It was raining— not the dramatic, weeping kind that begged attention, but the quiet kind. The kind that blurred city lights into trembling ghosts and made the world feel too soft around the edges, like memories you weren’t ready to remember.

Jinu crouched on the rooftop like he always did, cloaked in the city's chill and his own silence. Below him, the last stragglers of the fan meet were slowly trickling out—umbrella flowers blooming against the glimmer of wet pavement. He should have left hours ago. He always told the others he had “business” up here. But what he really had was a habit: watching from above, pretending he was still distant enough not to feel anything.

And then— he heard it again.

That laugh.

Not a sound, but a fracture.

It shattered across the air and struck him somewhere between his ribs, dislodging breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Soft, lilting. Familiar in a way that made his knees ache.

Her laugh.

But it wasn’t her. Of course it wasn’t. It hadn’t been for centuries. The child who used to braid straw dolls with him in a candlelit corner of their home, humming lullabies to fill the hunger they never named—she’d been lost long before his soul was ever sold. Or so he believed. So Gwi-Ma let him believe.

Until you.

Until you looked up at him from that signing table weeks ago, eyes wide with starlight and kindness, and laughed. Just like she used to. And he—

He fled the room that day. Disguised it with a smirk and a joke about forgetting his mic. But his hands were trembling. They always did when ghosts smiled.

Tonight, you were standing by yourself near the vendor stalls, face tilted to the sky, letting the rain touch your cheeks like it wasn’t something to be avoided. There was no one left but you. And him.

He stepped down from the rooftop silently. Not transformed, not cloaked. Just himself—Jinu, the almost-man who made a deal and buried his name beneath stage lights.

You didn’t hear him approach. Or maybe you did. You didn’t flinch.

The closeness was unbearable.

He stood a breath’s length away, unsure why he came closer. Maybe it was the resemblance. Maybe it was the ache. Maybe he just wanted to hear that laugh again, not from a memory but from someone real.

His voice cracked when it left him.

“…Do you know what it means to carry someone else’s laughter?”

His eyes stayed on your shoulder, not daring to meet yours. Not yet. If he looked too long, the cracks might show again. And he didn’t know if he could survive being seen.