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A/N: PLEASE do not read this if you have not read What We Find. It's not necessary to understand what's going on here, since this is just a drabble, but it has spoilers for WWF. As for if you've already read WWF, you might not even want to read this, as this is my own personal ending for them, and it might not fit with the actual ending of WWF.

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His eyes still haven’t accustomed. There were no storms in the weather report for this week. The power should not be out. But after a few more heavy seconds, Jongin sheds the veneer of confusion. The lack of echoes, the lack of tactile feedback, the lack of...anything, is undeniable. This is not his house.

The ache in his left knee isn’t present as he takes a step forward. Another step into the darkness, bare-footed, over indistinct, flat terrain, and he realizes he is not sniffling either. The cold he had been battling for the better part of a month now is gone. Nerves, old habits, or perhaps instinct, bring his hands together in front of him, his right grazing over the left ring finger.

Red. His thread glows to life, stretching far off into the distance. Jongin covers his gasp with a hand and feels his eyes sting. Forty-eight hours he had gone without his thread. Two days after decades of believing he would never be without it again. His feet move without his doing, hitting the ground soundlessly as he races toward the other end of his string.

He feels strong. Tireless. Tears blur his vision, but there is no wind to sting, no friction, and all he needs is to follow that red path.

Something up ahead. A clump. It’s enough to slow him down, to make him dry his eyes so they can focus. Their bow, their frayed ends. It must be. He can see it a ways off, and it’s enough to put his feet back in motion, knowing―knowing―that equidistant to him, on the other end, is his heart, two days missing and counting.

His lungs don’t burn. His feet don’t go numb. These motions should come with a cost, especially given his age, but they feel effortless. He looses a laugh as he runs, exhilaration and adrenaline carrying him faster as the bow draws ever closer.

The other end is in sight, the thread shrinking to mere meters now, its tail lifting off the ground, bobbing, moving. “Kyungsoo!” he shouts, his voice shocking himself with how clear it sounds despite it cracking. “Kyungsoo!”

He hears a voice saying something in return, but momentum is against him this time and he barrels right into a soft mass, sending them over tea kettle together in a tangled mess of limbs. The pain from the collision is so far from his mind as first contact returns his vision. The darkness is still around them, but he can see the figure before him, as well as himself, as if they were perfectly illuminated by some unseen light.

Jongin chokes on another gasp as familiar eyes meet his. The face… “Kyungsoo,” he whispers, the word tilting up into a question, as if he was actually doubting the possibility. Underneath him is a boy, no older than twenty-five, baby fat still padding his cheeks. His brows are jet black instead of the salt and pepper that Jongin’s mocked for the last decade. His skin is so smooth and flawless. Jongin pokes his cheek in awe, wa