2020

Joohyun was treated as a guest that night. With such exclusivity, she dined with the fine young man with quite a preposterous fashion sense. He wore a white button down shirt with soft black linen pants.

In the awkward silence, she wondered how such an exquisite young man lived in solitude in such a grand palace. The warm reds and golds of the room, the floor to ceiling grandois, overwhelming as it was, fits him so well. It was satisfying to her that the blonde of his hair and the red of his lips matches the entire scene. He is a captivating view himself.

He broke silence, trying to connect with her. He spoke eloquently, asking what she thought of their dinner. His humor is witty and of her time. He was bewildered at her reactions which caught him off guard, though, Joohyun earnestly found his humor comical and adored him for it. 

He is an entertaining young man, though his past made him a bit more rough around the edges and would often hold back on his emotions you could see how it is tough on him. He searched for Joohyun’s eyes and locked in on them announcing his name, “My name is Song Minho.”

It’s him.

He was reminiscent of someone from the past. A man, he doesn’t even know existed. Yet.

Reincarnation of Song Minho

It’s curious, just like Joohyun, Minho lived with the haunting requiem of his past life, humming through his dreams though they were not as prevalent as hers. Rather than feeling warm, Minho often stirs up from sleep frustrated. 

His visions were more like puzzle pieces. Dark and mysterious. He grieved for brief moments in his sleep, recurring scenes of sadness, like him getting shot with an arrow to his chest. Once he even woke up to the bile taste of drunken wine and mourning. In these visions he wore a dragon robe, sometimes blue and gold. Whenever he sees himself in robe of blood red and gold, the weight of it drags his mood down as he wakes.

Gloom echoes in the vastness of his bedroom. Minho would yearn for his late mother on nights like these. In the dark, he could almost see her eyes staring back at him. He often wonders if all these mirage in his sleep were fragments of his mother’s imagination. She would tell him about kings and queens in the past and Minho had always been keen about history.

He closed his eyes one more time, trying to push aside his dream, but his intuition is screaming, begging to be heard.