Seoyeon couldn't sleep.
The wood grain in the inn's ceiling was faintly visible in the darkness. Insects chirped outside the window. It was an ordinary night—the kind of night Seoyeon had spent thousands of times over ten thousand years.
And yet, whenever Seoyeon closed their eyes, they went back there.
Outside the city gate. Beneath the pagoda tree.
That night, ten thousand years ago.
The scholar waited for sunset.
He sat in his room with a brush in hand, but couldn't write a single character. The ink dried, he dipped his brush again, and it dried once more. Nothing remained on the paper. The only thing left in his mind was her voice.
I'll wait for you there.
The scholar hadn't intended to go. He shouldn't go. There was nothing he could give her. A crumbling wall, barley porridge, the hope that he might pass the civil service examination. That was all. Standing before her with those things wasn't love. It was a sin.
And then the sun set.
As darkness fell, the scholar's legs moved first. His mind told him not to go. His heart told him to go. He had lived his entire life by his mind. He didn't trust his feelings, knew his place, and never stepped beyond it.
But on this night alone, his heart won.
The scholar put on his shoes. He opened the door. He walked down the alley. His steps quickened. Then he ran. He was out of breath. The poor scholar's body was weak, but he didn't stop.
The city gate came into view. The night watchman was dozing. The scholar slipped through a gap in the gate.
He saw the pagoda tree.
The tree stood beneath the moonlight, its branches spread wide, moonlight breaking through the leaves. No one was beneath it. She hadn't arrived yet.
The scholar stood beneath the tree. He caught his breath. His heart pounded. He thought of what to say—the words he had wanted to say since the day they first met. The words he hadn't been able to say even after ten thousand years.
Then he heard footsteps.
Behind him. More than one pair.
When the scholar turned around, he saw swords. Blades flashing in the moonlight. There were three men. Their faces were covered, but their clothes were fine. They weren't dressed like servants. Someone had paid and sent them.
The scholar knew who had sent them.
The first blade stabbed him in the left side. The scholar didn't cry out. The second slashed across his back. He fell to his knees. The third pierced his right shoulder.
The scholar collapsed onto the roots of the pagoda tree.
The men confirmed that he wasn't moving and disappeared. Their footsteps faded into the distance. The insects began chirping again. The moon still hung in the sky.
The scholar opened his eyes. He wasn't dead yet. Blood flowed from him, spreading across the dirt like ink. Like the ink that had spread across the paper.
How much time passed?
He heard footsteps. This time, there was only one person. They were hurried. Someone was running. They stumbled, got back up, and ran again.
"No."
A voice reached him. Her voice.
"No, no, no."
She came running and fell to her knees in front of the scholar. She took his face in her hands. They were trembling. Her clothes were torn, her hair disheveled. It was clear she had fought her way out.
"Open your eyes. Open your eyes, please."
The scholar opened his eyes. He saw her face, streaked with tears beneath the moonlight. The eyes that had curved like crescent moons were now wide as full moons.
The scholar smiled. The corners of his mouth barely lifted.
"You came."
"Don't talk. There's so much blood, so much."
She pressed her hand against his side. Blood seeped between her fingers. She pressed down through her tears. Even knowing it wouldn't stop, she kept pressing.
"If only I hadn't asked you to do this."
Her voice was raw.
"If only I hadn't told you to come. If only I hadn't been so selfish."
The scholar shook his head. Even that small movement took all his strength.
"My lady."
"Don't call me that. Please. Just once, just once, call me by my name."
The scholar looked into her eyes—the eyes he would never forget, even after ten thousand years.
"I..."
The scholar's voice grew faint.
"The day we first met, when you snatched my book away. When I asked you to give it back... the truth is, I didn't want it back."
Tears fell from her eyes onto the scholar's cheek.
"The day you stubbornly insisted on eating barley porridge. The way you frowned but ate every last bite... it was the most beautiful thing in the world."
"Stop."
"You came whether it rained or snowed. You came no matter how cold I was. On the days you didn't come, the riverbank was so quiet I thought I would go mad."
She took the scholar's hand. It was already growing cold.
"I wasn't being cold. I just had nothing to give you. If I let these feelings out, it felt like I would be locking you away in poverty. So..."
Tears flowed from the scholar's eyes as well. It was the first and last night he had ever cried, ten thousand years ago.
"You have to live."
The scholar spoke.
"You have to survive. Live well."
"No."
She shook her head.
"How am I supposed to live without you? What am I supposed to do without you?"
"You can live. You are someone who must do what you want. Want to live."
The strength drained from the scholar's hand. She clasped it in both of hers, as though she refused to let go.
"My name."
The scholar's voice was barely audible.
"Call it just once. My name."
She called the scholar by his name—a name that would be forgotten after ten thousand years, a name that had existed only in that time, in that lifetime. Seoyeon no longer remembered what the name had been. They remembered only her voice as she called it.
A voice calling through tears. Trembling, yet clear.
The scholar smiled. He closed his eyes.
And never opened them again.
She sat there for a long time.
She didn't let go of the scholar's hand. Not until it had gone completely cold. Not until the moon had begun to sink. Not until dawn came.
When daylight broke, she buried the scholar beneath the pagoda tree. She dug the earth with her bare hands. Her nails broke, and blood seeped from her fingers. Even so, she didn't stop. She was someone who had to do what she wanted.
She laid the scholar down, covered him with earth, and stroked the grave with her worn hands.
"I'm sorry."
She spoke.
"If I hadn't been so selfish, you would still be alive."
The wind blew. The leaves of the pagoda tree rustled. There was no answer.
She rose and walked toward the river. Her steps were slow. She wasn't in a hurry. They were the steps of someone who had already made up her mind.
She stood at the riverbank. The water flowed before her. As the daughter of a family that worshiped the Water God, the river was her temple.
She knelt facing the river.
"Water God."
Her voice was raw, but it didn't waver.
"If this person is reborn, please let him be born into a good family. Let him live without hardship."
The water flowed. The river was listening.
"Please don't let him meet me as someone he loves ever again. Even if we're only siblings, I'll protect him no matter what."
She bowed her head. Tears fell onto the river.
"Please."
She stood and looked down at the river. Dawn light was spreading across the water. It was a beautiful river—the river where she had first met the scholar.
She jumped in.
The water swallowed her. Ripples spread, then vanished. The river grew still again.
The Water God heard her wish.
Those who take their own lives bear the karma of the cycle of reincarnation. For ten thousand years, she was forced to repeat difficult lives. And her wish—"Please don't let us meet as lovers again"—was granted. In every lifetime, she fell in love with a different man, never the scholar.
The scholar's soul went to the celestial realm. He never saw her jump into the river. He never heard the wish she made to the Water God. In the celestial realm, the scholar made a pact: in exchange for retaining his memories, he would live for only one hundred thousand years before descending to the human world.
When he came down, she was gone.
Only the grave beneath the pagoda tree remained. The scholar's grave—the grave she had dug with her bare hands. There was no trace of her beside it. He couldn't learn where she had gone, or what had happened. He knew nothing.
The scholar—or rather, Seoyeon now—began searching for her.
For ten thousand years.
Seoyeon opened their eyes.
The inn's ceiling came into view. It was the same ceiling. The same night. The crescent moon outside the window was unchanged.
And yet their cheeks were wet.
Seoyeon wiped their cheek with the back of their hand. How many times had they cried in ten thousand years? They could count them on one hand. And every one of those nights had been because of the same person.
The illness shifted inside their lungs. Seoyeon felt its roots sink a little deeper.
Seoyeon stared at the ceiling.
They had decided to give up in this lifetime. They wouldn't search for her. They would quietly die of the illness. That decision hadn't changed.
It hadn't changed, and yet...
They remembered the eyes of the person they had pulled from the river yesterday. Eyes that had been burning even while soaked with water. The voice that had angrily shouted, "Who asked you to save me?"
Seoyeon closed their eyes.
That person had nothing to do with her. There was no way it could be her. Seoyeon had been fooled so many times over ten thousand years. That tiny thought—what if?—had brought them crashing down every time. This time, they wouldn't be fooled.
And yet they couldn't sleep.