Her tiny fingers trace over the identical lines sitting on the wrists of both her parents. Their soulmarks lay in its inky grey tone just under the thin skin on the side of their arm, both an exact replica of each others’ in its pattern and placement.

“Byul-ah,” her mother gently drew her attention to what she’s saying, “do you know what these lines are for?”

“Soulmark!” Byulyi’s eyes lit up, and she looked at her mother eagerly for acknowledgement.

“Such a smart girl!” Her cheeks were pinched fondly as her father rained praises on her.

She sat and listened in absolute fascination as her parents explained it all to her. They painted her the most vivid of images, of soulmarks, Fated ones and love. Throughout it all, Byulyi thought that the prettiest image of all, was the one of the three of them in that very moment, hand in hand, with the love between her parents so palpable Byulyi could almost understand what it meant. 

“In this world, everybody is half of a whole. That means, to make one whole Byulyi, you will need to find your other half somewhere out there. Your Fated one. See this mark? This will be different for everyone else in the world, except for your Fated one, who will have the same as yours. Now, this will only appear on your wrist when you turn 21 years old, and only if you’ve already met your Fated man. This is how you know, you’re meant to love this man forever and ever.”

“What if my Fated one doesn’t like me?”

“Well, he will, because that’s what Fate means, that he will love you just as you will love him. Understand?”

Ten years later, and Byulyi doesn’t think she understands. The picture perfect image of the soulmate bond in her mind gets tainted each time there are vicious words thrown around their small home, when vases shatter onto the ground in anger and the dinner chairs get knocked out of their place at the table. When there is nothing but frozen silence clinging onto the walls, and home doesn’t feel like home. 

Byulyi shrugs the thin jacket tighter around herself, focusing on putting one feet ahead of the other and keeping her vision unblurred by her tears. Around her were the bustling night crowds of Seoul, passing her by in pairs and groups. 

There was also this one voice, carried high above the throngs of people into the night sky. Byulyi follows it, drawn to the lulling and sweet tone like a moth to a flame. There, in the centre of a circle of onlookers, was a girl engulfed in a blanket of a coat almost bigger than she was. Her fingers nimbly plucked out the notes of the song, as she sings the words that seem to find their way into the etches of Byulyi’s heart. 

Maeil bam cheot beonjjae byeoreul bomyeonseo

geudaega jal jinaegil gidoreul haeyo

beoreusi dwaebeorin haneul bogi

geureohge nan maeireul geudael chajayo

Byulyi sat at a bench just shy from the crowds of people, but still close enough to hear the busker’s voice loud and clear. She closes her eyes, letting the tender voice numb the turmoil in her.

The busker sings another set of songs, and as it gets later into the night, her audience thinned out until just a few stood by to listen to her whilst eating the steamed sweet potatoes from the stall nearby. She lets the last notes of the guitar ring out, before timidly thanking her audience. 

“Hey, are you alone?” The same voice that almost sang Byul to sleep brought her out of her thoughts, as the busker from earlier now stood in front of her, guitar on her back. Now, up close, with the moonlight shining through the loose strands of her hair from behind, she looks even more ethereal than ever. 

Byul nods quickly and the girl sits down on the bench next to her, just an inch too close for someone who was practically a stranger. 

“It's almost midnight, why are you here all alone?” Byul had to tear her eyes away from that girl’s face just to focus on answering the question. 

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” Byul replied, tucking her hands into her pockets. 

“What do you mean? You look like you’re my age, don’t you have to go home to your parents? Aren’t they worried about you being out so late?” The girl asks, the look in her eyes so earnest and sincere that Byul forgets her fear of this girl being anything but just friendly and curious. 

“I’m 16,” she starts, before bowing her head to hide a sad smile that followed, “and as for my parents, they would have called yesterday if they really were worried.”

“You’ve been here for two days?”

“Walking around these streets, mostly, but yeah. Two days.’

The girl shifted her gaze away, looking at war with herself as to whether or not to probe further about that fact. 

“Just ask it.” Byul laughed internally over the way the stranger wrote her struggle all over her face.

“Well,” a sharp breath, then she continues, “want to talk about it? Apparently it’s easier to talk to strangers about your problems than it is to open up to people you know. I have thirty minutes till my sister picks me up anyways.”

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