“I didn’t order anything,” Haneul said, sliding off the stool.
“Didn’t say you did.”
The box was cold to the touch.
Too cold.
Haneul untied the ribbon with careful fingers. Lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay something warped and unrecognizable at first glance. Then the light hit it. A glint of metal. A melted loop. A singed leather charm barely hanging on.
Warped. Melted. The plastic charm blistered and bubbled beyond recognition, the ring twisted nearly shut from heat.
But Haneul knew it.
He knew it the way your body remembers pain even after healing.
He knew it because Minseok had given it to him the night they first crossed the line.
A stupid bear, once. Starry eyes, cartoon bowtie. The kind of gift that meant nothing, and everything.
Now it reeked of fire.
No note. No signature.
Just a scorched offering.
His stomach clenched. His fingers curled hard around the box edges, knuckles going pale.
He wanted to scream. Or run. Or throw it into the sink and turn on the faucet until nothing of it was left.
But instead—he closed the lid.
Deliberate. Gentle. Like sealing a coffin.
Behind him, Yul was already walking away, as if he knew the shape of ghosts and had stopped trying to exorcise them for other people.
Haneul set the box down on the counter. Pressed both hands against the lacquer and tried to steady his knees.
He didn’t tell anyone.
Just like the time he got the other “gift”, back in spring.
The charred page was still tucked inside a sketchbook drawer at home—its ink long since faded, but its silence louder than ever.
The keychain stared up at him like a warning.
And Haneul… did nothing.
He just… kept working.
Because he knew what this was.
It wasn’t a message. Not really.
It was a door creaking open.
Minseok wasn’t gone.
