Detachment is a cold, absent kind of feeling. It’s severed strings, it’s holes waiting to be filled, it’s empty hope and it’s borderline inhumane. To grow and not understand fondness, to not understand love or feel attachment, Mark still wonders if it is a blessing or a curse.

Building human relationships didn’t come natural to Mark, at first it could have been mistaken as being shy or awkward. Later, he realised it was simply hard to feel attachment to places, to people that didn’t feel real to him.

Or maybe he didn’t feel real to himself? Growing up in China as an only child, it was easy to feel lost and alone. To be surrounded by people so alike to you in some ways makes you lose yourself. For Mark, however, there was something significantly different. In the mind of a child, he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly but it was similar to standing still in the middle of a moving crowd, everyone going in the same direction, but only he would turn back, even when his shoulders were shoved and he’d feel the current of the crowd dragging him, he was always looking back.

You were always different to your sisters.

He was, but his mother never really knew why. Mark didn’t either, not until the memories began to trickle in.

At first they come in flashes, dreams, the wild imagination of a boy. Then the languages slipped through; at first his parents thought he was talking in some sort of gibberish children tended to do, he spoke Chinese and English just fine, but there were words, sometimes sentences that never fit in either vocabulary.

It was when he was eight did they realise he was speaking Finnish, and by the time he was nine, he was scared off enough by his parents to never speak the language ever again.

They’ll take you away.

It was funny almost for someone who has lived more than once, who has felt the world tear up and crumble beneath his feet, to still be afraid of abandonment. It was a numbing sort of fear, that left him breathless and weak.

And then at the age of twelve, Mark had experienced death.

It was as if a leaking faucet had suddenly been turned open and Mark was flooded with everything at once; memories of people, emotions, places, languages, events, of everything that wasn’t his life and was at the same time. And he was drowning.

He was a thirteen, he was twenty, he was forty five, and he was dying all at the same time.

It wasn’t until he was fifteen could he control the breakdowns, to bite back the screams that threatened to rip his throat at night, and to hold in pain he had never felt but remembered so vividly it was as if his insides were ripping apart but he was still intact somehow.

To feel death, and to still breath. To take your last breath and to still wake up. To feel pain beyond this world and not have the scars. It was like being pulled under water, your lungs aching for air, your muscles tightening, death approaching and then suddenly the surface hits and the fire in your chest settles until you submerge again.

Mark has been submerged his entire life.

Turku, 1827

Barrick understood the need to schmooze, he just hated it when an immense fever that he tended to only leave aside for work. At that moment however it was making the veins under his skin boil and rumble like they were about to crawl out and burst open. His lips quirk at the thought; drowning this place in blood would make it a tad more festive.

It was a morbid thought, quite unlike him, but suits and ties, ball room and glass chandeliers, expensive wine and ridiculously small pieces of food lit a frustration in him he wasn’t used to. Barrick hadn’t come from a rich background, his parents ran a bakery in Kristiinankaupunki. It was a small town of few people, with a single shop of each trade occupying the streets amongst small wood cottages.

He missed it often, he tended to go out into the woods to practice his art, to draw, to let his imagination run free with the cold wind that danced between the spruce trees. When it snowed, he’d climb the hills south of the town to view the spectacular spread of snow that blanketed the town, the woods and the mountains in the far distance. He’d draw like he never drew before, his breath puffing up into clouds, his hands shaking, creating jagged lines as he dug himself deeper into his tattered coat on. A coat he still kept even though he did not wear it anymore, it reminded him of home, the stitches going up seams that would snap and wither, patches of mismatched material sewn upon holes; his mother wasn’t a tailor, in fact she was horrible with her hands, leading her to tend to the finances of their bakery while his father baked, but when she was determined to do something, she’d do it. They were quite alike.

Barrick hadn’t missed his parents as much as he did now standing in the shadows of the ball room, feeling a mix of loneliness and astonishment. It was breathtakingly large, in his hometown the biggest thing Barrick had been in was the church and even then that didn’t even make up for a quarter of this hall. The ceilings stood high, and as much Barrick frowned upon his current situation, he couldn’t help but marvel up at the beautiful paintings from above. Gold ropes bordered the canvas’ of blooming flowers and clouds so vivid he’d think they were moving. Chandeliers as large as horses hung elegantly, dripping in diamonds like a wedding gown illuminated by candle lights. The dance floor was checkered with fine polished wood of mahogany and pine, ladies shoes clicking sweetly against the smooth surface.

An orchestra, settled in the far corner of the room, plays a delicate, calming tune. Barrick watches the violinists glide their bows against the strings and he thinks of his church in Kristiinankaupunki, if he were to extend the alter further out into the woods, he could manage to fit a balcony just above the entrance of the church where a small orchestra could sit upon and play sweet melodies. Where his sister could play.

He halts his thoughts then, refusing images of his sweet sisters face. It had been six years since Barrick had left his family, and although the ache for his home hadn’t subsided, he had to will himself to scatter thoughts of what he longed for. He promised he would make a name for himself, and only then would he go back.

“You look as if, if you were to choose between dancing or death, you would choose the latter, my friend,” A friendly chuckle came from behind Barrick alongside a light tap to the shoulder. Barrick looks over his shoulder to find his neighbour, and loyal friend, Carl Gustav Hellman tugging at his bowtie and smiling widely. Carl had a wildish look to him, his hair curly and dark, with bright hazel eyes that seemed to only take the world in with shimmering amusement, equipped with a constant smirk that took hold of his face.

“I cannot disagree with you, my ‘friend’,” Barrick responds, refusing all attempts in mirroring his friend’s smile. Instead he took his eyes to the dance floor to glare dubiously at the cellist who looked as if he were simply ghosting his bow over his instrument. He also looked like he were to fall asleep at any second.

Carl gives Barrick a large slap upon his back and nudges him from the side, “It isn’t possible you’re still upset with me Nieminen, are you?” He asks the question as if it were even possible to be upset with him in the first place. “You know I brought you here for your own good.”

“You brought me here because you could not find a lady to court,” Barrick corrected him with a fine pale finger pointing upwards. “And yes, I understand that this is eventually something I must do, but I hate it. Why can’t one just simply make it without the help of others?”

“Because power is everything, my sweet, innocent Barrick, and if you try and challenge those with power, they will come raining down on you like the Lord came down upon Sodom and Gemorrah.” Carl makes a dramatic gesture with his hands, raising them up towards the ceiling where the painted clouds seem to settle into his palms. He then drops them and lets out a hoot of a laugh.

Barrick simply rolls his eyes and takes a step out of the shadows he had submerged himself in for so long he suddenly felt conscious of the light hitting him. “That’s my boy,” Carl taunts from the side. Carl was the first friend Barrick had made when he had moved to Turku at the age of fourteen, his eccentric and pushy personality meant Barrick had no choice in the matter of their relationship. Not that he entirely minded, all the time.

The Hellman family however minded quite a bit. Carl’s family was part of a generation of bankers, he was born with a gold bar in his hand and he lived his life with flourish. A poor boy from a background of bakers in a small town was apparently no appropriate friend of his, but Carl did not care. In fact, he rarely cared about anything, he did, however have a sort of affection for Barrick.

“And where is your usual chaperone the-great Sir Charles Carlo Bassi, I have not seen him since we entered,” Carl asks as his eyes roam across the ballroom lazily.

“He has gone to visit his family back in Italy,” Barrick replies as he picks up two long cups of champagne, handing one to Carl. “Besides he does not like these events as much as I do.” He says as he watches the bubbles in his drink closely.

Carl has already downed his champagne. “That, or he simply doesn’t want to run into Carl Engel,” He snickers and as a result it earns him a kick to his shin from the heel of Barrick’s shoes. “Ow! Now that is unfair, not with the shoes I had especially bought for you, bad boy.”

Barrick turns to face his friend up close, he was taller and broader, his shadow quickly encompassing his friends lean, slim form. “Am I your dog?” Barrick asks with a raise of his eyebrow.

Carl shrugs and then shrinks back, “Close enough?” He grins and then his attention is quickly taken by something that must have been more entertaining because his smirk seems to glimmer and then he gives Barrick a mischievous look. “Speak of the devil.” He nods towards several clothed tables catered with perfectly polished silverware and pearl white plates.

Amongst them stand several men in dark suits and bowties, shaking hands with a new arrival. Barrick instantly recognises the man as Carl Ludvig Engel, a man nearly ten years older than him in age and a phenomenal architect.

Carl whistles, “From humble architect to Director of Public Housing, the man knows how to get around,” He jokes but Barrick is too busy glaring at the man. “You’ll hurt yourself like that, my dear Barrick, as much as you try your eyes cannot kill a man.”

“I do not wish death upon him,” Barrick mutters, forcing his eyes away and back to the dance floor. He then looks down at the empty glass in his hand and wonders exactly when he had drunk the contents of it.

“You’re just simply bitter, aren’t you? So if not death then you wish a pack of wolves would just rip off his arms and render him entirely useless, hoping in some vain that your dear, dear teacher oh! Carlo would regain his position as the first head of the National Board of Building again,” Carl twirls and ends his theatrics with a wiggle of his fingers, then freezes mid motion. “Oh, I also forgot to mention you are also incredibly in love with him and wish for his wife’s soon death so you can claim your rightful position as his one and only lover?”

Barrick gives Carl a thin glare and almost wishes he were holding an entire bottle of champagne to swallow, “You are a cruel man, are you aware?”

“I am in fact a man of humour, who also happens to lack an immense amount of empathy, but there is a difference, I assure you.” Carl retorts with a wag of his fingers. “Oh my, my, my...now who would that be?”

Barrick follows Carl’s line of sight which glides across the dance floor. Several couples cradle each other, women in beautiful glittering gowns sway, their dresses flowing as if a soft breeze were dancing with them, their hair perfectly pinned upwards, curls flowing past delicate shoulders. Amongst them stands a single women, tall and hauntingly beautiful, her skin a sweet peach colour, her cheek bones high arching against sleek green eyes. She held herself with pride, a high chin and a straight back, and she moved as slow and delicate as a swan upon a lake. Barrick held his breath as the women seemed to almost lock eyes with him and then they shifted quickly and Barrick tries hard to regain the composure he was always so sure to keep up.

“So you’re weak to a pretty face?” Carl snorts. “How surprising.”

“Be quiet,” Barrick hisses, his whole body tensing up as the women begins to stride down the dance floor. She wore a dress of deep red, like the colour blood, it curled around her shoulders and blossomed down the side of her hips in black lace and ruffled silk. She is stark against the pale dresses of those around her, as is her hair a deep, rich black that hangs off her shoulders, and reaches her hips in perfect waves. It made Barrick think of the Aura river at night.

He then almost buckles over when he realises her destination was the small corner Barrick and Carl had occupied with the shadows. She is now most definitely looking directly at Barrick as she moved closer and at this distance Barrick realised her eyes were in fact a mix of hazel and emerald.

“Oh my,” Carl gasps with a palm to his chest, and dips his head. “What an honour to have such a beautiful lady in my presence, you spoil me.” Carl moved like this often, being rich and good looking meant that woman would easily waver their virtue for one night and a selection of jewellery and expensive clothes. Barrick can’t say he’s much different however, except the ‘one night’ part, although he’d think Carl wouldn’t be too against the idea.

“I haven’t come to bless your presence Mr Hellman, I’ve come for Mr Nieminen here,” She turns her head swiftly, as if her chin was ready to slice, her eyes were bright but now that they were this close, Barrick could feel a darkness deep in them. “I am Henrikka Arseniy Zakrevskiy, it is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard a lot about you from Mr Bassi.”

Barrick somehow managed to blink out of his daze at that, “You know Charles?”

“My father is quite fond him,” She says with a thin smile.

“Wait, wait!” Carl threw up his hands. “Zakreviskiy? As in you are the Governor-General’s daughter?”

Henrikka’s lips twitch down just a fraction in response but she was quick in layering on a smile. “Yes, I am his daughter-”

“His bastard daughter, right?” Carl scoffed, a look of incredible fascination, and something darker takes over him and he leans in close to the lady. Barrick quickly puts a warning hand on his shoulder. “Wait, wait, what could you possibly be doing here?”

Henrikka doesn’t look even mildly phased by Carl’s sudden intimidating posture and instead she raises her chin, “I came to meet Mr Nieminen, do you have an issue banker?”

“Oooh, you make it sound as if it were an insult,” Carl laughed, flashing his teeth. He then turned to Barrick. “Have you heard? There were rumours of the Governor-General and his bastard daughter but I never thought they were true, but what a delight, indeed. I must say, my lady, you have made my night incredibly interesting. Tell me, is it true? What they say? That your father fell in love with an oh-so lowly Finnish women and only until his son died last year, did he decide to claim you as his child?”

Henrikka takes a single, defining step towards Carl, her eyes cold as she stares upon him. “If you think for a moment I will even satisfy an inch of your curiosity for the sake of clearing my name, then you are wrong.” Henriikka growls, it’s a deep, thundering sound that sends shivers down both the men’s spines.

“Ah but what if I were to announce to the whole room that the Governor’s bastard child had decided to grace us with her presence?”

“I would not care, I was invited here, after all I am part of the commonfolk of Turku,” She said with a small smile, as if she was laughing at her own personal joke.

“Commonfolk aren’t allowed here,” Carl shows faint signs of displeasment and Barrick tenses up, knowing things could easily go very wrong if Carl were to lose his temper.

“That’s enough,” Barrick demands, his voice low but deep, rendering Carl frozen for a moment like a soldier to his general. “Enough bickering, I am Barrick Nieminen, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh my Barrick, don’t let her pretty face fool you, you can almost taste the lunacy in the air,” He spat, his face now contorted into a horrible shape of disgust. Barrick felt his eyebrows knit together in confusion, even more so when he saw Henrikka smile widely as she turned towards him.

“I guess I cannot deny that one,” She said lightly, the words almost sweet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Barrick, as I said I am Henrikka, and I guess I am a bit of a lunatic.”

Mark doesn’t sleep for two nights straight. Even though exhaustion settles heavily onto his back, the thoughts run rampant in his mind, and his body fights with itself amongst an ancient old fear that seems to have awoken from it’s slumber.

He looks up out his window where a crescent moon hangs upon an empty sea of darkness, you could barely see the stars here, Mark imagines they’re just as lost as he feels right now. And he had not felt this way for a long time.

The memories he’d tried so hard to lock away and shove to the corners of his mind rumble, and quake like a demon sprouting from hell below. It sparks at his nerves and threatens to spill tears down his eyes and it whispers in his ear as if the devil himself were settled upon his shoulder; remember.

His remembers, remembers so vividly, so wildly it was if he were settled within the snow and he could feel the cold ice at the back of his neck, but he can feel more than that - he can feel the heat in his small room, the sweat sticking to his skin and dripping down his temple. He can feel the cold air, and he can feel his ragged breaths, he can feel the spurs trees between his fingers and he can feel the bed beneath him.

Mark takes in a harsh gasp, the images in his mind fracturing like a pebble to glass. He looks down at his hand and sees them shift, the image of them blurring, tanned damp hands quickly morphing and twisting into hands with fingertips drenched in grey. A tiny whimper escapes his lips and he quickly huddles himself into a ball.

A soft buzzing sound hums deeply within the covers of Mark’s bed and suddenly the room is illuminated with a bright blue light. Mark looks up from his arms and reaches out for his phone, staring at the caller ID for a long moment before he finally decides to pick up.

“Hello?” His voice is thick and hoarse, and he only barely manages to hold back the cracks.

“Mark? Is it late, should I call in a couple of hours?” His sister’s voice is light and soft, calming under the pressure of the darkness.

“No, it’s fine, is something up?”

“No, not really... I just suddenly thought of you, are you okay?” Mark almost smiles to himself, Erica always had this sort of wiring that connected her to Mark, as if she could always sense the distressing signal Mark omitted when he felt like his ribs were caving in on themselves.

“I’m fine, Erica.”

“You don’t sound fine,” Erica replies, that older sister authoritative voice didn’t hide the worry that swam between her words. Mark could hear it like a siren. “You know you can always talk to me.”

Mark bites his lip.

She takes a deep breath then, Mark thinks he hears a tremble in it. “Is it...the memories?”

Mark let’s out a shaky laugh, “How do you always do that? How do you always know?”

“I basically raised you on my own, you know...you always had nightmares, even when you wouldn’t make a sound, I could always tell.” Erica’s voice cracks then too, and Mark closes his eyes, trying to imagine her long, thick hair, the ends a static mess from a lack of a trim and constant dying. Her bright brown eyes that could look through you, like your chest were cut open for only her to see. “Have they come back?”

“They never left,” Mark replies, opening his eyes and looking down at his open palm. “I just learnt not to think about them.”

“And now you’re thinking about them?”

Mark nods, and he knows Erica can see it somehow. “There’s a person...who showed signs of xenoglossy,” He continues. “He had memories too...at first I pitied him, you know? Someone so like me, and asking me for help, I couldn’t say no, but now...now they’re resurfacing and it hurts just as much as it did the first time.”

"You want to help him?" 

"Yes, but I'm scared." He whimpers lowly, so low he wonders if she even heard it. 

There’s a heavy silence.

“Close your eyes, Mark,” She demands, and he follows. “And forget about the world, forget about who you are, forget who you were, forget everything. Think about nothing, or think about everything, think about the sky, think about the sea, think about the universe even, float away and lose yourself. And when you decide to come back, think of no one but yourself, remember you owe no one anything. If this hurts, stop it, because two people hurting won’t do the world any good, so you can run, Mark, run and don’t look back.”

“Mark, are you sure?” Youngjae says after taking his shot of espresso. Mark grimaces, the sweat beading on his forehead, wondering how Youngjae could possibly be wearing a jumper and taking down hot coffee like it wasn’t 29°C out. Mark sat opposite him, under the cafe’s air conditioner, seriously considering taking a new profession in being a permanent puddle for the summer.

“I’m sorry, Youngjae, but I really can’t,” Mark sighs, his lips pursed thinly. He’d thought long and hard about it. Youngjae was not happy.

“I just don’t understand, is it because he’s too much to handle? Or are you scared?” Youngjae grumbles, his eyebrows lifting up above his round glasses.

“No...look, I’m thinking about going back to America earlier than expected,” Mark says, his fingers the opening in his water bottle. “My younger sister is opening up a new publishing company and she wants my help, just to start off, and honestly I’ve gotten a bit tired of lecturing.”

Youngjae’s face contorts into a mix of dissatisfaction and disappointed, two things Mark hated seeing the most. “Are you sure? Jinyoung...will be upset,” Youngjae says lowly, his lips drooping further into a frown as he tugs on his ear lobe.

Mark inwardly winces at the mention of Jinyoung, among other things, he’d been actively trying not to think about him. “He will, but he’ll get over it, we weren’t that close, so it’s better we cut it off now than later.”

“Is there really no other reason?” Youngjae presses, his eyes searching for something as if the answers were written upon Mark’s face.

“There really isn’t,” Mark murmurs, lowering his eyes, today he didn’t feel very confident in lying.

Youngjae takes one deep breath and then settles back into his seat, “I guess I can’t do anything about it.” He says and turns to look out the window. “I just hope you don’t regret this.”

Mark looks up and remembers the first session he had with Jinyoung not too long ago in this same cafe. His small frame hiding within the shadows of his hood, his shaking fingers coated in graphite, the colourless look in his eyes, the fear in his voice. His chest ached, ached for so many things, for a life so long gone, for a boy he could nothing for, for an emptiness he could never fill.

But ultimately, Mark knew he could do nothing, there was no answer, no cure, no help for what was happening to Jinyoung, what happened to Mark. It was something you had to live with, a nightmare that never ended.

You can’t revive the dead, so you remember them, and you regret.

Mark sits in his office staring blanking at his computer screen. It’s a fairly large room; with tall shelves of books, bordering along the walls, the rich red of their wood darkening the room against the bright yellow light that hung directly in the centre of the room. At the back, settled just before the large window, is his desk, cluttered with assignments, half-marked, half-ignored, and a series of different fountain pens. He wasn’t collecting, it’s just that for some reason people think Professors can only ever be gifted a fountain pen.

He didn’t like sitting in his office much, not that it wasn’t nice, but that there was something incredibly daunting about the two constantly empty seats in front of him. There was rarely a need for people to visit him, in fact, there really wasn’t a need for him to even have an office. The sofa can be a good bed sometimes though.

A ding from his computer jolts him upright and he gives a little swivel of his seat, darting his eyes across the room until he see’s a new unread message in his email inbox. He squints closely, eyeing the email id: 040927. The email didn’t have a subject matter, just an attachment symbol right beside it. Mark’s about to click on it when the door to his office knocks and his attention is instantly averted.

“Come in,” He calls.

The large wooden door creaks slowly, it looks even bigger when Mihyun pops her small head through the opening, her long blonde hair curtaining down her shoulder. “Professor,” She smiles wide.

“Well if it isn’t my almost favourite student?” Mark smirks and puts out a hand, offering her one of two of the empty seats before him.

Mihyun’s smile drops into a scowl, “Almost favourite?” She echoes. “Who is your favourite?”

“Kunpimook.”

“What!?”

“He’s not a smartass you see,” Mark retorts as she slumps into the seat.

“He’s not very smart at all in fact,” She retorts, finely ignoring the warning look Mark shoots her.

“Well, did you need something? Or did you just want to grace me with your presence?”

Minhyun crosses her legs over and takes a finger to scratch the top of her head in thought, her lips are pressed together tightly, “I was just wondering...how Jinyoung is?”

Mark tilts his head and leans back into his chair, “Why would you ask me of all people?”

Mihyun blinks, “Uh, I kind of just thought you’d know? A bunch of us assumed you’d become his caretaker or something?”

Mark’s lip twitches at the word caretaker and takes a hand to quickly brush through his hair, “I’m not his...caretaker.”

“Well okay, not caretaker but like...you know carer? Or I don’t know someone to watch him not implode-”

“Okay, I got it I got it,” Mark puts up a palm. “Yeah he’s fine, or at least the last time I checked. Is that why you came here? Just to ask how he is?”

“Not exactly…” Mihyun taps her thumbs together. “I wanted to tell you something...or ask you something, or both?”

“You playing riddles with me right now?”

“No, no, ugh-” Mihyun huffs in her seat and then quickly goes to sit up straight. “Okay, well, if I’m honest I’ve kind of been interested in Jinyoung for a while -not like that- anyway, I wasn’t close to him before but we talked often, he seemed nice. And well, when he started curling into himself, I guess I was the first to notice it, everyone else thought he started doing drugs or that his assignments were just weighing on him. But he looked different, you know? Not like physically but like the way he held himself, like he was someone else. Everyone thought I was overdoing it, but then he started speaking languages, I even remember the first time he was told to come to the white board and he just kind of…shifted and he just suddenly started writing Latin. Oh my god I had never seen Professor Jung so infuriated.”

“Are you going somewhere with this Mihyun?” Mark presses, there was an anxiety creeping up on him. The more Mihyun spoke, the more he realised that Jinyoung had exposed too much of himself.

“Yes, yes, look at first I didn’t know what to make of it, sure I had some doubt I was just over thinking the whole thing and he could be on drugs, but he was different,” She leans in close, her eyes glittering in a way predator would with it’s prey. “Everyone thought he was just some sort of genius who was trying to show off, but you see I had seen enough of his episodes to know that he doesn’t remember a single thing when he comes to. So he doesn’t know the languages, but he can somehow speak them...so that means, there’s only one thing, xenoglossy! Right?”

Mark grimaces, “That’s a pretty big assumption to make.”

“Well I read a bunch of your thesis’ before signing up to your class, and there was one that really stood out to me, one about reincarnation, past-lives, all that voodoo,” Mark closes his eyes; that god damn thesis. “And well, again, yeah I wasn’t sure, I had my doubts but then the other day when he had an episode and was speaking in Japanese, he said something.”

“‘Save me’?”

Mihyun shakes her head, her lip twitching into a smirk. “He said something before that.”

Mark shifts then, his anxiety pushed aside by curiosity as he leans in towards his desk. Mihyun continues speaking, “I wasn’t sure at first but the more I thought about it, the more certain I heard right.”

“What did you hear?”

“He was calling out to someone, not anyone, but someone specific,” Mihyun her lips and wriggles in her seat. “He was calling out for his brother. That was when I was sure these weren’t just episodes of Jinyoung blurting out random words in different languages. He was actually thinking about others, he’s acting like another person, he’s calling out to people that don’t exist.”

“He could have a brother-”

“Uh uh, no he doesn’t, told me he was an only child,” Mihyun corrects. “So I figured it out, I’ll give you some credit for it though- Jinyoung’s episodes aren’t some mental instability, or I guess it could be, but anyway, they’re his past lives. Like he must remember other people, that lived in different places, different times, he’s reliving events and speaking in different languages. It has to be past lives! I’m one hundred percent sure!”

“You- you, you know how ridiculous you sound right?” The words were stuck in Mark’s throat, his head clogged with the same sentence; this is bad, this is bad, this is bad. Mihyun just looks at him with a tilt of her head. “What makes you think...reincarnation could even be possible?”

“What do you mean?” Mihyun replies. “Don’t you know?”

“What makes you think I would know?” He sputters back. “Let alone believe? Just because I wrote a thesis about it?”

“No, because I read that article about you,” Mihyun flatly states. “I thought that was why you, you know, took him under your wing or what not.”

“What article?”

Mihyun gives Mark a long calculated look before shrugging, her eyes passing over his shoulder and out towards the window. “I did a lot of research on you, you know? I’m kind of particular about who teaches me. It was just amongst many of the source links I was filing through, an article when you still lived in China, you were reported by a philosopher to show signs of xenoglossy at the age of eight.”

They’ll take you away.

Mark lurches out of his seat then, startling Mihyun. “I need you to leave.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry Mihyun, but we’ll talk about this later,” Mark sternly says. Mihyun, looking reluctant, slowly gets out of the seat. “And Mihyun, don’t tell anyone what you just told me.”

Mihyun gives him a small nod and then turns around to leave.

Mark let’s out a harsh gasp, his heart had done a jolt and started at a frightening pace. Quickly, he yanks out a drawer from beside him where he grabs a bottle of pills and quickly pops two in his mouth. His grip tightens on the drawer for a moment, his head throbbing like a hundred hammers had taken their heads to him, and then he slumps back into his leather seat, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

This was the fourth time in two weeks he had to take his pills. The attacks were starting to come too often now, the fear clogging his throat growing thicker. Jinyoung’s face appears before his eyelids then, his red eyes and his graphite fingers, his eyes so dark you could fall into them. Then he hears his sister's words, run, Mark, and knew it was what he was going to do, it was at most, the only he could genuinely say he was good at.

But there was something so incredibly heart wrenching at the idea that he was going to abandon someone so similar him. In all honesty he wanted to talk to him, to share stories. But stories were all they were, whether they are memories or not, whether the people they see were real or not, they would be nothing but stories now. Reminiscing upon lives long gone would bring nothing to the present, instead it’d just drag the two of them deeper into an abyss where reality becomes nothing but another fragment of your imagination.

So Mark was going to run, and this time, he wasn’t going to look back.