"Ghosts live here."

The rickety old door was pushed open to reveal an entryway littered with cobwebs.

"Good thing for you." The gentleman stepped into the cottage. An explosion of dust motes careened over the dank space. "I don't believe in them." He whistled—"What a mess."—and proceeded to pluck a string dangling from one of the overhead beams. A rain of dust came toppling down onto his boots and up his freshly pressed trousers. He sneered at the floor.

"I would advise you not to touch anything until we're in agreement that you'll be buying the house," came the feeble voice of the other man. The light from outside framed his hunched-over silhouette. He planted his cane firmly on the ground with each successive step further into the dimly lit abode.

The younger bowed in apology. "Though, I can't imagine anyone's lived here before." He took note of the mismatched towels hung up over the kitchen wall's curved gap. Of the four, one was a purple so vibrant that he postulated the color had been nothing short of man-made. "At least, not anytime soon."

"You're right. It's been a few decades since my last tenant."

The gentleman grimaced. "Decades?" He laughed to ease the flurry of doubt within but the sound came out stilted. He directed his gaze to the stone hearth at the forefront of the living room. "What a beautiful area." He dusted the bricks with the back of his hand. "Did you know? Most homeowners these days tend to favor blanketing up in fear of calling upon Cserx to grant them a year's worth of warm fires." He finished with swiping his white handkerchief over the area he was planning to take a seat on.

The old man remained attentive to the seemingly bottomless, black pit within the hearth. There were only three logs curled up around the ashes like he had last left them. "Someone died there."

The gentleman screeched as he stood straight back up.

"No, not there. Over there." The old man pointed to the other half of the hearth.

"Mr. Jeon, please." The gentleman reached down to pluck the handkerchief from the hearth's stones. "Enough with your games."

Jungkook smiled. He reached up to rub the back of his wrinkly hand over the parched skin on his cheek. "Do you know the story of the swan?"

"That silly nursery rhyme?" The gentleman scoffed. "Clearly. There's not a child within the city of Noseraas who hasn't. A 'tried and true' warning to be on one's best behavior lest the Wombledon Witch curse you."

Jungkook pulled a chair up to the center of the fireplace. He sat facing the entryway. "But do you know the story of the swan?"

"You don't mean an animal has a tale to tell?" He furrowed his eyebrows, a grimace pulling either corner of his puckered lips tight over his face.

Jungkook smiled softly.

Three turns of the sun until Saturday. Jungkook stepped over a shrubbery. A thrush darted past. In his haste to make a path for the speeding bird, he tripped over the coiled roots of a very familiar plant. Eyes alight, Jungkook turned his head around to see that his original assumption held true. Pressed in around a pile of fallen twigs was a Gojak tree.

Measuring no more than a foot in height, the tree's rope-like branches held a scattered cluster of ripe Gojak's—violet berries whose thick, outer skin changed color with each new peel. Tiny raised bumps along the flesh were what gave the fruit its scrumptious flavor. The stories went that the Gojak's were so much a rarity that even the King of some neighboring country never had them lined up during a feast.

Jungkook swallowed the