Eunha led Sungyeol through the gloomy woods which was filled with the sounds of night and crowded with inky shadows. Had Sungyeol been able to discern, he would have seen the haunted eyes of men glaring at him from out those dreadful shadows, warning, shouting, and crying, "Danger!" But he was completely ignorant of them, perfectly unaware.

  The sliver of moon hanging in the sky was quickly hidden behind a black pall of storm clouds. Far in the distance, lightning appeared like white veins across the sky, and drops of rain began to fall gently on the treetops. Thunder began to rumble lowly. The ground ahead began to be dotted by splotches of rain; puddles formed and mud squelched at every footfall. They had to hurry, or else the storm would catch them before they reached the hut. Yet it was all fun for them.

  Eunha's hut was in view, not far ahead, and it had taken on the appearance of a log cabin. With a delighted sigh, Eunha opened the creaking door to her hut and let Sungyeol in. Though the rain gathered in strength, the two chose to stand by the door and observe the small miracle occurring before their eyes. It was a steady, easy-on-the-ears percussion performance for the two of them. Sungyeol was more than glad to have listened to Eunha; without a doubt, the storm would have caught him on the way home.

  The shadow children on the wall were still- frightened, thinking of the horrible mischief Eunha would play on her male visitor. She never brought people over, but when she did, it was a nightmare too horrible to mention. While Sungyeol stood by the door listening to the rain, she cast a spell to hide the shadow children and conceal all trace of her ghastly instruments.

  Sungyeol closed the door behind him and looked around with a slightly parted mouth. A small fire at the end of the hut provided some clarity, though large portions of the home were covered in darkness.

  This is where she lives, he thought. Her cabin home seemed cozy, an almost exact replica of what he imagined it might have been. It embodied warmth and the purest form of love, that between parent and child.

  As he looked some more, he noted her mother's absence, so he inquired with a worried expression, "The storm, Eunha! Where's your mother in this storm?!"

  Eunha replied with a confident voice, "She knows the forest all too well, and this is not the first storm that has caught her. She is fine. There are multiple places for her to take refuge, and if I know my mother, she will return as soon as the rain stops. We would get lost, however."

  The solicitous look in Sungyeol's eyes lingered for a while as he wondered whether he should go looking for Eunha's mother or not. He moved closer to the door, quietly telling himself that he had to, because her mother was in danger outside. However, Eunha grabbed him by the arm and reassured him with such an air of confidence that he felt his qualms settle and finally fade away.

  She pulled a great rocking chair out of the shadows, told him to sit, and threw some firewood into the hearth. The fire leapt, and more of her home was disclosed so that it appeared to double or triple in size. Beautiful glass tables, furniture wrought in a baroque fashion with gold-accented details, and ornate tapestries hanging on the walls- everywhere he looked, he discovered something new to look at. At first, he could not help but be amazed by how much fit inside the hut, by how big it actually was, and by all the expensive stuff. However, as he kept gazing at all the hut was furnished with, he became aware of a disappointment growing inside, a cold disillusion; how this "stuff," this vanity, crowded the home and stripped away the humble charm he at first thought it was imbued with.

  Everything until now had made Sungyeol think of Eunha as the diametric opposite of the word vain. So was he wrong about her? No, he thought, I don't think she is.

  He began to rock in his chair, in that one object that felt like it truly belonged there, in the place he first thought it may have been. Slowly rocking, he amused himself with his thoughts. How warm a family Eunha and her mother must be! Together, the two of them alone in this little parcel of paradise, not quite an idyllic wonderland but still possessed of a rustic charm, lived in peace, away from the clamor of society, the rumble of machines, and the thunder of gossip and rumors. Yes, this place was proof that fantasy was real.

  He felt his faith rekindle- a weak, guttering flame of hope. It was a hope not in man or man's devices, perhaps in God, but hope in that distant, long-forgotten dream of quiet solitude and peace.

  Sungyeol may have wanted to talk and discover more about his new friend Eunha, but he was denied that pleasure. In that chair, which rocked at a measured pace with a pleasing creaking sound, he found that sleep had begun to overcome him. The fire was warm, the cheeks on Eunha were ruddy, and the rain outside persisted in its drumming rhythm- all of which contributed to an irresistible, nearly intoxicating languor. The busy furniture seemed to magically vanish; everything appeared to vanish. His eyes grew heavy, his vision blurry, and his breaths slowed down, as did his heartbeat.

  A comforting feeling of real peace wrapped itself around him, hushing all thoughts of work and the world. The lovely face of a young lady, seemingly half-divine, was impressed upon his mind and followed him into his sweet dreams. Yes, even in sleep, he felt his heart touched by such a picture of beauty, of youth incarnate: eyes that caught the fire and shone with honey-like glints; a small mouth with rounded, crimson lips that adorned a porcelain face oozing in softness, in tenderness; a serene countenance framed by a mass of long and slightly wavy hair, of a shade darker than black. Even so, that all-too-human impulse of suspicion lurked not too far behind in the background of his quieting thoughts, suggesting that, possibly, this was all too good to be true.

  "Preposterous," he mumbled as he yielded to sleep.

  His rest was pleasant- without tossing and turning, without interruption- a long, long sleep. Slowly, he rose his drooping eyelids, noting a flood of sunshine lighting the hut and something like a figure looming over him. Still in the state between sleep and wakefulness, he was unsure of what he saw, the figure appearing like a dim, nightmarish blur. Then he yawned and stretched his limbs. After he rubbed his eyes, he nearly gasped. Naturally, he was startled by the sudden awareness that he was not alone, but as he took in the sight of the figure before him, he leapt up from his chair and, suppressing the urge to embrace, clapped his hands together as he expressed relief.

  "Oh, thank God! You must be Eunha's mother," he said with a beaming smile, extending his hand to be shaken. "I'm Sungyeol," he continued as he drew back his hand, seeing that his gesture was not reciprocated. He straightened his tweed suit, coughed, and, with an expression that alluded to a sense of shame, said, "I sincerely apologize for staying here last night without your consent. But your daughter truly saved me. I would've surely lost my way in the forest and with the storm- boy, it's cold here." He shivered and drew his jacket closer to him.

  She stood unmoved.

  It was an old, ancient personage wrapped in a dark shawl standing in front of him. She may have been the veritable embodiment of death for her face was emaciated, drawn and seamed, and of a bone-white flesh. Thin wisps of pure white hair came down to her hips, but, above all, it was the eyes that drew Sungyeol's attention. Small amber beads with barely any fire, barely any life, glinted dimly from hollow sockets. She may have inspired horror in anyone who looked upon her face, but not so Sungyeol. His heart was moved with compassion. Not pity, but compassion.

  How many years had she lived? How much must she have suffered and endured? How many losses had she lived through? How many tears had she shed? Even now, when her bones seemed barely able to support her, she stood. She lived past all the pain and sorrow- past everything. And now stood before him.

  Sungyeol's heart was stricken, pierced by a palpable sense of misery emanating from her eyes. In those small, flickering, dying embers, he felt he could trace a history of misery with little to no reprieve. A life besieged by suffering, battered, and smitten to the dust by Time. He was sure Eunha was her only joy in life, the lone reason she clung to life. And being so, he instinctively knew he must not let himself fall in love with Eunha; he knew he must not bereave her of her daughter.

  Of course, this "mother" was none other than Eunha herself, deprived of beauty and youth. This was the real Eunha, without pretense, but not without her guard. Although she saw no horror in his eyes and no disappointment that she had not appeared as a lovely youth, she felt it was law that he would soon betray her. Within a small while, she affirmed, he would become disgusted by her presence or else seek out the Eunha he knew. Yes, the game had yet to end, but when this frivolous engagement would conclude, it would be the same as all the others. The same as all the others... Was that what she honestly wanted? No- a small, but clear "no" sounded in her head, and she became cognizant of something. The witch was surprised to discover that a small part of her might want things to turn out differently than what she imagined would be the case.

  Her heart was ice, but a fracture- a tiny, hairline crack- had appeared. She realized that a real part of her wanted to be wrong. That Sungyeol was, in fact, different from all who came before him. That Sungyeol saw with a different pair of eyes, eyes capable of beholding more than transitory beauty. An old, unpleasant memory arose, as if in response to her realization. The witch recalled the painful, bitter feeling of cold, callous betrayal at the time her friends and family persecuted her to death. So intense was the memory and so cogent was its argument that it immediately silenced all other thoughts and suppressed any possible protest.

  Yes, the witch told herself. Sungyeol would do likewise, and she would be left with an incurable wound. No. The pain of his betrayal would be added to the wound left so many centuries ago because that initial wound had never truly healed, although she maintained it did.

  Notwithstanding, it would be a lie to say she did not enjoy his company in her own particular way. She thought of his sensibility and found appreciation for it. His musings were fascinating to her. So what then? What if she let him live with her until eternity, not as a pet of sorts but as a friend? Yes, she liked the sound of that.

  She kept a quiet reserve, which Sungyeol took as meaning that he was unwelcome. He felt himself probed by her two eyes, as if in search of malice, as if he were being judged as to whether or not he was worthy of Eunha's attention and kindness.

  The lazy warmth of the night prior had faded and been exchanged for an uncomfortable cold like that of early January. A sideways glance afforded him a view of the hearth and the dead fire. Then his teeth began to chatter slightly. How quickly had the weather changed overnight inside the forest, he thought. Then it struck him how much colder the old woman in front of him must be.

  He quickly approached the hearth and tried in vain to start a fire. He was clueless when it came to such tasks and only wished he knew. He glanced up to see the frail woman draw near. A smile crept up his lips. It was almost humorous to him, finding himself being helped by the person he intended to help. All of his attention was focused on the hands of Eunha's mother. They moved fluidly with zero thought, working like magic to produce the primordial miracle of fire, like how his brush swept across the board, rarely hesitating, to the end that a painting came out- yes, often he would feel qualms about the vulgar nature of it, but that inherent pride that comes upon the completion of a painting was something impossible for him to deny.

  To show his appreciation, Sungyeol drew the rocking chair he had slept in the night before close to the fire and offered it to her. She bowed her head low as in a nod and sat, never once making a noise. She rocked, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Sungyeol stood beside her, unsure of what to do. He wanted to speak with her, but at the same time he felt compelled to remain silent for fear of saying something that might cause a misunderstanding or make her think he was interested in Eunha for more than just friendship. The clock was also ticking as he remembered he would have to leave soon for work or else lose his flat.

  In the midst of his haste, he found his attention arrested by the sight of Eunha's mother rocking peacefully in her chair. The steady sound of creaking wood and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds heard in the hut. The fire danced in her eyes. She was his complete opposite. Time seemed to be of no matter to her, as though she had seen all the effects of Time, and had run the gamut of experience.

  His anxiousness appeared small all of a sudden. The persistent creaking and the mere sight of her instilled a type of solace in him. He was reminded of how often he saw his father return tired from work only to slouch into his favorite chair. He was reminded of how sweet his mother looked in her sleep after cooking the Christmas feast: glazed ham with all the ts. An urge to cry a little grew inside as he longed to go back to those dream-like days. But they were far away, along with all the dreams of the 20s. And he smiled a little, thinking to himself how far life had brought him.

  A precocious child whose abilities foretold of a bright artistic future, his parents promoted the growth of his talents by enrolling him in art courses, taught by teachers who simultaneously embraced the old masters as well as contemporary techniques. At age 19, he was a freelance artist who painted and illustrated for fashion magazines, news publications, and everything in between. Having set high standards for himself, he only took work that allowed him to keep a sense of dignity and a hint of class.

  Nearly a decade later, everything slowly began to change as his art was requested less and less and payments began to be delayed. Most of his time was spent looking for work opportunities, but they were becoming few and far between as many magazine publications ceased operations. He looked at the world outside his studio, and a change had transpired, wherein fear was rampant and peace and stability seemed perpetually uncertain. Overnight his bank closed, unable to pay back its debts, and all his savings went with the closing.

  His home was next to leave. Happiness was whisked away like the morning mist. Sungyeol was out on the streets, preferring to somehow find a way for himself rather than let his aging parents bear his burden. It was not long before his whole world collapsed, however. His parents died, one after the other, as a result of tuberculosis, and Sungyeol was left an orphan in the world.

  Ah, he mused. That was not the end of his story.

  The economy going to the dung heap did not have the final laugh. The deaths of his parents wounded and scarred him, but grief did not have the final word on his life. He wanted to live.

  He scrubbed dishes, worked as a Greek translator, hauled cargo on the docks, drove around delivering merchandise to stores- all he could do to make ends meet. Finally, he found work with first one pulp publisher, and then several others. Morality was compromised, and principles ignored, as he found himself painting the opposite of what he considered art. There was no subtlety nor grace to speak of; rather, he found himself immersed in the stark colors of and sin. It was a matter of survival, but it left him numb, and he often delved deep into thought, asking himself what he wanted in life, only to run away before answering.

  All this was before the age of thirty. His beginnings- reading "The Brown Fairy Book" and falling in love with Henry J. Ford's elaborate ink plates or poring over Sidney H. Syme's dream-like works, which were like gothic visions of a world rife with mysticism and beauty- seemed an eternity ago. His artistic origin, drawing all the classical heroes, Heracles and Perseus, along with all the gods of Olympus, may as well never have been.

  The old woman shifted herself in her seat. He took a deep intake of air, relaxing himself a little. Surely, this woman had gone through more, and yet she seemed perfectly at peace, at peace with her past, her present, and her mortal end. Still, that distinct feeling of pain he earlier noted remained beneath this surface peace, so that she could be described as something like a paradox. She was like a calm island surrounded by whirlpools and fast currents, with a storm always looming on the horizon.

  She inspired him somehow. With what? With courage, perhaps; with strength to let go of pain and bitterness, to let such emotions flow by him instead of holding on to them to his hurt. Because a certain bitterness had lodged itself in his heart, a cold disillusionment with the world at large never seemed far behind but stalked him at every bend. He was ready to let go.

  "I have to leave now, ma'am. I have to go to work. Thank you." He finally found words to say, yet was unsure if they should have been said at all, finding this place and time, this now, akin to his vision of the ideal.

  Suddenly, the old woman grasped his arm, just as she had done the evening prior when she assumed the guise of a young woman. She was looking directly at him, and upon seeing those eyes marked by weariness and untold suffering, he smiled. He smiled to let her know he would be fine, because, as he looked, there was no mistaking that he saw Eunha (him thinking that Eunha was her daughter) in the old woman, or rather, Eunha's concern over him. It touched him. That was the definition of beauty to him: to worry over another person, to make space inside to think of others, was what he felt surpassed the plainly superficial meaning of the term which dealt only with outer appearances.

  Eunha, however, was nearly bewildered by the smile. What did he mean by it? It was forced. Out of courtesy, she told herself. Her grasp was slowly loosening. She saw him carefully pull away. So, she instinctively called out in a hoarse voice, "Stay!"

  She pulled back her hand, feeling embarrassed at herself. He was not miles away; he was right there, next to her; there was no reason to shout. Nonetheless, she spoke, saying, "You are already late for work, so why the haste? The world will keep on spinning regardless."

  Sungyeol felt his heart warm up at her concern. He presumed that Eunha (thinking they were two separate people) had told her about his work and assumed that the elderly mother might have thought his haste might in some way present danger to him, such as a fall or worse.

  "I sincerely appreciate your concern, ma'am, but it is time I take my leave." He smiled again. "I'd like to think that, somehow, I'm still in time to turn in my painting to the publisher." He paused for a split second. A certain light was in his eyes. "If I may ask, would you- if it's not much of a bother, ma'am- would it be fine if I came-" He hesitated again and decided it was wrong for him to obtrude himself upon their family time together, which he deemed too precious a thing to spoil by his presence.

  He stood straighter than before, as if presenting himself for her approval. "Thank you, ma'am, for everything. Eunha had said she'd lead me out of the forest, but I'll find my way somehow."

  The witch was silent, still processing the idea of him leaving but, more than that, the idea that he was winning the game. The witch had an inkling of a thought that he was unaffected by her frightful appearance. Unheard of. Absurd. Unthinkable.

  In truth, this "inkling" had surfaced from the moment he awoke and saw her, but she had denied it and had assured herself that he would soon show his true colors and be disgusted by her.

  So she grasped at straws, trying to unearth what was not there. "You detest my ugliness? My age? Do I frighten you enough to make you want to leave?"

  "No! Of course not!" He took a step back, surprised at himself for having answered so loudly. He was disappointed, angry, and sad all at once. All the while, he maintained his attention on her, never once turning aside.

  Having their eyes locked together, Eunha felt her heart sink. Truth vibrated in his voice- truth that said he was not afraid of her, much less disgusted. She saw something completely different than repulsion in his eyes. She saw a reflection of herself, staring back with such poignant force that the memory of it would be branded inside her mind and not leave, although a thousand years should have passed. 

  What to do then, the game having ended? She had to keep him there. Forever.

  But could she?