You ponder the young man sitting in front of you. Full cheeks, a pleasant disposition, and an aura of calm are what you can distinguish so far. 

Infuriating.

You clack another white piece onto the go board. His face pinches in concentration, before relaxing as he slots his piece into place.

Immediately, before his hand is even fully retracted, you slam a piece into position. He jumps, but then smiles and, as a pigeon reshuffles its feathers, settles back just as immovable as before. 

You scowl, hiding your face behind your long, black hair. Upon lifting your head, you smile nastily at him as you await his move. 

Click. Another black stone, and the shapings of a fortress begin to emerge. Unacceptable.

You are hungry; all the meals in the world would not feed the fire in your belly. But you think that wiping the smile off this man’s face would help.

Clack. You smugly evade his maneuver. In spite of appearances, this man is no different than all that came before him. They all came to you mighty and confident, and left with their tails between their legs. Breaking him down will be a pleasure, and you cannot wait for it.

But the process is slow. His too-gentle expression muses over the board, and a too-graceful hand sweeps over to place a piece to the far left of the board.

It confounds you, for a second. But you shake that off easily--if he makes a fatal mistake like that, so be it. You will have no mercy. None was shown to you.

You continue your pattern, placing white pieces alongside each other. Excitement begins to build in you--finally, after all your bluffing, you see a straight path to victory and you can defeat this imposter, this Buddha-like man, this false god in front of you. 

He hums a little, cracks his neck. You look at the soft flesh, and wish to spring across the room to wrap your fingers around it, squeezing and strangling with strength that you never had before. But you force yourself to be patient, to wait for the satisfaction of his downfall properly, with the attitude that you were praised for when you were--

Click. 

The sound seems to echo in your soul, as you stare uncomprehendingly at the board. A black line connects the stones, and you are trapped.

You are trapped. You were caught up in your excitement and you know it is your fault but that only increases the swells of rage within you. 

Stones clatter and slide as the go board smashes to the ground. This man is insufferable, and cruel, and if you could only grab him by the collar of his robe and--

The strum of a lute interrupts your thoughts. You turn to look, and he has a soulful expression on his face as he begins to sing. 

It is unlike the hurried, low chanting of men dripping nervous energy that you are used to. It is melodic, more reminiscent of a folk ballad with high tones and low dips that his voice masterfully traverses.

It reminds you of a song you used to know, and you are forced into a river of memories, jagged recollections rending your flesh until you are broken.

Your father, face and body twisted in grief. Your mother, face impassive as she stirs the hearth, wondering if the heat of the coals is enough to make her feel something again. 

The day of your marriage--it had rained but no one minded, the warmth of huddling together under the eaves bringing forth a genuine, giddy joy. 

The fatalistic comfort of your cat’s fur with an increasingly frail hand.

It hurts. A phantom heart clenches, eye sockets sting and burn with dry tears. 

What are you doing? 

The gate is open, and the pain, which once washed over you like a flood, puddles around your ankles. You are tired. Exhausted, lungs that pump no air complaining, eyelids which won’t close aching to rest.

But you are scared, too.

You know you are good, deep in your core. You don’t know if that is enough.

You know without asking that he cannot tell you. You are certain that he doesn’t know, either. 

Instead, he reaches out to you, taking your skeletal hand into his. You cannot feel the warmth, and that dully resounds within your already broken soul. You push your hair out of your face, seeking desperately to look into his eyes, half afraid of what you might find there. 

In spite of your decomposition, he looks not disgusted or afraid, but sorrowful. It is not pity, but something deeper, something softer. It is kindness, a gift you have not seen since you entered this form. It feels like the soft bedding of your futon in the autumn months.

You lean your head on his shoulder, and you rest.

--

“Hyung!” Multiple voices exclaim as he walks through the door. Minho’s book closed in his palms, Jonghyun paused in his pacing, and Kibum and Taemin looked up from the fire in hearth. 

“How did it go, hyung?” Taemin asks the question that hangs heavy in the air. 

He smiles at them, assures them that it went well and he is fine. He gently returns the lute to Jonghyun, before yawning and stretching. He bids each member a good night.

He goes to bed smelling of incense.