He packed his bags, putting mountains of scrolls and documents into boxes. Folding the papers and arranging the scrolls neatly. He did hate it when he got creases on anything.

He picked up the dokkaebi’s -no, his painting carefully. He had not opened nor looked at it for a long time. Why should he? Every curve, flush and crease of her face, in both her past and present lives, were so familiar to him.

A deeply depressed king who wept so much he forgot how to cry anymore. Obsessively painting until he felt he might have recaptured her image on paper. Then, he slept.

A forlorn grim reaper with bloodshot eyes howling in his bedroom until he noticed his tears had smudged a portion of Kim Sun’s silk gown. He hurriedly wiped his tears and oh-so-gently dried the smudge, vowing to himself not to desecrate her image as he tucked the painting away.

Taking a long look around the room that had become his private sanctuary for the past 40 years, he got up.

Today was his last day in his tea room. His last day in approximately 300 years.

Today, he was to meet with his last deceased soul.

He walked into his tea room and waited.

She was 68 years old when she passed of illness and old age. What would she look like? He imagined she would have gentle creases lending wisdom to her smooth face. Laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. A pang coursed through his heart -he wished he could have grown old with her.

Was she married? Did she leave behind any children? He could not begrudge her any chance of happiness she might have had after leaving -how could he?

The bells chimed softly, announcing her entrance.

He looked up, eyes wide, getting up in haste.

She walked in slowly. Wearing a beige coat and a dark brown woolly scarf, he had never seen anything more beautiful