"And that..." Ms. Jang's voice trailed like smoke, thin and slow, as she lowered the small book in her hands. The leather cover creaked softly— aged, weathered, almost breathing. Its black surface was pitted with scars, the lock at its side rusted shut long ago, though none of the children ever saw it opened.
With a motion too careful, too deliberate, she pressed it closed.
Thump.
A sound not loud— but final. Reverent. Like a casket lid sealing.
"— was the story of how Shingen, the demon, was defeated by the forces of justice."
Her words hung in the air, stagnant and heavy, like incense burned too long in a sealed room.
The room did not move. The air was not breathable.
The silence that followed wasn't born of awe or wonder. It was deeper. Deader.
A pause pulled tight with invisible thread, stitched at the corners with something too quiet to name. The children's eyes stayed fixed on the book— not blinking. Not yet.
Some clutched their crayons like blades. Others sat slack, their drawings forgotten, their fingers twitching ever so slightly as if something inside them stirred, remembering an ending that had come too soon.
And Ms. Jang only smiled.
Not kindly. Not coldly. Just… knowingly. As if what she said wasn't the ending at all. Only the part that could be spoken aloud.
The air in the room did not settle. It thickened, pressing into small lungs and narrow ribcages with something unseen, something unspoken. The children's eyes clung to the book's frayed edges, their fingers suspended mid-motion— crayons hovering above paper, colors halted in incomplete forms. A few just stared ahead, eyes wide and glassy, reflecting something deeper than simple curiosity.
Then, the voices began.
"That was scary… Is Shingen really gone, teacher?" a girl asked. Her voice wavered, and she tugged at the sleeve of her shirt as if fabric alone might protect her.
"I liked when the angel came back after being torn to pieces. That was awesome."
The boy's voice rang with something far too excited, far too eager. There was no discomfort, no second thought. His grin stretched unnaturally wide, too many teeth for a face so small, like he was trying to mimic what joy was supposed to look like— but something in him had learned wrong. His fingers twitched, like they were rehearsing a memory, grasping for something soft, something that once broke in his hands.
The classroom did not return to the low buzz of ordinary children. The air hung crooked, uneven. Voices rippled out in waves, jittery and too quick. Some giggled, but the sound was thin, like paper tearing. A performance of delight stretched too tight.
Others stayed still. Their hands curled into fists on the table, trembling against the urge to move. They didn't look under their desks, but their gazes hovered there, just above the shadows, afraid that meeting them directly might make them move. Might make them real.
One child exhaled a sound that barely passed for breath, as if anything louder might wake something sleeping just beneath the floorboards. And still, the boy with the too-wide grin sat. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. His fingers flexed. His smile had not faded.
Ms. Jang's smile barely held. It was stretched thin, the way something might peel across old porcelain. It didn't reach her eyes. It looked like it had been sewn there.
"Now, now. Don't be afraid. He's long gone, okay?"
Her voice was soft, too soft. The kind that belonged in a nursery, not a classroom. Each word polished smooth, the edges rounded off like a stone in a child's mouth. Yet something in them echoed wrong— like the lullaby of something that had only ever watched humans from the other side of the glass.
Her gaze turned to the back of the room.
"Taejun?"
He didn't look up. His chin stayed low. Shoulders hunched. Hands locked tight to the edge of the desk. His knuckles had gone pale, pressing hard enough to make the skin stretch, near splitting.
The air changed. Again. Not thicker. Heavier.
Like a room filling with water, breath after breath, the fluorescent lights seemed to dull. The walls felt closer, as if the room was holding them in place, watching.
Ms. Jang's eyes moved, sweeping past the last row. She didn't stop. She didn't see him.
The question unraveled as if it had never been asked. Like a strand snipped short and dropped into nothing. And then, it was over.
She clapped her hands, and the sound cracked through the room like a snapped bone.
"Alright, class! Time to clean up! Put away your crayons and get ready for our next activity."
The noise came rushing back. Chairs scraping. Pencil boxes closing. Paper rustling like dry leaves. Movement returned too fast, like the room had been holding its breath.
But whatever had arrived during the silence had not left. It lingered. It curled beneath the tables, slipped between small shoes, and settled into the backs of their necks like a cold fingertip tracing the edge of a spine.
In the corner, Taejun had not moved. The crayon in his hand had bled into the page. The paper had torn. The wax was thick and dark, sinking deep into the fibers. The wound he made on the page did not look like a line anymore.
It looked like an opening. And from inside it, something stared back. This time, Taejun did not look away.
Before things took their current turn--
Year 2009
Haeoreum Elementary School, 176 Yongho-ro 3-gil, Yongho-dong, Nam-gu, Busan, South Korea.
Room 205, Class 1-2.
The classroom brimmed with light— an almost too-perfect light. Sunlight spilled through the windows in wide, golden rivers that slashed across the polished floor, reaching deep into corners where shadows should have claimed their place. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams, suspended mid-air like time had hiccupped. There was a warmth to it, yes, but not the kind that brought comfort. It was the kind that felt... watched. Staged. The kind that coated your skin but couldn't quite reach the bones beneath.
Everything smelled clean. Too clean. Like antiseptic layered over aging wood, masking something older that refused to rot. The scent of new paper, unopened glue sticks, and something faintly metallic curled through the air— barely noticeable unless you breathed in too deep.
At the front of the room stood Ms. Jang. Her figure was elegant, unshaken, almost sculptural. Every part of her posture was deliberate— her spine straight, her chin slightly lifted, her arms perfectly folded with a clipboard resting like an extension of her. Her smile sat on her face like something pinned there, practiced too many times to be real. There was no falter. No twitch of nervousness. No sign of anything truly human.
Then came the creak.
The classroom door eased open with the sound of warped wood surrendering. Children stepped through in uneven clusters, shoes squeaking against the floor as they clung to their backpacks like shields. Their eyes were wide, bouncing between unfamiliar desks and unfamiliar faces. The noise they made was soft and hesitant, like they were afraid of breaking something fragile just by existing.
Parents stood in the hallway— ghosts behind glass. Some waved. Some smiled too hard. None of them crossed the line between the hallway and the classroom. The door closed with a quiet click. And suddenly, the children were alone.
"Good morning, everyone!" Ms. Jang's voice unfurled with gentle brightness, rising like a bell that had been struck exactly once. "Welcome to your first day of school! My name is Ms. Jang, and I'll be your teacher this year."
The words should've been reassuring. They were not. They hung in the air like nursery rhymes whispered under a bed.
"Come in and find a seat anywhere," she continued, her tone light and even. "We'll choose official seats later."
They moved— some quickly, eager to fill space with noise and color. Laughter broke out in small, uncertain bursts. Others hesitated, their steps measured, eyes darting from table to table like each seat held the weight of some silent decision. The screech of chairs dragging across linoleum made the hairs on some necks rise, though no one knew why.
And then— he appeared.
Shin Taejun.
He entered with a stillness that didn't belong in a room full of children. His footsteps made no sound, but he wasn't sneaking. He wasn't shy. He moved with the kind of grace that came not from confidence but from repetition. Like he'd done this before. Like he knew exactly how the moment would unfold.
His uniform was pristine, creased with precision. His shoes were gleaming. His face was unreadable. He walked past the others without glancing once, without even noticing the curious stares some children tossed his way.
He took the desk in the back corner. It was waiting for him.
He sat, folded his hands, and stared straight ahead. Still. Composed. As though the chaos around him didn't touch him. As though he wasn't part of it.
But inside, something shifted.
A throb deep in his chest. A silent pulse beneath the skin. Not pain. Not fear. Something older. He couldn't place it, not fully. It wasn't memory. It was… weight. Familiarity. A bruise worn too long to notice.
The sunlight touched his desk but didn't feel warm anymore.
Ms. Jang's voice continued, syrup-sweet.
"I'm so happy to see all of you here today," Ms. Jang said, her voice gentle and full of cheer. Her smile didn't flicker— not even for a second. It held perfectly as if it had been practiced in a mirror a hundred times. "This year, we'll learn so many wonderful things— how to read, how to write, how to be kind, how to share. We'll make new friends, laugh together, and grow together every single day. Alright?"
Every word fit perfectly into the mold of a script she had recited many times. The phrases fell like puzzle pieces that had been forced into place— seamless on the surface, but wrong at the edges.
She lifted the clipboard.
"But before we begin," she said, "let's get to know one another."
She began calling names, one after the other. Each child responded, voice small or eager or scared. They raised hands. They smiled. Some blushed. Some barely whispered their names aloud, like saying them made something too real.
Taejun waited.
His fingers trembled beneath the desk, hidden beneath his folded hands. He had seen his name on the list. He knew it was there. Second from the bottom. Written neatly. Carefully.
She kept reading. And then—
She passed it. No stumble. No hesitation. No recognition.
Her eyes slid across his row, and they did not stop. Her voice moved to the next name as though the space he occupied was already forgotten.
Taejun's lungs filled slowly and then froze.
His name had vanished. Or maybe it had never been there. But he had seen it. Hadn't he?
The voices around him continued— giggles, greetings, the crackling pulse of children settling into the shape of a new year. But it didn't reach him.
It was like the room had changed. Not visibly. Not loudly. But beneath everything— the sound, the light, the motion— something was now wrong.
The sunlight on his desk now felt oppressive, like the heat of something watching.
And deep in his chest, something curled. Not a feeling. A knowing. He had been forgotten on purpose.
Outside the classroom windows, beyond the warm haze of sunlight, the school courtyard bustled with the soft murmur of adult voices. Parents lingered by the gates or just outside the entrance to Building 3, forming small knots of anxious conversation. Some spoke in hushed tones, exchanging introductions, commenting on how tall the children had grown, how fast time moved. Their words floated gently in the air, buffered by nervous smiles and quiet laughter, like the last remnants of a life they were no longer allowed to hold onto.
Others stood still, gazing through the windows, straining for a last glimpse of their child. Their eyes didn't just watch— they searched, needing reassurance that everything would be fine, that their children would be safe here. That nothing would go wrong. That this place, with its bright walls and colorful drawings taped to the windows, would remain as innocent as it appeared.
Some had already walked away. Their shadows slipped down the halls, their footsteps fading down the stairwell, unaware— or perhaps unwilling to admit— that a piece of them had been left behind.
Inside, the world was smaller.
"My name is Jisoo! I like tigers!"
The words burst from her lips with the energy of someone trying to fill every corner of the room with their voice. Her eyes glittered, her fingers locked together tightly on her lap. There was too much eagerness in her tone— like she wanted to be liked. Like she needed it. She bounced slightly in her seat, her smile stretched too wide, as if held together by an invisible thread that might snap at any moment.
"My name is Minjae. I love ice cream!"
Minjae's voice was louder, pitched with the shrill certainty of a child who had never known silence. His face glowed with a kind of practiced joy, one that didn't reach deep enough to be real. He rocked in place, shoulders jittering with excitement, his fingers twitching in his lap like something inside him was trying to crawl out.
Each name, each voice, each carefully recited line added to the performance. A chain of perfect introductions. Flawless. Familiar. A parade of masks.
Taejun sat still.
His fingers curled around the underside of his desk, pressing into the wood. The pressure grounded him. Anchored him. He didn't speak. Didn't smile. His breath was too shallow, like something was pressing down on his lungs. The sunlight touched him like it did the others, but it felt wrong on his skin— too warm, too heavy. Like a spotlight meant to expose something he couldn't hide.
It wasn't just that he didn't belong. It was that he wasn't supposed to be here at all.
A loop. A cycle. Something that should've been broken by now. Something repeating again. Perfect. Seamless.
Except for him. He was the anomaly.
And then— a voice beside him, low and casual.
"Hey."
He turned his head slowly.
Hanjun. The boy's uniform was neat, but the fit was slightly wrong. Like he had outgrown it overnight. His shoulders were too broad, his limbs too long, like the proportions of a mannequin made to look almost— but not quite— like a child. He had a calmness to him, like he was older than his face betrayed. Like he knew something he wasn't supposed to know.
"What's your name?" Hanjun asked.
Taejun blinked. The question was simple, harmless on the surface. But the tone— something about it made the air contract around him, like the room had leaned in to listen.
"...Shin Taejun."
The name fell from his mouth, quiet and jagged, like a word torn from a sealed memory.
Hanjun grinned. The smile was too open, too easy, like it had been waiting. "Nice to meet you, Taejun. Let's be friends."
And something cracked. A shift, subtle but undeniable, rippled through the space. The air thinned. The fluorescent lights above flickered for half a breath, as though something had passed beneath them. The other children stilled for a second too long before moving again. Heads turned almost involuntarily. Eyes, once glossed over with routine, sharpened with new awareness.
Gasps fluttered like moth wings— soft, uncertain. Whispers passed between lips. A few children stared at Taejun like he had just been summoned into existence. Like they hadn't noticed him before, hadn't seen the boy seated in the back, hadn't heard his name or voice until just now.
Then, just as quickly, it faded.
The illusion of normalcy returned, sewn hastily back into place. The children resumed their chatter, laughter rising once more, but thinner now. Forced. Like someone had tugged the strings a little too hard.
Taejun didn't move. The moment had already passed, but it clung to him like a damp cloth. He could still feel it— something lingering just beneath his skin. A presence. A pulse. The world around him had shifted slightly off-center. It was the same classroom, same walls, same sun-drenched floor— but now the light felt colder.
And somewhere, not far off, a parent paused at the edge of the courtyard. Glanced back. Unaware of what they had left behind.
"Alright, class! Now that we know each other a little better, let me show you around your new school!"
Ms. Jang clapped her hands and smiled, her voice rising above the soft chatter. She sounded like she'd done this a hundred times— but not in a tired way. More like someone who knew all the stops on a train ride and couldn't wait to show them off.
A few kids blinked up at her, unsure if they should be excited or nervous.
"Line up by the door," she said, gesturing with a flourish, "hands behind your backs, eyes forward— like little ducklings!"
The chairs screeched as the children hopped down. Some moved quickly, eager to see what came next. Others lagged behind, still adjusting the straps on their backpacks or poking their classmates in the ribs.
"Settle down, little ducklings," Ms. Jang said, her tone light but firm, her finger raised—not quite scolding, not quite amused. "We're not a pond full of chatter."
That only made them giggle harder.
They lined up in a crooked row, bumping into one another and whispering loudly despite the "no talking" rule. Jisoo whispered, "I bet we'll see the music room!" while Minjae guessed, "Or the roof garden! My sister said it's got flowers bigger than your face."
Taejun followed quietly at the back. He didn't say much, but he watched everything— every swing of the teacher's ponytail, every bounce in the kids' steps, the way sunlight slid down the corridor floor like spilled honey.
Outside the windows, a few parents lingered. One waved with both hands, mouthing "Be good!" while another mom tried to snap a photo and got scolded by a security guard. Some parents had already left, checking their phones or chatting in small huddles by the gate, glancing at the school like they might come back for one last peek.
Inside, the hallway felt alive.
"Now, on your right is the nurse's office," Ms. Jang began, walking backward with a little bounce in her step. "If you ever get a scrape or a tummy ache, Nurse Min will help you feel better."
The kids pressed their faces against the glass. The office looked cozy— plush pillows, stacks of colorful blankets, even a little stuffed tiger wearing a bandage on its paw.
"Looks like a nap room," Minjae muttered. A few kids nodded like they were already planning pretend injuries.
"To your left is the bathroom," Ms. Jang said, gesturing toward the hallway door with her chalk still in hand. Her voice was steady, laced with just a trace of dry humor. "If you need to go during class, raise your hand first. No running. No shouting. And definitely no playing with the sinks."
A few of the kids giggled. She didn't smile.
"And absolutely no flushing the toilet twelve times in a row like it's going to unlock a secret level."
That did it. Laughter rippled across the room, not loud but genuine— shoulders shaking, hands covering mouths, the kind of laugh that didn't need to be loud to be real.
Jisoo, sitting up a little too straight, blurted out, "It wasn't me last year!"
The room erupted. Even the quieter kids snickered. A few turned to look at her, wide-eyed and amused. Someone whispered, "It was her," which only fueled it more.
Ms. Jang raised her brow, but her face stayed neutral, calm as ever. "Thank you, Jisoo," she said. "Good to know you've matured."
Jisoo turned red and sank halfway into her seat, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself.
The air shifted— still warm, but now laced with the buzz of familiarity. The kind of moment that made a classroom feel less like rows of desks and more like a shared space. A place with memory, with history, even if it was something as ridiculous as overenthusiastic toilet flushing.
Outside, the sunlight filtered in through the tall windows, cutting soft shadows across the floor. The ceiling fans creaked gently overhead, stirring the air just enough to make the papers on a few desks flutter. A pigeon cooed from somewhere near the window, and the faint smell of pencil shavings and floor wax hung in the room— familiar, grounding.
Ms. Jang let the laughter settle before speaking again, her voice now softer, as if easing the class back into rhythm. "Anyway," she said, glancing over their heads toward the far corner, "if you do forget the rules… let's just hope the toilet doesn't remember you."
A few final chuckles, and then the class settled back into the present, the kind of quiet that came from a shared joke and the beginning of something that wasn't quite comfortable but was on its way there.
The line wobbled but kept moving. The walls were lined with drawings— flowers with big eyes, smiling clouds, a sun that wore sunglasses. Some of the paper was old, curling at the corners, but it gave the place a lived-in feeling. Like the school had been collecting memories for years.
"This here is Room 207," Ms. Jang said, pausing mid-step. The children crowded behind her, their small faces peeking around each other to get a look. The door was plain, closed, a strip of yellow tape forming a large X across it. A printed sign read: DO NOT ENTER – WET PAINT.
"It's off-limits for now," she continued, voice casual, almost bored. "They've been repainting the inside, so if you smell anything weird around here, it's just that."
A few of the children sniffed the air.
"It smells like lemons," one of them said.
"That's the paint," Ms. Jang replied. "They always add scent to cover up the chemicals."
She moved on, expecting the kids to follow, but they lingered.
"Why's it so dark in there?" someone asked, pointing to the narrow gap between the door and the floor. It was true— the sliver of space showed nothing but pitch black.
"There aren't any windows inside," Ms. Jang said, not missing a beat. "Come on, now."
Most of the children obeyed, drifting down the hallway after her. But a few stayed back—Jisoo, Minjae, and a quiet boy named Sunwoo, whose eyes didn't leave the bottom of the door.
And then, there was a sound.
Knock.
Soft. Muffled. Coming from behind the door.
Jisoo froze. Minjae's mouth fell open. Sunwoo didn't blink.
"I heard that," Jisoo whispered.
"Maybe the workers are still in there," Minjae offered, but his voice had gone thin.
"No one's supposed to be inside," Sunwoo murmured.
Before anyone could respond, the knock came again. Fainter this time. Almost like… dragging.
Jisoo turned and bolted down the hallway, calling for Ms. Jang. She returned moments later, two maintenance men trailing behind her. One of them looked annoyed, the other curious.
"We sealed that room this morning," the taller man muttered, squinting at the door. "No one's gone in since."
"But we heard knocking," Minjae said, his voice firm. "Twice."
The man sighed and stepped forward. He tried the handle. Locked. Then crouched low, peering through the thin gap beneath the door.
"Empty," he said. "Lights are off. Floor's dry." He sniffed once. "Paint's cured too. Smell's still hanging around, though."
The tall man let out a tired sigh, his gaze drifting over the hallway like someone used to this kind of disruption.
"Now, now," he muttered, adjusting the strap of his tool belt. "Little kids shouldn't be hanging around here."
He scanned the corridor, squinting past the rows of lockers and bulletin boards.
"Where's your teacher?" he asked, his tone more puzzled than stern.
The three children— Minjae, Jisoo, and Sunwoo— glanced at one another. No one answered. Instead, they just gave small, uncertain shakes of their heads.
The shorter maintenance worker chuckled under his breath, but the tall one crouched down slightly, leveling his gaze with theirs.
"You three shouldn't be near this room. Go on— find your class. Before the ghost of this room catches you."
Jisoo's eyes widened. The man grinned, not cruelly, but with that rough adult amusement children never quite understand.
"And worse," he added in a whisper, "it might eat you."
That did it.
Minjae let out a startled noise— half laugh, half gasp— then turned and tugged on Jisoo's sleeve. She didn't need convincing. The two of them broke into a fast trot down the corridor, their shoes thudding softly against the polished floor as they headed toward a distant cluster of students turning the corner at the far end.
Sunwoo stayed a moment longer, lingering at the edge of the tape. His face was pale, unreadable. Something in his expression was still locked on the door.
"You too, kid," the taller man said gently, not unkindly.
Sunwoo blinked once, then turned and followed the others without a word.
Silence settled around Room 207 again. The two maintenance men remained.
Then— knock.
Faint. Slow. They both turned toward the door.
The shorter one frowned. "You sure no one's in there?"
"I locked it myself," the tall man replied. His voice wasn't as confident this time.
Another pause. Then came a second knock. Lower. Like it came from the bottom of the door.
They stared. Neither moved.
The tall man stepped forward finally but didn't reach for the handle this time. Instead, he knelt again and lowered his head to peer beneath the thin slit at the bottom.
Nothing. No light. No shape. Just the same strip of darkness swallowing the space beneath the door.
He stayed there for a moment, eyes narrowed. The hallway behind them was quiet now. The school had returned to its usual rhythm— the dull hum of voices, distant laughter, and the rattle of chairs.
But in front of Room 207, it felt like something had pressed pause.
The tall man slowly stood back up.
"Probably nothing," he said, brushing his palms together. "Old building. You know how it is."
The other man didn't answer right away. Then, from inside the room— a scrape. Soft. Like something dragging across the floor.
They both turned and stared at the door again. Neither spoke.
This time, no one joked.
He stood and brushed off his knees. "Could've been the pipes settling. These walls creak sometimes. Happens every year."
For a second— only a second— he thought he saw something shift in the gap beneath the door.
A shadow. A shape. A pair of fingers curling back.
By the time he blinked, it was gone. He said nothing. Just turned and quietly followed the others down the hall.
And behind them, Room 207 stayed shut.
Silent. But not empty.
"Over here is the cafeteria," Ms. Jang announced, stopping in front of the double doors with a light tap of her knuckle. "You'll be eating lunch here every day, so you'll get to know it very well."
Inside, sunlight filtered through the tall windows, pooling on the linoleum floors in soft golden shapes. Rows of metal tables were already lined up neatly, each with plastic trays stacked at the end. The air smelled faintly of steamed rice, metal, and disinfectant— the unmistakable scent of a school lunchroom before noon.
Behind the serving counter, two cafeteria workers in mint-green uniforms looked up from their prep. One of them spotted the kids and gave a lazy wave with her gloved hand. The other lifted her ladle and playfully pretended to bop the first on the head, earning a burst of laughter from the children.
"She's funny!" one girl whispered loudly.
"Remember," Ms. Jang said, leaning in a little, "always carry your tray with both hands, okay? And bow when you say thank you. The lunch ladies wake up before the sun just to feed you."
A few students gave tiny bows just imagining it.
"Are we having jjajang today?" someone asked hopefully.
"I want kimchi pancakes!" said another.
"No way. It's always soybean soup on the first day," a boy muttered with exaggerated dread.
Laughter rippled through the line. The kind that bounced easily from wall to wall, light and genuine. Then, without pause, Ms. Jang led them down the corridor again.
They passed a small art room next— its door propped open with a chunk of old clay. A breeze carried the faint scent of glue, dust, and crayon shavings. Inside, a teacher was wiping paint off a little boy's cheeks, and the wall beside them was already cluttered with chaotic child-made collages. Red glue sticks. Yarn bits. Glitter that somehow managed to get everywhere.
One of Ms. Jang's students pressed her face to the glass.
"Is that spaghetti hair?"
The teacher inside waved with fingers stained completely blue. Everyone giggled.
"Don't worry, we'll make our own masterpieces soon," Ms. Jang said. "But no eating glue, even if it smells like apple."
"Someone in my daycare ate glue and didn't die!" a boy blurted.
"What a shame. Still— no eating glue," she said, smiling.
Then they turned a corner, and Ms. Jang brought a finger to her lips.
"This is the library," Ms. Jang said as they slowed in front of a set of tall wooden doors with frosted glass panes. She brought a finger to her lips, eyes wide in mock seriousness. "We whisper here… or the book ghost might hear you."
The children looked up at her, blinking.
"The what?" one girl asked, her pigtails twitching as she whispered it.
"The book ghost," Ms. Jang said, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper as she crouched to their eye level. "She's very old. She used to be a librarian, but one day, she read so many books without ever leaving the shelves that she turned into one."
Gasps followed, Nervous giggles.
"She doesn't like noise," Ms. Jang continued. "And if you're too loud, she'll come out and shhh you so hard, your voice might vanish for a week!"
A boy in the back gasped, clutching his throat.
"She can't be real," another muttered, but even he was looking sideways at the glass doors like they might rattle.
Inside, through the cloudy panes, they could see the outline of tall shelves stretching toward the ceiling. The light inside was softer, warmer— a buttery glow that made the rows of books look older, quieter, like they were waiting. A single desk sat near the front, with a large ink pad and stamping tool neatly placed on top. Behind it, a librarian in a gray cardigan sat unmoving, hunched slightly as she flipped through a small, faded book. She didn't look up.
Even from the hallway, they could hear the faint tick of a wall clock and the soft rustle of a page being turned. Nothing else.
"There are thousands of books inside," Ms. Jang said, her voice still low. "Some are funny. Some are very old. Some… well, you'll just have to find out."
"Do the books move by themselves?" someone whispered, eyes big.
"Only if they're bored," Ms. Jang whispered back, eyes twinkling. "So make sure you read them once in a while. They like feeling needed."
That made a few students press closer to the door, peering through the frosted glass with hesitant fascination. A girl pointed at a narrow shadow between two bookshelves. "Was that… moving?"
Ms. Jang didn't answer. She just smiled and stood up straight again. "Oh, and yes— every one of you will get your own library time. Quiet time. And maybe, if you're careful, the book ghost will let you leave without borrowing your voice."
A hushed stillness settled over them, a quiet both excited and slightly wary.
"Come on now," she said, stepping away from the door, "don't stare too long. She doesn't like being watched."
As they turned the corner, the noise returned in bits— whispers growing into chatter, footsteps tapping a little faster. But a few still glanced back over their shoulders at the door, at the strange shadow, at the figure inside who had yet to look up once.
And behind them, from the dark end of the library, something made a soft thump— like a book falling… or a footstep on the floor.
On the way to the door, a girl tugged gently at Ms. Jang's sleeve.
"Like magic books?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"Maybe," Ms. Jang replied, her tone playful but even.
"Like ghosts?"
"Let's hope not," Ms. Jang chuckled, though her eyes flicked briefly to the library door.
The shelves behind the frosted glass were crammed tightly, rows upon rows stacked high like puzzle pieces— too orderly, almost too still. The door stood ajar, just enough to breathe. A faint shuffling echoed from within. The turn of a page? Maybe. Or maybe the air conditioner was shifting to life again, its hum slow and steady like breathing that didn't belong to anyone.
"Do we get library cards?" one of the boys asked."Even better," Ms. Jang straightened and
turned to the class. "You get more time."
That quieted the group. Not because they understood— but because something in the way she said it sounded like it mattered. Even the louder boys didn't say anything right away.
Then she crouched again, lowering her voice like they were part of a secret.
"This is where the book ghost lives," she whispered.
A few of them gasped. One girl let out a nervous giggle.
"What's a book ghost?" a boy in the back whispered.
"A book ghost," she said, eyes glinting. "He doesn't like noise. He doesn't like ripped pages. And if you return a book late… well, let's just say he remembers faces."
"Is he scary?"
"Only to kids who don't whisper. Now, forget about the book ghost and the next destination we shall go!"
She smiled wide and stood again, clapping her hands. "But don't worry! Most of the time, he's napping behind the history section."
The kids all turned toward the door, suddenly unsure whether to peek in or keep moving. Behind the glass, the light flickered faintly— just once— then held steady. A few children stepped closer, trying to peer inside without touching the frame. One girl shivered and backed away, clutching her sleeves. Another boy squinted, claiming he saw something move between the shelves. No one else backed him up.
"Okay, let's move on!" Ms. Jang said, ushering them with a gentle wave of her hand.
They turned the corner, the air shifting again as they entered a stairwell tucked between the hallway walls. The stairs were clean, wide, marked with brightly colored arrows and padded safety bumpers. A mural wrapped up alongside them— smiling dinosaurs floating with balloons, a lion in glasses reading a book, a rocket ship made of crayons blasting toward the fluorescent lights above.
"This goes to the rooftop garden," Ms. Jang said. "We won't go up today, but on sunny days, we'll have special playtime there. We grow cherry tomatoes and sometimes lettuce. There's a wind chime that sings when you run past it."
A small chorus of "woah" echoed from the kids. One of them asked if they could plant strawberries. Another asked if the wind chimes really sang or just made clinky sounds. Ms. Jang promised they'd find out soon enough.
Taejun stood at the base of the stairs, looking up— not at the mural, not at the ceiling— but at the dark space behind the stairwell railings. There was nothing there, of course. Just shadows. But the air felt colder here, like something had been moving just moments before.
A breeze tugged at his bangs.
He turned slowly, eyes following the class as they began walking again, chatting louder now— talking about wind chimes and ghost books and whether the rooftop would let them see the whole ocean. The hallway around them swelled with sound and light again, their voices skipping across the polished floor like stones across water.
Ms. Jang clapped her hands. "Back to Room 205, everyone!"
The line unraveled into loose, bouncing clusters of chatter and little feet. Backpacks bounced. Arms flailed in excitement. Some children ran, others shuffled— still whispering about tomatoes and book ghosts and if dinosaurs liked lettuce.
Taejun followed, slower than the rest. Not because he wanted to be last, but because something made him pause. The stairwell behind him creaked softly— as if it had exhaled.
He didn't look back. Not yet.
"Now that we know the classroom, let's talk about the rules," Ms. Jang said, her voice soft but firm, filling the space with an air of authority as she turned to face the board.
The chalk scratched against the blackboard, filling the air with a steady rhythm as she wrote down the rules. Each one appeared in neat, deliberate strokes— simple, yet essential.
1. Listen when someone is talking.
2. Raise your hand before speaking.
3. Be kind to your classmates.
4. Take care of your things.
5. Always try your best.
Ms. Jang glanced over her shoulder, her smile wide but her eyes distant, as if she were reciting words she had said too many times before. "Let's remember these every day," she said. "And if you forget, don't worry. I'll be here to remind you. We're all learning together!"
The children echoed the rules, their voices eager, rising in harmony. "Listen when someone is talking," they chanted.
"Raise your hand before speaking."
"Be kind to your classmates."
"Take care of your things."
"Always try your best."
Taejun stared down at his desk, the cool wood beneath his fingers. He traced invisible lines in the grain, his mind far from the room around him. The words meant nothing to him— not today. Not here. Not with these people. His hands moved almost mechanically, like the slow ticking of a clock he couldn't stop.
The noise of the others, their eager voices, seemed far away, like a hum at the edge of his consciousness. He was here, but not really.
Ms. Jang clapped her hands, snapping him back to the moment. "Alright, everyone! Let's play a quick game before we start our first lesson!"
A ripple of excitement flowed through the children. They looked at each other, eager for the game, some already wriggling in their seats. Taejun remained still, his body unmoving. He didn't need to be part of this game. It would pass, like everything else.
"We'll play 'When the teacher says,'" Ms. Jang explained, her voice light and cheerful. "The rules are simple. If you lose, you come to the front of the room. Ready?"
Taejun didn't react. He didn't even acknowledge the shift in the air. It was just noise to him. Another game. Another distraction. The others could play. They would play, and he would stay still, an observer, as he always did.
"When the teacher says, touch your nose!" Ms. Jang's voice rang out, and the children's hands shot to their faces in a flurry of movement.
The room erupted with giggles, some kids laughing because they'd been too slow to react. Others giggled in delight as they followed the simple command.
"Ah! You're out!" Ms. Jang laughed, pointing to a girl in the front row. "Come to the front!"
The class laughed with her, the sound warm and familiar, like the kind of laughter that comes when everyone's playing a game together. But Taejun remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the desk before him. He didn't move, didn't even twitch.
"Alright," Ms. Jang continued, her voice still playful, "When the teacher says, clap your hands!"
The children obeyed in unison, the sound of their hands clapping together bright and quick. Taejun's hands rested still at his sides. He didn't need to play. He didn't care.
"When the teacher says, jump up!"
There was a burst of movement, shoes shuffling against the floor as bodies sprang into the air. But Taejun sat, as calm as ever, watching them all.
"Ah! Taejun, you're out!" Ms. Jang called, her voice full of lighthearted surprise.
The room fell silent for just a moment. Then, the laughter bubbled up again, but this time, it felt different. The children giggled, but their eyes lingered on him, some confused, some surprised, some simply curious. Taejun remained unshaken, unaware that his name had just been called out in front of the class.
Ms. Jang's eyes met his, her smile softening, a little uncertain now. "Taejun, you're out. Come to the front."
He blinked, confused. He hadn't been paying attention. He had just followed their rhythm, like he had always done before. But now, all at once, the weight of the room seemed to press in on him.
Taejun stood slowly, his feet dragging as if he were moving through water. The laughter was still there, but it didn't feel the same. He could feel their eyes on him now— on his every movement, his every step toward the front of the room. It was a slow march, and for the first time, he felt every inch of it. The usual emptiness he carried, the space around him that was always his, now felt... smaller. The air was tighter, like the walls were closing in.
As he reached the front, the sound of their giggles faded into something quieter, something heavier. They weren't just laughing at the game anymore— they were laughing at him. Or maybe it was just curiosity. He couldn't tell. Either way, it made his chest tighten.
"Good job, everyone!" Ms. Jang said, clapping her hands to break the tension. "Now, let's get back to our seats and start our first lesson!"
The children shuffled back to their desks, some still giggling softly, some looking up at Taejun as they passed. He stood at the front of the room for a moment longer, as if waiting for something, but there was nothing.
He turned and walked back to his seat slowly, his footsteps muted against the floor. The world had shifted again. It wasn't the same now. He wasn't just watching anymore. They had seen him. They had noticed him. And that felt... different.
He sat down without a word, the noise of the room closing in around him again. But now, it felt like the space was smaller. Now, he couldn't escape it. He couldn't escape them. He didn't want to.
The children scrambled back to their desks, their voices buzzing with the excitement of the next part of the day. They shuffled papers, straightened their uniforms, and giggled with each other as the last echoes of the game faded. Taejun was the last to move, but there was no urgency in his steps. His feet dragged just slightly, like an invisible weight pressed down on him, each step slower than the last. The room had a way of growing heavier with each passing second, a quiet pressure that made every motion feel drawn out, too deliberate.
He reached his desk, lowered himself into the chair, and settled into his usual stillness. His gaze was fixed, but it wasn't on the others. He didn't need to look at them. His eyes stayed locked on the emptiness of his desk, the smooth wood, the untouched paper. Everything in the room hummed around him, but he didn't move.
Ms. Jang turned to the board and picked up a piece of chalk, the soft scrape of it breaking the quiet for a moment. The children's voices gradually quieted as they sensed the shift in the air. They focused on her, waiting. She began to write.
"Let's start with something simple today," Ms. Jang said, her voice warm and bright. "Let's practice writing our names! I'll write mine on the board first."
She wrote her name in large, neat letters: Ms. Jang. Then, she turned toward the class, eyes scanning them with that familiar, encouraging smile.
"Now, I want you all to write your names on your paper, just like mine."
The children immediately busied themselves with their notebooks, the sound of pencils scratching against paper a comforting rhythm that filled the room. The air was filled with movement— hands in motion, heads down in concentration, the eager whispers of children trying to form their names just like their teacher had written hers.
Taejun's pencil hovered over the paper, but it never touched it. His name was already written there— his identity, his marker of self. But today, the paper didn't seem to matter. The world didn't seem to matter. He didn't move, didn't react. His mind was far away, tethered loosely to the classroom but not fully present.
Ms. Jang walked over to him, crouching down beside his desk with a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, her voice gentle but insistent.
"Taejun, would you like some help?" she asked, her tone warmer than before, as if sensing something beneath the surface.
Taejun looked up at her, his eyes distant, unreadable. He shook his head, just a slight movement, but enough for her to understand. He didn't need help. He didn't need anything. The paper was still there, waiting to be filled, but he wouldn't fill it. He couldn't.
Ms. Jang hesitated for a moment, watching him with a soft, uncertain look. She didn't push him. Instead, she stood back up and moved to another child, her smile shifting back into its usual warmth, but Taejun could sense the flicker of concern in her eyes. She knew there was something there— something she couldn't fix. Not today.
Taejun's fingers curled around the pencil, the motion automatic, but there was no hurry. The classroom was a blur of motion, of voices, of life— and he was still. His stillness was its own kind of noise in the middle of it all.
When the writing activity ended, Ms. Jang turned back to the board, her tone shifting as she raised her voice to engage the class once more. "Now, let's practice counting together!" she said with enthusiasm, eager to lift the energy in the room.
She began to count, her voice bright and rhythmic, "One, two, three..." The children echoed her immediately, their voices rising and falling in harmony as they counted together. The numbers came in unison, a comforting hum of voices, their excitement tangible.
Taejun didn't join in. He just listened, his gaze once again distant, unfocused. The numbers rang out in the air like a rhythm he didn't need to follow. They were just sounds, like the wind brushing past him, meant for everyone but him.
"Let's try counting backward from ten!" Ms. Jang said, her eyes gleaming with a spark of challenge. The children cheered, clapping their hands in excited anticipation.
"Ten, nine, eight, seven..." they began, their voices growing louder, their faces alight with the simple joy of participating.
But Taejun didn't speak. His lips didn't move. His mind wasn't with them. In the back of his mind, though, he silently counted along. He couldn't help it. The numbers echoed in his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to speak them aloud, couldn't bring himself to join in. It felt like something out of his reach, just beyond the grasp of his words.
Instead, his fingers pressed against the smooth wood of his desk, feeling the coldness seep into his skin. He stared at his hands, watching as they gripped the pencil tightly, but there was no urgency in his actions.
"Great job, everyone!" Ms. Jang's voice broke through again, her hands clapping together as she moved on, her tone full of praise. "You did so well! Now, let's move on to something even more fun— let's do some drawing!"
She picked up a small, leather-bound book from her desk, its cover weathered with age but still holding an air of mystery. The edges were frayed, as if it had been handled countless times, but it held a kind of reverence— like an object too precious to be discarded. The children crowded around her, eager to see what she had in store, though they couldn't see the pages. Only the cover was visible to them, plain and yet somehow intriguing.
Ms. Jang opened the book slowly, the soft rustle of the pages filling the air. The handwriting inside was neat but personal, each word carefully written, as though the story had been crafted in private moments long before. Her voice rang clear and lively as she read aloud, each sentence carefully delivered, as though she were drawing the children in, one word at a time. The room hung on her every syllable, the children too caught up in her animated storytelling to notice that they weren't seeing the words themselves— only the magic in her voice, the life she breathed into the tale.
Taejun listened, but his eyes drifted away from her, staring out the window instead. The story was a blur of words in the background, the pictures catching his attention only for a moment before they were lost again. The world outside seemed to pull at him, offering something more real, more tangible than this place, this classroom, this game. He heard Ms. Jang's voice, her excitement, but it was like hearing a song in another language, one he couldn't quite understand.
When the story finished, Ms. Jang closed the book with a smile, placing it on her desk. "Okay, time to draw!" she said. "I want you to draw the character you liked best in the story or maybe your favorite part! Or you can draw anything you like— anything that speaks to you, alright?"
The children eagerly reached for crayons and paper, excited by the freedom of the activity. Some started sketching immediately, their pencils moving quickly as they recreated the characters, the scenes, the feelings from the story in their own ways.
Taejun, though, remained still. His crayon hovered in mid-air, but he didn't move. His eyes flicked from the paper to the children around him, their laughter, their quick movements. He watched them create, their imaginations working faster than his own could keep up.
He had nothing to draw. No inspiration. No urge. The paper in front of him remained as blank as it had been since the beginning of the day.
Instead, his thoughts drifted again, lost in a sea of noise, of color, of voices. And, as always, the room buzzed around him, but he was untouched, silent, waiting for something that didn't come.
The other children scrambled to gather their crayons, eager to begin their drawings. The room buzzed with their excited chatter, the clink of crayons being pulled from boxes, and the rustle of paper as they eagerly set to work. Their faces lit up with creativity, and the sound of their laughter filled the air as they compared their drawings and shared their ideas.
Taejun, however, remained seated, his hands limp in his lap. His eyes rested on the blank sheet of paper in front of him, the emptiness of it feeling somehow heavier than any drawing he could imagine. The idea of filling it felt pointless, an exercise in futility. What would he even draw? The words of the story, the images— none of them felt like they belonged to him. They were just things that passed by, things that didn't touch him in any real way.
Ms. Jang, with her ever-patient smile, approached him, kneeling beside his desk. "Taejun, would you like to draw something from the story?" she asked gently, her voice soft yet full of encouragement.
He looked up at her for a brief moment, his gaze unreadable, and then, without a word, he shook his head. He didn't need to draw. The paper would stay empty. There was no point in pretending otherwise.
Ms. Jang didn't press him. She simply smiled a small, understanding smile and moved on to the other children, not forcing anything, just letting him be.
But as the room hummed with the sounds of crayons against paper, something stirred within Taejun— something faint, like a distant, forgotten memory that fluttered briefly at the edges of his mind. But it was gone as quickly as it came, lost in the noise, in the movement of the others around him.
He was still here. But he wasn't really here.
The laughter and chatter of the other children felt like a wave crashing around him, but he remained still, unmoved. They were all so busy, so alive with their drawings and their little conversations. But Taejun sat like a shadow in the middle of it, his blank page a reflection of the space he occupied in the room— a space that felt so vast and silent, even in the middle of all the noise.
Ms. Jang moved around the room, offering help here and there, her voice bright and encouraging as she praised the children's work. She paused beside him once more, kneeling down to his level. Her presence was a quiet comfort amid the chaos around them.
"You don't have to draw if you don't want to, Taejun," she said, her voice soft. "But if you change your mind, I'm here to help."
He didn't respond right away. His gaze was fixed on the paper, his fingers resting lightly on the desk. He could hear the rustling of crayons, the soft scratch of paper, but it all felt so distant. His fingers twitched, just slightly, but it wasn't the twitch of someone about to pick up a crayon and start drawing. It was more like the slow stirrings of something long forgotten.
"Do you like stories, Taejun?" Ms. Jang asked gently, as if trying to draw him back into the room, to bring him back to life, even for a moment. "Maybe you can draw your favorite part of a story or your favorite animal?"
Taejun's eyes drifted to the crayon box on his desk. The bright colors were so vibrant, so full of life, and yet they seemed so far away, so unreachable. He didn't feel any need to touch them. Didn't feel any need to draw.
Ms. Jang, sensing he wasn't ready to engage just yet, smiled softly and moved on to another student who needed her help. Taejun remained in his bubble, watching the others around him. Their laughter was like a distant echo, their joy something he could hear but not touch. It felt like they were all in another world— one he couldn't reach, no matter how hard he tried.
Minutes passed, and the drawings continued to pile up on the desks around him— pictures of bright animals, colorful flowers, and heroes from stories the children had all taken to heart. Each drawing was a little piece of the children's world, their joy, their creativity, a reflection of who they were. But Taejun's desk remained untouched.
When Ms. Jang returned to collect the drawings, she paused at his desk. She didn't ask him for anything; she didn't press him for a drawing. She simply looked at him, her warm smile full of understanding, her eyes kind, patient.
"That's okay, Taejun," she said softly. "You don't have to draw today. We'll have plenty of time to create together later."
Her words were gentle, not demanding anything from him but still acknowledging his quiet presence in the room. Taejun nodded slowly, a small, almost imperceptible movement of his head in her direction. He wasn't sure why, but it felt like something shifted inside him. Like he had just been permitted to exist as he was— silent, unnoticed if he wished, but still seen.
Ms. Jang turned and moved on to the next student, but Taejun's mind lingered on her words. Something was comforting in her patience, something that made him feel like maybe it was okay to just be still. To not always have to participate, to not always have to fill the empty spaces with noise or activity. Sometimes, just being here was enough.
Then, suddenly, Ms. Jang sat down at the front of the room, her smile wide and inviting. "Do you want to hear another story?" she asked, her voice bright with enthusiasm. "This time, it's even more exciting than before!"
The children cheered in unison, their voices rising in eager anticipation. "Yes!" they all shouted, their excitement palpable.
Ms. Jang opened her book once more, the leather cover creaking softly as she flipped it open. She began reading, her voice full of life, each word spilling out like a new adventure. The children leaned forward, hanging on every word. The story unfolded, full of excitement and wonder, a world that seemed so far from the stillness Taejun felt inside.
But as the story progressed, something shifted. There was a darkness that crept into the tale, a shadow that stretched across the pages. The children fell quiet, their eyes wide as the tension in the story grew. The once-vibrant world of the story turned into something unsettling, something that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up. The room grew heavy as if the very air was thickening.
When the story ended, a collective shiver ran through the class.
Silence fell— not the usual quiet of sleepy attention, but a charged stillness, the kind that hummed in the chest and made the air feel heavier. The children, moments ago wide-eyed and engaged, now sat frozen in place. Some clutched the edges of their desks. A few glanced nervously at the classroom windows as if half-expecting something to appear outside. One boy slowly pulled his chair closer to a friend without a word.
A little girl near the front bit her bottom lip, eyes big and glistening. Another student buried their face halfway behind a coloring sheet left on the table. Even the usual chatterers in the back were silent now, the tension pinning their bodies still.
Ms. Jang noticed the shift instantly.
She closed the small leather-bound book softly, holding it in her lap like something fragile, and took a breath that she let out slowly through her smile.
"It's okay," she said, her voice light and calming, like sunlight through a thin curtain. "You're safe here. Shingen… is not here anymore, alright?"
The room didn't relax right away.
The children looked at her—really looked at her—searching her face for something solid, something real. Ms. Jang placed the book gently back on her desk and walked to the center of the room. She knelt down so she was at their level, her posture soft, open.
"You're all here in our classroom. With me. With your friends. And it's just a story. Stories can feel scary sometimes, especially the ones that surprise us, but that's all it is. A story… after all."
She tapped her finger against her chin, pretending to think.
"Hmm… maybe I told it a little too well, huh?" she added with a playful grin.
A few children cracked faint smiles. A couple exchanged small, relieved glances. One girl giggled nervously, and just like that, the spell began to loosen.
Ms. Jang clapped her hands once— not loud, just enough to shift the energy.
"Okay, let's all take a deep breath. In… and out…"
The children followed, some more eagerly than others. Their little chests rose and fell in an uneven rhythm.
"In again… and out…"
The tension unspooled slowly, like a tight knot coming undone thread by thread. One student raised their hand timidly.
"Teacher… was Shingen real?"
Ms. Jang paused, her eyes kind but unreadable. Then she shook her head gently.
"He's part of an old story, just like dragons or talking animals. Stories sometimes have truths in them, but not like the kind you see with your eyes. Does that make sense?"
The child nodded slowly, unsure but soothed by the softness in her voice.
"Let's draw what made us feel brave during the story," Ms. Jang suggested, shifting the atmosphere further. "Maybe something that made you smile. Or something you imagine would keep you safe."
That was enough for the spell to break.
A wave of motion returned to the room— hesitant at first, then gradually growing stronger. Crayons were picked up. Papers were pulled forward. A few kids scooted closer to their friends as they drew, whispering and glancing around, but the fear began to dissolve into scribbles and soft conversation. Laughter returned in little bursts, timid at first, but real.
Even Taejun, sitting quietly in the back, felt the tension shift— not in him, not yet, but in the space around him.
Ms. Jang gave the room one last sweeping glance, her smile never faltering, even as her hand lingered a little longer on the closed book on her desk.
Her words, gentle and soothing, brought a sense of calm, but the lingering chill of the story remained in the air, hanging like a thin mist that refused to dissipate.
The day moved on— more lessons, more games, more songs and crafts, and bursts of laughter that filled every corner of the room like sunlight streaming through old curtains. The children's voices rose and fell like waves, their excitement uncontained, spilling over with every new activity. At one table, a group broke into giggles during a game of word match, pointing at each other's drawings with sticky fingers and wide grins. At another, a pair of boys leaned close together over their notebooks, whispering secrets and daring each other to doodle silly faces on their spelling worksheets.
When it was snack time, the classroom erupted into a rustling storm of crinkling wrappers, juice boxes being stabbed with little straws, and crumbs shared between friends. They traded pieces of fruit and chattered with mouths half-full, laughing too loud and too often, the way only children could. Even the ones who had been shy earlier in the day now joined in, drawn into the gentle chaos like moths to a warm flame.
But through it all, Taejun remained quiet, orbiting the noisy joy like a ghost no one could quite see. He participated when expected and answered when called on, but never fully entered the current that carried the others along. There was a softness in his gaze, like he was looking through everything rather than at it. Even when they played a game where everyone had to mimic animal sounds— roars, chirps, barks— dche simply watched, lips unmoving. A little girl beside him nudged his shoulder with a grin, trying to get him to join in, but he only offered a small, tight smile before returning to stillness.
Eventually, the classroom settled again. The warm afternoon light had grown golden and drowsy by the time Ms. Jang clapped her hands at the front of the room.
"Alright, everyone! Let's talk about our favorite part of the day!"
She beamed, eyes scanning the sea of young faces.
"Who would like to share?"
Hands shot up instantly. A boy in the front bounced in his seat, waving both arms like he might burst if he wasn't chosen. "I liked it when we made the masks! Mine was a tiger!" He held it up proudly, the construction paper slightly crumpled from his enthusiasm.
A girl with glitter on her cheeks grinned. "I liked the singing part! I want to sing it again tomorrow!"
Another child blurted, "I liked the story where the frog turned into a prince and then ate a fly anyway!"
The room rippled with laughter. The excitement was infectious— overlapping chatter, spontaneous applause, gasps, and wide-eyed reenactments of their favorite moments. It was a patchwork of joy, stitched together by the genuine magic of their small experiences.
Through it all, Taejun sat quietly at his desk, his hands folded neatly on top. He listened. He always listened. But his eyes were distant, like he was watching the world from the other side of a window.
Ms. Jang's gaze softened as it landed on him. She tilted her head slightly.
"Taejun, would you like to share something? It could be anything. You don't have to if you don't want to."
The voices tapered off. Heads turned. Some of the children glanced at him curiously, others simply waited, not with judgment, but with that same open curiosity children naturally held.
Taejun looked up at her, then at the sea of faces around him. His mouth parted slightly. But no words came. There was nothing he could offer them— no favorite part, no joy he could hold up for inspection.
And that was okay. He gave a small, slow shake of his head.
Ms. Jang nodded too, like they had made a quiet agreement. "That's okay, Taejun. You don't have to speak if you don't want to. But know that we're all here for you."
Then the bell rang.
The room exploded into motion. Chairs scraped against the floor, backpacks zipped open and shut, children raced to find their shoes. Parents began appearing at the classroom door, waving to their little ones, calling their names. A woman with bright red lipstick crouched to lift her daughter into a hug. A father clapped his son on the back, ruffling his hair. Hands were being held, cheeks being kissed, sleepy yawns stifled behind tiny palms.
Taejun stood at the back of the room, watching it all happen as if from a great distance. When it was his turn to go, Ms. Jang approached him with the same warm smile she always gave.
"See you tomorrow, Taejun."
He gave a faint nod, then walked out of the classroom. No parent waited for him at the door. No hand reached for his. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look disappointed. He simply stepped past the noise, the warmth, and the bustle and made his way through the hallway.
Outside, the sunlight was thick with golden light. The sky above the schoolyard was turning orange at the edges, the clouds lit up like soft embers. Children ran to their parents, some dragging them by the hand to show their drawings or proudly wearing paper crowns from art time. One boy squealed and chased after a friend, still full of energy despite the long day. Parents laughed, exchanged hellos, and chatted amongst themselves while little ones tugged at their sleeves.
But Taejun walked past all of it. He didn't run, didn't call out to anyone. The sidewalk stretched ahead of him, lined with trees that rustled softly in the breeze. Their leaves shimmered in the light like they were made of gold foil. A few petals from a nearby cherry blossom tree danced through the air, brushing past his cheek before spiraling to the ground.
The noise of the school faded behind him with each step. His backpack sat snug on his shoulders, swinging slightly with his movements. Every step echoed softly in the quiet street as he moved alone through the world, smaller than the houses around him, quieter than the wind that blew gently through the spring air.
He didn't look lost. He just looked... apart.
But he kept walking. And that, for now, was enough.