She pressed a cold, damp cloth over her face—she hadn't slept—then washed up, combed her hair, and changed her clothes. She sat before the mirror and looked at herself. Exhaustion clung to the corners of her eyes, but otherwise her face was the same as always. Composed. Unremarkable.
The next morning, Cheongya made her way to Suyeong Palace as usual. She passed through the covered walkway, turned the corner, and walked the stone path where weeds pushed up through the cracks.
The front gate of Suyeong Palace came into view.
She stopped.
Her heart quickened. Until yesterday, she'd opened this gate without a second thought. Ihwa would be there. They'd fold paper, talk, and she'd go home. That was all.
Now it was different.
She knew that the person behind this gate was going to die.
Cheongya breathed in.
She gripped her skirt, then let go. Drew one more breath, and pushed the gate open.
Ihwa was sitting in the pavilion.
As always, paper rested across his knees, and his fingers moved in slow, careful folds. Each time the wind passed through, the paper cranes and butterflies hanging from the eaves rustled and whispered against each other.
Ihwa looked up.
He saw her with that clear, unguarded face—the face of someone who didn't know—and smiled.
"You came."
The same voice as always. The same smile.
Something dropped inside Cheongya's chest.
"I did!"
She smiled back. Lifted the corners of her mouth. The way she always did.
She climbed up into the pavilion and sat across from him. She looked at his face. His color was better than yesterday.
"What are you folding?"
"A flower. I was trying to make a danflower, but the petals keep coming out crooked."
Ihwa held up the half-finished paper. The petals were all bunched to one side.
"Let me see."
Cheongya held out her hand. Ihwa passed it over. She turned it this way and that.
"What if you fold this side first?"
"Then the inside gaps open."
"Hmm…"
She unfolded it and tried again, changing the order of the folds. The petals improved a little, but they were still lopsided.
"…Still crooked."
Ihwa laughed.
"I think being crooked might be your specialty."
"Is that a compliment or are you teasing me?"
"A compliment."
He said it with a smile, and Cheongya made a face.
"Liar."
"I mean it. Crooked is prettier. Anyone can fold something perfectly, but only you can make it come out like this."
Cheongya looked at him. He was smiling—playful, but genuine.
The same as always.
As if he didn't know anything. As if nothing had changed.
She looked down at the lopsided paper flower. Her fingertips trembled, just barely. She set her hands in her lap before he could notice.
"…Then I'll fold another one. Even more crooked."
"I'll look forward to it."
Cheongya picked up a fresh sheet of paper and folded. She pressed her fingers down firmly. She focused on matching the corners. When she focused, there was no room for anything else to creep in.
Ihwa picked up a sheet of his own. The two of them sat side by side, folding in silence. Wind moved across the surface of the pond. The paper boats floating on the water rocked slowly.
After a long while, Cheongya looked up.
"Oh—I went to the archive yesterday."
Ihwa's hands paused for a moment.
"Looking for books?"
"Yes. I promised, remember? That I'd pick out something you could read slowly."
She reached into her robe and pulled out two books. She'd taken them from the front shelves of the archive that morning—a collection of poetry and a book of landscape paintings.
"The poetry is by an old poet. Each piece is long, so I thought it'd be good for reading slowly. The painting book is mostly mountains, and you like pictures."
Ihwa took them. He ran his fingers over the cover of the poetry collection. He opened the painting book and looked at the first page—a mountain peak with clouds caught on its summit.
"…It's beautiful."
His voice was quiet. His eyes were soft as he looked at the image.
"Do you like them?"
"Yes. Thank you."
He looked up at her and smiled.
Cheongya smiled back.
And thought: *Will he get to finish these? He said he'd read slowly. Slowly means it'll take a long time. I hope it takes a long time. A very long time.*
She stopped herself. She knew what came after that thought.
"When you're done, I'll pick out more. The archive has so many books."
"Then every time I finish one, I'll tell you about it. What it was like."
"Deal. Promise me."
Cheongya held out her pinky finger. Ihwa's eyes went wide.
"…What is that?"
"A pinky promise. It's what you do when you make a promise. The servants at the mountain estate used to do it with me."
Ihwa stared at her outstretched finger for a long moment. Then, slowly, he extended his own pinky and hooked it around hers.
It was a thin, cold finger.
Cheongya felt the cold. She didn't let go.
"Promise."
"…Promise."
Ihwa smiled. Cheongya smiled.
The sun began to tilt.
Sunset light spread across the pond. The paper boats floating on the water turned red.
Ihwa had opened the poetry collection and was reading the first piece. Cheongya sat beside him, folding paper. She'd been trying for a flower, but it came out crooked again—this time five flat, lopsided petals.
"…This isn't a flower. It looks like a star."
Ihwa glanced up from the book and looked at her hands.
"It really does. It's a star."
"I was going for a flower."
"Stars are pretty too."
He took the paper star from her hands. He held it up against the eaves, sizing it up against the cranes and butterflies already hanging there.
"Can I put it up here?"
"…Sure."
Ihwa threaded a string through it and hung it up. When the wind came, the star swayed among the cranes and butterflies.
Cheongya watched it.
One lopsided star among the cranes and butterflies. It didn't quite fit. And yet, somehow, it didn't look wrong.
"I should go."
She stood and smoothed her skirt.
Ihwa rose with her. They walked to the wall together. As always, his feet stopped at the wall's edge.
"I'll come again tomorrow."
"All right."
He smiled.
"I'll be waiting."
"…I will!"
Cheongya smiled, nodded, and turned away. She passed through the gate and walked the stone path.
When she'd gone far enough that Ihwa could no longer see her, her steps slowed.
She stopped.
Bowed her head.
A tear fell—just one, dropping without warning.
She would come tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. She would have to face Ihwa every time with a face that showed nothing.
She breathed in. Out. Once more.
She lifted her head. The sky was burning red. The same sky as yesterday.
Cheongya walked on.
The same as always. Wearing the face of someone who felt nothing—and tomorrow she would come back here again…