The staircase creaked beneath Se-ri's weight as she climbed, her bag brushing against the banister, her hand gripping it tighter than she needed to. The building groaned in quiet protest, as if unused to being disturbed this late at night.
At the top of the stairs, a single door waited. Old, dark wood. A brass doorknob dulled with age. No nameplate, no number—just the quiet hush of long-forgotten privacy.
She hesitated for a moment, hand on the knob.
Not because she was afraid of what was behind it.
But because she wasn't entirely sure what wasn't.
She turned the knob.
The hinges sighed, and the door swung inward.
The third floor wasn't large. A small square entryway opened into a narrow studio-style apartment: low ceilings, faded wallpaper with tiny floral prints, a worn futon against the far wall, a kitchenette with dusty countertops and a two-burner stove. The lights flickered once when she flipped the switch but ultimately obeyed.
To the left, a short hallway led to a small bathroom. She peered in—white tiles gone yellow, a medicine cabinet with a cracked mirror, and a sink that looked like it had survived several generations of teeth-brushing.
Still. It was warm. Private. And best of all—silent.
No floating lawyers.
Se-ri walked into the center of the room, her shoes muffled by the thin gray rug underfoot. She set her bag down by the futon and slowly turned in a circle, taking it all in.
Despite its age, the apartment didn't feel abandoned. Lived-in, yes. Worn. But there were signs someone had once made it a home. A ceramic mug still sat by the sink. A folded newspaper lay on a side table. A suit jacket hung on a wall hook, the fabric faded at the shoulders from years of sun exposure.
She exhaled.
Her shoulders dropped a little.
Maybe she'd survive the night after all.
It took her half an hour to shower. The water pressure was an insult, and she had to kick the faucet three times to get hot water, but it worked. She towel-dried her hair, slipped into an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants, and padded barefoot back into the main room.
She didn't unpack.
She didn't even plug in her phone.
Instead, she sat on the futon cross-legged and stared at the wall for a while, listening to the quiet hum of the building. The creak of wood. The occasional moan of plumbing settling.
She wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh, cry, or just... lie down and pretend none of this had ever happened.
Her eyes drifted to the ceiling.
Below her, somewhere, was Joon-ho.
Or... the idea of him. The echo of a man who should have been long gone. A ghost who spoke like a smug prosecutor and moved like he still owned the space he died in.
And somehow, she'd made a deal with him.
Her body, for his case.
Temporarily.
Allegedly.
Se-ri let out a long breath, dragging her hands through her damp hair. Then she leaned back, lay down, and stared at the ceiling until her eyes began to drift.
She was just beginning to slip into that blurry place between thought and sleep when—
tap.
Her eyes snapped open.
She held her breath.
Nothing.
Just the low hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.
Then—
tap. tap.
Soft. Delicate. On the window.
She sat up.
The window faced the alley behind the building. No fire escape. No ledge. Nothing for someone to stand on.
She stood, cautiously, and crossed the room.
Pulled back the curtain.
Nothing.
Just the alley, bathed in a weak yellow glow from the flickering streetlamp.
She let the curtain fall back and turned around—
"Don't scream."
She did anyway.
Only once.
Joon-ho stood in the middle of the room.
She backed up so fast she bumped into the kitchenette counter.
"I told you," she hissed, "stay on your floor!"
"I knocked first," he said calmly.
"Ghosts don't knock!"
He shrugged. "I'm trying to be polite. Old habits."
She grabbed a dish towel and waved it at him like it might somehow have banishing powers. "You're violating the terms!"
"You said no uninvited possession," he said. "You didn't say anything about ghostly social calls."
She glared at him. "You think this is funny."
"I think you're still awake."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "What do you want?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he walked slowly across the room, glancing at the little domestic touches. The half-unpacked bag. The shower steam still clinging faintly to the walls. The scent of mint from her shampoo.
"This used to be mine," he said softly.
She blinked.
He turned to her. "This whole floor. I lived here. For ten years. Worked below, slept up here. Had my first hangover on that futon."
She didn't move. Just listened.
He drifted to the far wall, rested his hand—though it didn't quite touch—against the old coat hook.
"I used to hang my suit there after court. Same time every night. Tie off. Shoes lined up right there." He pointed to the faded section of rug. "My mother sent me that mug." He gestured to the sink.
Se-ri followed his gaze.
"Why are you telling me this?"
He turned.
His expression had shifted.
Gone was the cocky smirk, the lawyer's gleam. What was left was... softer. Tired.
"Because you need to know," he said. "This place isn't just haunted by me. It's haunted by all the things I didn't get to do. All the things I left behind."
She said nothing.
He glanced down, then smiled faintly.
"And because," he added, "you look like you needed company."
She rolled her eyes. "I don't need ghostly therapy, thanks."
"No," he said. "But you need sleep. And it's easier to rest when you're not pretending you're not scared."
That hit too close.
She looked away.
"Have you ever lived completely alone before?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Not like this," she admitted.
He nodded. "It's strange, isn't it? The silence feels heavier when you know no one will interrupt it."
She sat back on the edge of the futon.
He didn't move. Just stood there. Watching her.
After a while, she said, "You don't seem very ghost-like."
"How so?"
"No moaning. No rattling chains. No ominous whispering through walls."
He smiled. "I was never one for theatrics. Not even in court."
"That's a lie."
"A strategic performance," he corrected.
She shook her head, but there was a flicker of amusement at the corner of her lips.
He drifted closer, then stopped.
"You're still scared of me."
She didn't answer.
He tilted his head. "Why?"
"You're dead."
"Still me."
"You could... do something. To me. And I couldn't stop you."
His expression shifted again—this time, into something unreadable. Almost pained.
"I could never hurt you," he said.
"That's what everyone says before they do."
"I'm not everyone."
She met his eyes. "You're not even alive."
A long silence.
Then, softly—
"I wish I was."
Those words hung in the air like breath on glass.
Se-ri looked away first.
The room felt colder suddenly, though the windows were shut.
He took a step back.
"I'll go," he said.
She didn't stop him.
He reached the wall, began to fade—
Then paused.
Turned.
"One thing," he said.
She looked up.
"Tomorrow, go back to the second floor. There's a file on the third shelf of the bookcase—blue tab. I think it's time you read it."
And then he was gone.
No swirl of air. No sound.
Just the space where he had been.
Se-ri sat for a long time, staring at the hook where his coat used to hang.
She didn't cry.
But for the first time, since she'd stepped into this building, she felt the weight of someone else's memory pressing into hers.
And it wasn't as heavy as she expected.