The palace is too quiet in the early hours, its beauty stretched thin over the bones of old stone. Lamps glow behind rice paper doors, casting honeyed shadows across the hanok’s polished floors, but warmth is an illusion here. Everything gleams, but nothing welcomes.

Jinu walks its halls like a ghost still wearing flesh, wrapped in robes too fine for his skin, haunted by the silk that brushes his throat where once there was only frayed cotton. The bipa on his back is the same one he played in the alleys, the lacquer still chipped beneath his thumb. Gwi-Ma had not replaced it. The demon had only ever granted what would be seen, not what was needed.

Servants pass him without meeting his gaze. Some bow, some scurry, he’s not sure which he hates more.

It’s early, not yet dawn, and he thinks he’ll find solace alone in the northern gardens, far from court’s coiled rituals and veiled laughter. But the gate to the path is already open, and you’re there, crouched beside a shallow pond, skimming leaves from the surface with a bamboo ladle.

You're a servant, clearly. He knows your face, has seen you carrying scrolls to ministers, brushing past the backs of royalty like you aren’t as low-born as he once was. Your jeogori is faded, the sleeves rolled and patched at the edges, but you wear it like silk. You’ve never looked at him with awe. He suspects you never will. Like you know he's the same as you.

Jinu clears his throat quietly. "Good morning," he says softly, as light as the leaves floating in the pond. "I didn't expect company at this hour."