The trills from below keep her up at night. Not that Seungwan minds, as the soft notes waft into the cavity of her ear, feathering along the walls as it fills the space with what Seungwan likes to call an anti-lullaby. She giggles at the thought (it doesn't exactly sound appealing). The first time Seungwan heard the voice, nearly two years ago, it stilled her; her eyes glossing over as the stars outside faded into the distance and all that was left was a kind of magnetic purity. She notices its growth over the stretch of the seasons: progressing and fine-tuning from a hatchling to a blue heron, until its wings oozed strength and elegance all at once. Darwin would be proud, Seungwan thinks. She embraces her own puffed chest and curved lips, allowing herself to marinate in the musing that this must be what her parents felt when she received her first academic award all those years ago. She wonders how they are, if they're okay, until the melody tugs her back to the sentient world.

In its purest form, hues of sky and steel embedded into the sap of the voice's tune. But sometimes, a deep sapphire emerged, suffusing into the light shades and puncturing its weight with a jagged edge; stuttering along Seungwan's spine until it reached her heart. A heavy black permeated through the air then, bounced off the walls in a terrifying adagio. In those moments, as Seungwan felt the same throbbing underneath her ribcage as the voice emanated below - Seungwan wished she was asleep.

Shut your yammering! the body next to her stomps a foot onto the hardwood floor beside the bed, the sound muffled by a yellow, fuzzy sock. Seungwan's brows crease as the voice comes to a bleeding halt, but her frown soon dissipates into the dust-filled room as a sigh escapes her lips. The woman just wants to sleep, after all.

Even in death, Seungwan suffers as an empath. As the night drifts away into the damp street lamps, carrying a poor excuse for real sunlight, Seungwan closes the curtains over her eyes. Until tomorrow.

-

Dawn is brisk when the birds sing their good mornings. Seungwan slips out of her dormancy, sparing a glance at the lurid, red digits on the bedside table.

6:00 AM

Ten minutes before Mrs. Choi slams a hand down on the alarm button before rolling over onto her back, sleep-drunk for another five minutes, although Seungwan is never sure whether she actually dips into slumber during this time. Seungwan watches her chest swell and her breaths escape in a sigh before the older woman finally drags her feet out of bed, the hardwood squeaking as fuzzy socks slide into house slippers easily. But this routine: bathroom duties for twenty minutes then a quick coffee and steamed bun to-go, Seungwan knows like clockwork. By the time 6:30am rolls around, Mrs. Choi is in the hallway, her heels clacking for a moment before the lock clicks.