It was already past eleven when Yoon Se-ri found herself standing in front of the building she now, somehow, legally owned.
The office—if one could still call it that—was wedged awkwardly between a noodle shop and a pawn broker on a crooked corner of Jongno-gu. The building itself looked as if it had been plucked from another era, a leftover bite of 1970s Seoul that had refused to crumble with time. It was three stories of brick and ivy, half-shuttered windows, and a front stoop with chipped steps that groaned when touched.
Se-ri tilted her head and stared up at the crooked "법률사무소" sign swinging from rusted chains overhead. One corner was missing a bolt, so it hung slightly askew—like it, too, was trying to shrug and excuse itself from further responsibility.
She adjusted the strap of her overstuffed bag on her shoulder and stepped closer, the soles of her low heels clicking against uneven stone. In her hand, she clutched the brass key the notary had handed her just three days ago after the reading of her late grandfather's will.
"You'll find everything you need there," the notary had said with a sheepish smile.
Se-ri had been tempted to reply, "I need cash. A working space. Wi-Fi. Not a haunted shoebox." But she'd held her tongue.
Now, facing the door with its oval glass inset and long-dead potted plants flanking either side, Se-ri sighed through her nose and turned the key in the lock.
It clicked—cleanly, surprisingly.
The door creaked open like it had been waiting.
The scent hit her first.
A musty cocktail of old paper, wood polish, dust, and time. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly—just… concentrated history.
The interior was dim, lit only by soft daylight filtering through slanted blinds. The reception desk straight ahead was simple, a honey-colored wooden slab with a brass plate that read Kang & Associates.
Se-ri's steps echoed across the floorboards. Her gaze tracked from the cobwebbed coat rack near the door to the stack of unopened mail slumped like a neglected child on the reception counter.
No dust had been disturbed in a long time. And yet, the air didn't feel stagnant.
In fact, it felt oddly... expectant.
She dropped her bag onto the desk and pulled out a large envelope—her official copy of the will, plus building transfer documents, and a lease agreement that would never get signed because the "tenant" in question had been dead for over thirty years.
The second floor, the will had said, contained the main office and personal study. Third floor—private residence. Everything belonged to her now, though no one had lived here since the 1980s.
Probably.
She took the stairs slowly, each one creaking with protest. The railing had a slight wobble, and the wallpaper—greenish with little golden swirls—peeled in strips at the corners like it had given up on itself. She paused at the landing, one hand resting on the bannister.
The door at the end of the hallway stood open.
Warm light poured through a window.
She wasn't alone.
She told herself that was stupid.
She stepped forward.
The office was... strange.
Not just old—preserved.
As if someone had dusted it just yesterday. A massive desk sat in the center, flanked by deep, leather armchairs. Behind it, towering bookshelves lined the walls, packed with thick legal volumes and framed newspaper clippings. A full ashtray rested to the side, though the room didn't smell like smoke.
The desk was made of rich mahogany, and everything on it was perfectly arranged—pens in a neat brass holder, legal pads stacked crisply, a nameplate front and center:
Kang Joon-ho, Esq.
She stared at the name for a beat.
Kang Joon-ho. Her grandfather's best friend. Her mother had mentioned him, once. A brilliant lawyer who died young. No wife, no children. Just... gone.
And this had been his office?
Se-ri walked behind the desk and ran her fingers along its surface. Smooth. She sat in the chair—it creaked but held—and leaned back slightly, looking up at the ceiling. There were faint cracks spidering out from the center.
Something buzzed faintly in her chest. Unease? Or... something else?
She turned her attention to the desk drawers. The top one stuck slightly but gave way with a firm tug.
Inside was a stack of aged case files, meticulously labeled in sharp, masculine handwriting. She flipped through a few—embezzlement, wrongful termination, one labeled People vs. Choi Hwan-soo in red ink.
Curious, she opened it.
Inside were court transcripts, annotations, a photo of a middle-aged man in a dark suit—his face blurred from moisture damage—and a sticky note in Hangul, slightly smeared:
"This is the one. The beginning and the end."
Se-ri blinked. The note felt fresh. The ink hadn't even faded.
She leaned back in the chair again, the file still open on her lap.
The silence deepened.
Then—something moved.
Just slightly.
A shift of air. A flicker in the corner of her eye. She turned her head sharply.
Nothing.
But the door, which had been cracked open, now stood fully ajar.
"Wind," she muttered. "Stupid, ancient building. Stupid emotional lighting."
She stood up, intending to close the file and head down to clean out the reception area. Maybe grab a coffee from the shop next door. Anything to shake off the weird, heavy stillness pressing down on her.
As she moved to the bookshelf, a framed photograph caught her eye.
She stopped.
In the photo, a man stood in a crisp gray suit, leaning against the same desk she'd just occupied. Mid-thirties. Hair swept back, black eyes confident, bordering on cocky.
There was something magnetic in his expression. Not exactly handsome in a classic way—but captivating. Like he knew more than he let on.
She read the brass caption below:
"Kang Joon-ho, 1985 – Youngest Trial Winner in District History."
Something in the room shifted again.
And this time, it wasn't wind.
The papers on the desk rustled. The air temperature dipped, barely—but enough for Se-ri to notice the chill on her arms.
The hair on the back of her neck lifted.
She slowly turned toward the door again.
This time, she saw the silhouette.
A faint outline—a shimmer, like heat rising off pavement. The shape of a man. Just for a moment. Just for one long, impossible breath.
She didn't scream. Not yet.
Because it disappeared as fast as it appeared. Like a blink. Like a thought you weren't sure you'd had.
She walked to the hallway, heart in her throat. Nothing.
Back inside the office—nothing again.
But the file she'd left open?
Closed.
Neatly.
Perfectly.
As if someone had tidied up for her.
By four in the afternoon, she had swept the bottom floor, reorganized the reception counter, cleaned out a filing cabinet, and thrown out three bags of ancient law magazines. Her nerves had calmed—mostly. She'd found a tiny Bluetooth speaker in her bag and had turned on a quiet playlist of lo-fi beats, trying to banish the weirdness with something she could control.
It helped. Slightly.
She sat at the front desk now, finishing a cold canned coffee, when the overhead light flickered.
"Don't," she warned aloud. "We're not doing ghost tricks today. I've got too much going on."
The light buzzed... then steadied.
She narrowed her eyes at it.
"Better."
Then something tapped.
A soft, distinct tap on the glass of the front door. Once. Twice.
But no one stood outside.
She rose slowly.
When she reached the door and looked out, the street was nearly empty.
Except for a newspaper.
Folded perfectly on the welcome mat.
She opened the door, bent down, and picked it up. The headline was bold:
"Justice Denied: New Witness Emerges in 1987 Kang Trial"
Her blood went cold.
There was no date. No barcode. Just... the headline. And a small black-and-white photo of the same man from the office wall.
Kang Joon-ho.
She looked up sharply.
And for just a second—just one—
There he was.
Standing at the edge of the hallway inside. Solid. Still. Watching her.
He raised one eyebrow.
Smirked.
And vanished.
This time, she did scream.