I don’t see Kris for three years.  No matter how many times a day I trek in secret or how far I get through the forest, the only buffalo I see are those that raise their chocolate brown heads to blink at me before they continue grazing.

                So it takes me by surprise when I’ve long since traded daily searches for weekly ones, and I spot a thin trail of scattered white fur across a particularly steep section of the forest.  It continues down farther through the land in the opposite direction, but I take my chances.  My heart thumps back and forth in my chest as I take cautious steps down the slope, picking up the fur along the way.  When the trail ends, I glance around desperately because I’ve never been this close, never had so much hope.  It thrums in my chest, burns up my throat, threatens to shatter me if I’m wrong.

                “Kris?” I croak hoarsely into the air.  I grasp the dirt-covered fur in my hand, press it against the side of my thigh as I shut my eyes and tell myself he’s here, he’s here, I can feel it.

                I’m about to take a deep breath and continue searching through the other side of the trail when I hear a soft grunt and my eyes flutter open at the sound, my legs paralyzed when I see him before me.  He trots toward me and my arm, and then my face is in his neck, my fingers weaving through the tufts of white atop his head.  I pull back and get a good look at him, taking in his slightly darkened coat—a light beige color—and how large he’s become, his shoulders strong, his horns grown.  There’s still a hint of childlike roundness to his eyes, a curious look in the way they shine.

                He swipes his tongue over half my face, but I’m far past the days when I would flinch back in disgust, so I rub the side of his head in adoration.  A few strands come out in my fingers, and I glance down at the fur that I dropped a minute ago.

                “Is it shedding season?” I ask, and he nods his head once.  Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me that he can understand me.

                But then I realize that all the fur leaves potential for Sehun and Jongin to run home hollering that the white buffalo is back, and I can’t afford for another scare.  So I tell him to go back, that we’ll find each other again, I swear.  Kris presses his nose against my neck and takes a whiff, then gallops off in the same direction he came from.  I follow the path where his fur lies in the dirt and don’t leave a trace, turning back when I reach the end of the forest.  I rinse off the fallen wisps and sift out the dirt, locking it away in a box when it dries and shoving it under the loosened floorboard beneath my bed.

                And I wait.

                There lives an old woman named Kwon Boa in a small wooden shack toward the back of the village.  They say she was once a witch, and much like the myths, I’ve brushed it off as a ridiculous rumor.  But, much like the myths, I’ve become doubtful of myself, a piece of my beliefs tearing away each time I lift the floorboard and take the box in my hands, a pulsation in the tips of my fingers when I trace them over the lock.

                So I knock on her thin wooden door on an uncharacteristically bright winter morning, shifting my weight from foot to foot until she pulls the door open.  I take in a sharp breath as she eyes me from my shaking hands up my stiff torso until she reaches my face.

                “Hello,” I say in a small voice, “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Ms. Kwon?”  I doubt the question is necessary, her rib-length hair a shimmery silver, the wrinkles mapping her face unlike those of the village elderly, a century worth of expressions etched into the lines beneath her eyes, around .

                “Why, yes I am.”  I fight the urge to shudder at her aged voice, gravelly and rough.  “Come in, dear, you look cold.”

                I bite my lip in hesitation but follow her into the shack anyway, relaxing when I see the neatly arranged furniture, a sparse orderliness that counters my fears of a room full of obnoxiously colored broths boiling in dark kettles.

                She gestures for me to sit at the small wooden table in the corner and fixes up a cup of tea, setting it down as she seats herself across from me.  “So what brings the chief’s son here?”

                I let out a nervous laugh and take a sip, panicking when my mind draws a blank.  “Oh, you know.  I just thought I would visit.”

                Ms. Kwon smiles softly and leans in a bit, and I can see that she was probably quite a beauty back in the day, when her skin was smooth, cheeks rosy, her tresses a midnight black.  “Oh, now you and I both know that’s a lie.  Nobody comes to visit old Ms. Kwon.”  I can’t breathe.  “Might it be something to do with a certain white buffalo?”

                I choke on my tea and look at her in shock.  She simply continues to smile and drinks calmly.  “How did you know about that?”

                “I don’t know.”  She folds her hands beneath her chin and leans her elbows on the table.  “How on earth would I know about a thing like that?”

                It comes out in a breath, before I can even consider it.  “Are you really a witch?”

                She chuckles and sits back in her chair.  “How else would I know?”

                It takes me a moment to compose myself, to comprehend what she’s just said, what I’m doing in her home.  I struggle to form the words, only stuttering out a “Do—can you—I.”

                The sides of her eyes crinkle in amusement as she finishes her cup.  “I know a lot of spells, Chanyeol.”

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I didn't mean to make BoA an old lady, I just needed a name lol.  :P

Thanks for reading!