
The traveler's hands shake. "Don't talk like that."
But her eyes are already glazing. Her breathing slows.
Then the air changes. The forest dims. A shape emerges from the shadows—the same face from the well, but solid now, dressed in grey robes.
"I can save her," the spirit says. "But there is a price."
The traveler looks up, desperate. "Anything."
"She will live. But her soul will be bound to these woods. She will find you again, life after life, but each reunion will end the same. She will fade. She will return here. And she will forget—until the next time."
The traveler hesitates. "She won't remember me?"
"She will remember enough to search. But not enough to be happy." The spirit tilts its head. "Do you still accept?"
The traveler looks at Byulseo—her pale face, her slowing breath. Then he nods.
"Yes."
The spirit touches Byulseo's forehead. She gasps. Color floods back to her cheeks. Her wound closes. But something else changes—a light behind her eyes dims, replaced by a distant sadness that never leaves.
The traveler holds her as she wakes. She looks at him with love, but also confusion. As if she recognizes him from a dream she cannot quite recall.
And you, watching from outside, realize the truth.
The spirit did not just grant a wish. It took something from her. Something essential. And now, seventeen lives later, Byulseo is still missing that piece.
The water recedes.
You are back at the well, on your knees, gasping. Tears stream down your face. The spirit watches, impassive.
"You endured," it says. "Few do."
"Who are you?" you ask, voice raw. "Really?"
The spirit is silent for a long moment. Then its form shifts—the robes soften, the face becomes rounder, younger. A woman's face. Familiar.
Byulseo's face.
But colder. Harder. Without warmth.
"I am what she left behind," the spirit says. "The part of her that could not love. The part that made the deal. When she became bound to these woods, I was born from her grief. I am the keeper. And I am also… her."
You stare. "You're Byulseo."
"I am what Byulseo sacrificed to be with you." The spirit's voice cracks—just once. "She gave up her ruthlessness. Her ability to walk away. Her selfishness. All the ugly pieces that would have let her survive without you. I am those pieces. And I have watched her love you, life after life, while I rot in this well."
You don't know what to say.
The spirit turns away. "There is a way to break the cycle. To make her whole. To let her stay with you—truly stay, not as a fading ghost."
"How?"
"You must reunite her with me. She must accept the piece she abandoned. But if she does…" The spirit meets your eyes. "She will remember everything. Every death. Every loss. Every lifetime of grief. And she will become someone new. Someone who might not love you the same."
The words hang in the cold air.
"You have three days," the spirit says. "Bring her here. Or watch the last petal fall."
Then it sinks back into the well, and the water goes still.
You run.
Branches whip your face. Roots grab your feet. But you do not stop until you burst through the garden gate.
The violet rose bush stands in moonlight. Twenty-eight petals now. Two more fallen while you were gone.
Byulseo waits on the porch, wrapped in a blanket. Her form flickers—translucent, fading.
"What happened?" she asks, seeing your face.
You take her cold hands. "I know how to save you. But you have to come with me. And you have to meet someone."
"Who?"
Your throat tightens. "Yourself."
Author's Note:
Chapter 5 coming soon. The choice approaches.
New chapters will be posted every Tuesdays and Fridays, 21.00 PM (GMT +8 - Malaysia Standard Time).
If you're enjoying the story, please consider leaving a rating or comment.
— Ha Ru Kim.
