Silence reigns over an old temple by the ruined palace
A tall tree in the setting sun makes an onlooker sad.
Chilly fog spreads – the lingering dreams of monks
On the broken pagoda, time-stacked layers of dust.
Where a royal bird would soar, nameless birds fly
Where azaleas bloom no more, sheep and cattle graze.
The overlooking mountain may recall pomp and glory
Did it know that spring would quickly turn to autumn.
– Hwang Jini near the end of her career

Ga Eul cradled the mug of hot chocolate Yi Jeong had prepared for her in an attempt to calm her; she was shaken by the vision she'd had and by the fall she'd taken but otherwise intact. He'd wanted to take her to the hospital, certain that she'd received a nasty bump on the head if she'd had another hallucination. Yi Jeong had also said the ghostly figure they'd seen must have been a trick of the light.

Perhaps he was right that she'd bumped her head when she'd fallen down—maybe she'd momentarily out—but then how had she known what the painting she'd landed on looked like? She'd seen the painting in her dream. And why didn't her head hurt if she'd hit it so hard?

No, she remembered seeing the painting right after she fell—landing on her stomach, but thankfully, catching herself on her arms. The lone basement light that had been on at the time had illuminated the hand scroll that unrolled itself when it fell to the floor. Her right hand had landed on top of the scroll, holding it open, and then that strange, chilly sensation, like wind spiraling all around her, had begun again, and she'd been into darkness, then into another world.

She couldn't explain it.

At least Yi Jeong had the rest of the basement lights, and now that she could see all the various objects piled down there—posters from past exhibitions, various artworks, and a huge collection of brown storage boxes—she felt mildly better and more grounded in reality. The hot chocolate soothed her as it warmed her hands and throat.

In the corner of her vision, Yi Jeong picked up the hand scroll she had discovered in the basement and examined it closely with a frown on his face. The unframed painting was in the same style as the one she'd been defending previously—that tender yet melancholy depiction of a woman standing on a hill, looking out at her lover sailing away across a lake. Perhaps he was wondering why the museum had salvaged—not one, but two!— such inferior artworks.

Well, Ga Eul thought they were beautiful and heartbreaking, and now that she had discovered the second one, she was far too curious to confirm if they were a match. To see if their torn edges aligned. The painting upstairs had been ripped on its right side; curiously, the painting Yi Jeong held had been ripped on its left side. Both paintings looked like complete scenes by themselves—one was somber in tone, while the other one was hopeful—but perhaps they had been part of a panel that told a story. Her mind had seemed to think so, anyway, when she'd envisioned the farmer's daughter holding a single scroll with the paintings joined together.

"Sunbae...do you think...we should check if the two paintings go together?" Ga Eul asked, grazing her thumb over the rim of her mug. "Sunbae?" she asked again when Yi Jeong didn't answer right away. As he stared at the painting, his expression transformed from studious to...to...It was almost as if he were in pain. Were those...tears in his eyes?

"Sunbae?" she asked, softening her voice. "Sunbae?"

Sorrow consumed Yi Jeong, though the painting he held in his hands depicted a lovely, serene scene. But it was a scene never to be repeated. His love—the woman who, with her unskilled hands, had so lovingly painted the two of them standing together in their meeting place on the hill overlooking the lake—would never return. She had died, his personal guard had informed him. Once he'd gotten past his initial rage and shock at her betrayal, the prince had realized something was amiss. Despite the lies his father had so cunningly planted in his mind, he could not imagine that his love would ever abandon him. Thus, he'd had the matter investigated secretly and had found she'd been killed by a woman who'd wanted to marry him, someone his father had urged him to marry because she came from a prominent family.

He'd wanted to give his love the world; he'd wanted to protect her, and he had failed.

As he sat in his personal library, studying the torn painting, tears pricked his eyes. His blue silk hanbok patterned with four-toed dragon emblems—a symbol of his wealth and status as the crown prince—felt like a weight around his shoulders. He would have given it all up for her.

Overcome with grief, he couldn't hold the painting up anymore and set it down on his desk. He wasn't sure he could ever look at it again and not feel overwhelming guilt.

And so, he would give up everything for her—all of his material possessions.

He would not take the throne.

He would never love another. Rather, he would become a monk and live out the rest of his days with her sweet voice always in the back of his mind, calling him...calling him...

Sunbae...Sunbae…

"Sunbae?" A shake to his shoulder snapped Yi Jeong out of his trance, and he stumbled back, nearly dropping the painting.

"What?" Yi Jeong jerked his head up to look at Ga Eul, and a tear sprung from his eye and rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Sunbae, what's wrong?" Ga Eul's eyes widened in alarm. She stood next to him, her mug of hot chocolate forgotten on the table where the coffee maker sat.

"Ah, nothing. It's nothing. I just…" Yi Jeong glanced at the painting again, furrowing his brows. The faded image of the hanbok-clad man and woman holding hands underneath a cherry tree was an amateurish piece, like the painting Ga Eul had fretted over upstairs, but something about it haunted him. "The painting, it's—"

"You felt like you were there, didn't you?" Ga Eul asked gently.

"What?" Yi Jeong had been going to say that the painting was another odd choice for the museum, lacking in skill as it was, for surely he couldn't have been where he thought he had been—in a prince's library during the Joseon dynasty. He'd gotten lost in thought; that was all.

"You felt like you were in the painting, right?" Ga Eul continued. "That's what happened to me earlier when I fell. I even saw...it was like my mind created a whole story around the couple in the painting...And before that, when I was looking at the painting upstairs, suddenly I felt like I was the woman standing on the hill overlooking the lake. I could feel the cold wind. I could see the sunlight on the water. It was like I was inside the painting. Did that happen to you?"

Disturbed by her words, Yi Jeong shook his head, deciding to answer truthfully.

"No," he answered.

"No?" Ga Eul frowned.

"I wasn't in the painting. I was looking at the painting. But not now. In the past. I was sitting in a prince's library, and I felt so sad."

Ga Eul gasped, and Yi Jeong glanced at her face. Her eyes were lit with emotion.

"I felt sad too! And hopeless. Like I'd lost someone I loved very much, and I knew I would never have the chance to be with them again." As she said this, her voice trembled with urgency, and she never broke eye contact with Yi Jeong. He hadn't realized they were standing so close to each other until that moment—he wasn't even an arm's width from he