The antique coffee table creaked slightly under Minji’s feet as she fell back into her place on the couch, back from a trip to the kitchen for another soda.  Her textbooks lay untouched next to the remote control.  She lingered over the idea of choosing studying over TV for a moment.  But the thought was fleeting, and she surfed through the channels for the hundredth time that evening instead.

Seunghyun should have been home hours ago, but a message on his answering machine when she came in after school said he was running late.  She had house-sat for her neighbor a handful of times before and he had yet to ever relieve her of the duty when he said he would.  Not that she was in any rush to leave the parent-free bachelor pad for home anyway.

So it was with mild disappointment that she answered a knock at the door and found the apartment’s resident had arrived home at last, carting some new junk with him, as she liked to call his relics.

“Minji, I hate to be rude,” he said, placing the urn carefully on a kitchen countertop, “but I need you to go home now.”

She closed the door behind him.  “Nice to see you too.”

Seunghyun removed his coat and tossed it over his arm.  “I’m sorry, but I’m just really exhausted right now.  Here.”  He took his wallet from his back pocket and withdrew a few bills.  “Thanks for watching the place.”

She took her pay without complaint and counted it, nodding in satisfaction.  “Any time.  Where else am I gonna get paid just to feed someone’s fish and watch TV all day?”

And eat everything in my fridge, too, Seunghyun thought as he looked for something quick to snack on.  He was hungry, but he hardly had the energy to cook.  He settled on a frozen dinner and a beer, pretending not to notice that there were three less bottles in the fridge than when he left two days ago.

On her way out the door, Minji stopped.  “Oh, I almost forgot: Mom wanted me to invite you over for dinner on New Years, if you’re not doing anything.”

“That’s nice of her,” Seunghyun managed to get out through a yawn.  “That’s the 23^rd this year right?”

“Yeah, on Monday.”  Minji considered for a moment who she was talking to.  “So, in three days.  Because today’s Friday.”

Seunghyun set the timer on his microwave for five minutes.  “I knew that.”

“Sure you did…  Well, I’ll see you,” and she closed the front door behind her.

Although he took his dinner to the living room to watch TV, Seunghyun’s gaze seemed to end up on his new assignment every time he tried to concentrate on the screen.  It fit in well with the rest of his interior, his spacious apartment looking cramped and cluttered thanks to his numerous collections of antique this and historical that.  Some of it he had picked up himself, some of it he was gifted by his colleagues.  Most of it he had salvaged from the large townhome his father had lived in.  He had inherited it at 23, but the huge, empty house only magnified his loneliness, and he sold it two months later.  His immediate family gone and friends scarce to none, he threw himself into his work to distract himself from his solitude.

Why am I thinking about such depressing things, he wondered, and placed his empty beer bottle on the table before heading off to bed.

—-

Seunghyun’s knees hit the ground hard as he was pushed downward, hands bound behind his back.  The guard that had taken him held him roughly by the hair — long black hair that fell over his shoulders and into the dirt as his head was forced to the floor.  Yes, floor, as they were still inside.   The room was lit with torches, and his mouth was gagged.

Someone in front of him was talking, but the words were unclear.  He could feel their malice, however, and the smug delight his captor was conveying at the sight of his enemies restrained.

Enemies.  Are there others?  Yes, but just one.  Someone beside him.  Someone close, someone he wanted to help, needed to save.  The desire to free his companion was overwhelming and compulsive.  Who were they?

The gag was untied and a name flew from his lips.  Who was he calling to?

“I swear!” Seunghyun heard himself yell desperately.  “I promise I will free you!”

Malevolent laughter erupted from the man who brought them there, who enjoyed every bit of pain he was inflicting.

Seunghyun fought to turn his head towards the other captive but the fist in his hair was unrelenting.  Quiet crying reached his ears and his heart plummeted.

“I do not fear death, my love,” the young man told him.  “Neither should you.”

“I swear it,” Seunghyun felt the sobs welling in his throat.  “If it takes a thousand years, I’ll release you.”

The sound of a steel blade scraping against its sheath turned the blood in his veins to ice.  This was it, wasn’t it?

The other man’s familiar voice steadied in composure.  “I know you will.”

Seunghyun felt the sharp edge of the sword against his throat, stealing away his last words as it cut.  Deeper and deeper it sunk into him, until everything in the world faded to black

—-

He awoke in a cold sweat and jerked straight up in his bed with what may have been a scream.  Shaking hands flew to his neck, examining every inch of his throat in both horror and relief.  But there were no seeping gashes, only goosebumps and heaving breaths.

Seunghyun held his face in his trembling hands and struggled to calm himself.  His blankets felt suffocating in the aftermath of the nightmare and he threw them off with a few kicks of his feet.  What kind of dream was that?!

The alarm clock told him it was just after midnight, but he hesitated to lay back down.  Was it something he ate?  Stress?  Sleep deprivation?  Or perhaps a combination of factors.  After a few moments, he stood and headed for the bathroom, where he washed his flushed face and examined himself in the mirror.  He was almost surprised to find his hair still short and modern.  And his head still firmly attached to his shoulders.

“You’re starting to become a real wreck, man,” he told his weary reflection, and turned out the light before returning to bed.

The next morning, on his way to make a cup of coffee, he was greeted by the black urn still resting in his kitchen.  “I’d better move it somewhere safer,” he thought, and took the heavy piece into the small study off the living room.  “Wouldn’t want to mistake it for the sugar jar.”

He had the weekend off, and Dr. Yang knew it, so Seunghyun began researching the origin of the language on the urn almost immediately.  Pouring over books on the development of the Korean writing system, he soon ruled out the possibility of early evolutions of the nation’s current alphabet, which the 11^th century urn predated by over 400 years.  The script should have been written with characters borrowed from the Chinese.  And the multi- symbols did seem to resemble Hanja, if only slightly.  But if it were Chinese, no one would need Seunghyun to translate it for them.

Everything else about the pot was distinctly Korean: the shape, materials used, the art style.  Still, he couldn’t rule out the possibility of the writing being foreign, and by mid-afternoon, books on variants of languages from China, Japan, Thailand, India, and half a dozen other countries were scattered about his desk, and on the floor when he ran out of room.  Exhausting his own resources and finding nothing, he determined it was necessary to visit a few university libraries around Seoul.

“Tomorrow,” he decided while stretching his arms above his head, leaning back in his desk chair until his stiff backbone popped a few times.

That evening, like so many others, Seunghyun found himself alone on the couch with his laptop, watching foreign films and having more wine than he probably should.  Browsing through his Netflix list, he settled on a Spanish indie flick with three stars.  He sipped his drink and noted with approval that the movie also bore the promise of a romantic trist between the two main male characters.  But he never reached the love scene, instead dozing off outstretched on the sofa, snoring softly.

—-

This time the dream was more lucid.  He knew he was asleep, which made it an improvement on last night already.

He was outside, in the daylight, and a cool breeze blew through the fragrant trees.  It was a lovely setting.

They were in the garden, or perhaps one of the gardens. They? Yes, just the two of them.  And he was so close, sitting cross-legged right beside Seunghyun, leaning lightly against his chest.

The other man’s soft hair tickled his face, and Seunghyun wanted to turn to him, to bury his face in the locks and breathe his scent, but he was apprehensive.  Would he want that too?

Seunghyun’s hand guided the other’s along the scroll in front of them, helping him make elegant with the brush.  It was a name they were writing, his companion’s name.  He had asked to be taught it, along with Seunghyun’s.  But when they started on the next set of characters, it wasn’t “Seunghyun” at all.

That isn’t my name, he thought within the dream.  Who am I?

The other man leaned back into Seunghyun as he finished writing, putting the brush down.  But Seunghyun didn’t let go of his hand, instead bringing it with his as he wrapped his arm around the unknown acquaintance.  He felt the weight of the other man’s head against his cheek.  This was the first time they had been so close, and it caused a tightening in his chest.  Seunghyun wanted to kiss him, but if someone saw, he was unsure what would become of them.

But the worry faded as the soft hair moved along his face, and a forehead pressed against his.  Eyes shut, he waited for their lips to meet…

—-

…only to awake to the sound of his cell phone ringing, vibrating loudly on the table.  His laptop still sat open on his chest but had shut itself down at some point in the night.  The time on his phone read 9am on the dot when he answered Dr. Yang’s call.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” the old man said on the other end.

“Oh no, not at all.”  Seunghyun’s voice was languid and thoroughly unconvincing.

“I have some reading that might help you with that… project you’re working on.  Stop by the museum later today and pick it up.”  Seunghyun let his phone fall out of his hand onto the floor when the conversation was through, and rubbed his eyes with a yawn.

“I always miss the good parts,” he lamented.