The Dance of the Dead
The music thumped through the air, vibrating against Jiho's heart.
The festival was alive—people laughing, shouting, moving. Street performers spun glowing batons, food vendors called out their specials, and musicians played beneath a canopy of lanterns that flickered like artificial stars.
And yet—it felt like there was no one here but them.
Nari's fingers curled around Jiho's wrist, pulling him into the center of it all.
"Wait—" Jiho started, but his voice drowned beneath the music.
She turned to face him, her dark eyes gleaming with something too intense, too knowing.
Her grip on his hand tightened.
The world blurred.
And suddenly—they were dancing.
---
Jiho wasn't sure how it happened.
One moment, he was standing stiffly, refusing to move.
The next, he was holding her.
His hands rested on her waist, hers wrapped loosely around his neck. Their bodies swayed with the music, like muscle memory, like something he had done a thousand times before.
His heart pounded against his ribs.
It felt the same.
Like the last time they were here.
Like the first time they had danced together.
Like she was still alive.
Nari's eyes never left his.
"You're tense," she murmured, tilting her head. "Relax, Jiho."
Jiho clenched his jaw.
Relax?
How could he, when he was dancing with a ghost?
When her body was warm, her breath soft against his skin?
His fingers twitched against the fabric of her sweater.
She shouldn't feel like this.
She shouldn't feel real.
Jiho swallowed hard.
"You planned this, didn't you?" he muttered.
Nari's lips curled into a small, knowing smile.
She didn't answer.
But she didn't have to.
Of course she had planned this.
Jiho let out a slow breath, his body moving without thinking, without resisting.
Because what else could he do?
The music swelled around them, filling the space, drowning out his thoughts.
For a moment—just a fleeting second—he let himself pretend.
Pretend that this was normal.
Pretend that they were still together.
Pretend that he hadn't killed her.
His grip on her waist tightened.
Nari's smile widened.
"See?" she whispered. "Doesn't this feel right?"
Jiho's stomach twisted.
His chest ached.
Because yes.
It did.
And that was the most terrifying part.
The music pulsed around them, a steady, hypnotic rhythm that seemed to slow the world down.
Jiho's hands rested firmly on Nari's waist, their bodies swaying in sync, moving together like they had done this a hundred times before.
His breathing was slow. Heavy.
He had stopped thinking.
He had stopped fighting.
Because this felt right.
For the first time since she came back—he allowed himself to want this.
To want her.
To believe in her.
And for the first time, he truly realized it.
I love her.
He had always loved her.
And now, he could never love anyone else.
---
A whisper of sound caught the edge of his awareness.
At first, he ignored it.
It wasn't important.
But then—it grew louder.
Murmurs. Soft gasps. Stifled laughter.
Jiho blinked, his mind foggy, his body still moving with Nari's.
And then, finally—he saw them.
People.
Watching.
A small crowd had gathered near the edge of the festival square, their expressions ranging from amusement to mild unease.
Jiho's stomach twisted.
It wasn't until he caught a reflection in a nearby glass storefront that he understood.
He was dancing alone.
To them—there was no Nari.
Just a man, swaying in an empty space, arms wrapped around nothing.
Jiho's breath hitched.
For a moment, reality threatened to crash down on him.
He could hear it—the logic, the truth, the voice in his head screaming at him that this wasn't real.
That he was alone.
That he had always been alone.
That Nari was never coming back.
But then—her hands slid up his chest, resting over his heart.
His body froze.
Nari's warmth pressed against him, so real it stole his breath.
He felt her fingers. Her heartbeat.
He heard her soft laughter.
"Don't stop now," she murmured, leaning close.
Jiho shuddered, his grip on her tightening.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He didn't care what they saw.
He didn't care what they thought.
He wasn't letting go.
Because this was real.
She was real.
And he loved her.
Loved her so much it hurt.
So he held her closer.
And he danced.
Even as people whispered.
Even as their stares burned into him.
Even as the world blurred away, leaving only her.
Because in this moment, in this dream, in this illusion—
She was his again.
And Jiho would do anything to keep it that way.
The music had faded, replaced by the murmurs of onlookers.
But Jiho didn't stop.
His grip on Nari was firm, his body still moving, swaying, holding onto something no one else could see.
He felt her fingers trailing along his jaw, the warmth of her breath against his ear.
"Jiho," she whispered, soft, sweet, dangerous.
His pulse pounded.
Her presence was overwhelming.
Too much.
And yet, not enough.
Because as much as he tried to drown in this moment, to let himself believe—a crack had formed.
A single, nagging thought.
What if this isn't real?
His breath came out in short, uneven bursts.
The voices around him had grown louder now, less amused, more concerned.
"Is he drunk?"
"Who is he talking to?"
"I think he's sick."
Jiho ignored them.
But their words poked at the edges of his mind, prying it open.
And suddenly—he wasn't sure.
His grip on Nari's waist tightened.
"Jiho," she murmured again, tilting her head, watching him.
She was beautiful.
So warm. So real.
But now, as he stared at her, something shifted.
Something was wrong.
Jiho swallowed, his body stiffening.
His fingers dug into her skin—
But what if there was no skin?
What if this warmth was just a trick?
What if there was nothing there?
His chest tightened, a cold, nauseating fear curling around his ribs.
He had been so certain.
So sure.
But now, for the first time since she came back—
He felt afraid.
His fingers twitched.
Should he let go?
Would she still be there?
Would she finally disappear?
His breathing grew shaky.
And then—
Nari's hands slid up, cupping his face.
Her touch was real.
She leaned in, pressing her forehead against his.
And just like that, the fear disappeared.
"Don't think about them," she whispered.
Her voice was hypnotic. Soft.
She smiled.
"You don't need anyone else."
Jiho's breath caught.
Her eyes gleamed, dark and endless, filled with something he couldn't name.
Something he didn't want to name.
"You only need me," she whispered.
Jiho stopped breathing.
For a second, just a second—
He saw something else in her expression.
Not warmth.
Not love.
Not even possession.
But something deeper.
Something that had been waiting.
Waiting for this exact moment.
Jiho exhaled slowly.
His hands trembled.
But he didn't let go.
Not yet.
Because now—
Now, he was sure.
He was never leaving her.
And she was never letting him go.
------
Jiho sat at his desk, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of him.
His hand hovered over it, fingers trembling around the pen.
He had been sitting like this for hours.
Thinking. Remembering. Drowning.
Nari stood behind him, watching.
She didn't say a word.
She didn't need to.
Her presence was suffocating, warm, inescapable.
And yet, Jiho couldn't bring himself to turn around.
Because if he did—he might change his mind.
His breath was shaky as he lowered the pen to the paper.
Dear Eomoni and Abonim,
His chest tightened.
He had called them that for a year.
They had treated him like family.
They had trusted him.
Jiho swallowed, forcing himself to keep writing.
I don't know how to start this.
Or how to explain why I'm writing it at all.
But I need you to know the truth.
His hand clenched around the pen, ink pressing into the paper too harshly.
It wasn't an accident.
She didn't disappear.
His vision blurred.
His stomach twisted violently.
The weight of the words settled into his skin, heavy, suffocating.
He had kept the truth locked inside for so long.
And now—he was giving it away.
Nari's presence grew closer.
Her fingers brushed over his shoulders, trailing down his arms.
Jiho stiffened.
She was warm.
Too warm.
Her lips brushed his temple, voice soft, dangerous.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
Jiho exhaled shakily.
He didn't know.
But he kept writing anyway.
Because this was the only way out.
I killed her.
His hands shook violently.
But he didn't stop.
I pushed Nari off the mountain.
His breath came out in sharp, uneven bursts.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
His pen dug into the paper, pressing deeper and deeper—
Until Nari's hands covered his.
Jiho froze.
Her fingers curled around his own, steady, grounding.
Too real.
"You're making a mistake," she whispered.
Jiho's body locked up.
His fingers trembled beneath hers, his entire frame rigid.
But he didn't pull away.
"I have to do this," he choked out.
Nari hummed softly, her breath warm against his neck.
"But why?"
Jiho's pulse hammered.
"Because I loved you."
Nari smiled.
Her fingers tightened slightly over his.
"But I already forgave you."
Jiho felt sick.
Because she had.
She had never once blamed him.
She had never hated him.
She had only ever stayed.
Her fingers traced over his knuckles, his wrist, his pulse.
"You don't have to do this," she murmured.
Jiho's chest ached.
Because maybe she was right.
Maybe it didn't have to end like this.
Maybe—maybe he could still stay with her.
His breath trembled.
The pen slipped from his fingers.
And for a long, long moment—
He just sat there, letting her hold him.
Letting her win.
Jiho sat motionless, the letter before him unfinished.
The words he had written felt like a wound ripped open.
I killed her.
I pushed Nari off the mountain.
But now—he wasn't sure if he could finish it.
Because Nari was still here.
Her fingers traced slow, feather-light patterns along his wrist, her touch warm, familiar. Too real.
She wasn't stopping him.
Not really.
She was waiting.
Jiho exhaled shakily, gripping the edges of the letter.
"I need to do this," he whispered, more to himself than her.
Nari hummed, tilting her head. "Why?"
Jiho forced himself to answer.
"Because they deserve to know the truth."
Nari smiled. "And then what?"
His breath hitched.
"What happens after that, Jiho?" she continued, her voice soft, so patient. "You tell them the truth. And then?"
Jiho swallowed hard.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Nari's fingers trailed along his jaw, tilting his face toward her.
Her dark eyes gleamed, reflecting something he didn't want to name.
"You do," she whispered.
Jiho tensed.
Because she was right.
He did know.
This was his goodbye.
The letter wasn't just a confession.
It was his last act.
After this, he wouldn't exist anymore.
Nari's smile widened, like she could hear his thoughts.
"Is that really what you want?" she asked.
Jiho didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure anymore.
---
He left the apartment just before dawn, the city still heavy with silence.
Nari walked beside him.
She didn't speak. Didn't pull him back.
She didn't have to.
Jiho's fingers curled around the envelope in his pocket.
He knew exactly where he was going.
Her family's house was only a few blocks away.
The closer he got, the heavier his steps became.
His chest ached.
His hands trembled.
His mind screamed at him to turn back.
But it was too late for that.
He reached their doorstep.
Nari watched him carefully.
Jiho stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, at the place where her family still lived, still grieved her.
This was it.
His breath trembled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the letter.
He hesitated.
His fingers clenched around the envelope.
Just one more step.
Just one—
A soft voice whispered at his ear.
"Jiho."
His body froze.
Nari's arms wrapped around his waist, her breath warm against his neck.
And she asked him the question that would break him.
"If you leave this, will you leave me too?"
Jiho's stomach dropped.
His throat locked, his entire body going rigid.
Because he hadn't thought of that.
This wasn't just about confessing.
This was about letting go.
Nari wasn't just a ghost haunting him.
She was his only constant.
His only warmth.
His only reason to keep breathing.
His hands shook.
And slowly—painfully—he lowered the letter.
His breath came out in a sharp, uneven gasp.
"I…" His voice broke.
Nari pressed a soft kiss to his Forehead.
"You don't have to do this," she whispered.
Jiho's fingers loosened.
And just like that—
The letter fell from his hands.
The wind carried it away, sweeping it down the empty street.
And Jiho didn't chase it.
Because he had already made his choice.
Nari smiled.
She won again.
And Jiho let her.