No one liked going into room 152 at Edgewood Vista. It wasn't because the room in the retirement home smelled musty or that it was isolated from the rest of the rooms along the blandly antiseptic hall. No, it was the inhabitant of 152 that made it so unpalatable. For being such a pretty man Mr. Kim's words cut to the quick, scalding and abrasive, and no one was exempted from them. Not his children, whose visits started becoming less frequent the sharper the old man's words became. Not the fresh-faced doctor who came to check up on him every month, the last vestige of gratitude from a company the elderly entertainer had worked for most of his younger life. And certainly not the candy stripers, volunteers initially eager to help the elderly denizens of the home, to brighten their day with a magazine and a smile. A day didn't go by where the usual peacefulness of the place was interrupted by a streaking vision in red and white, a stream of curses following her tearful exit from 152.

No, he didn't want a magazine. No, he didn't want a tin of mints. What he wanted was a bottle of soju and for her to get the hell out of his room, thank you very much.

How dare that girl wear something so garish in his presence anyway?

"He used to be a star, you know....back when boys looked like girls and girls loved them for it," came the whispered words, words the old man pretended not to hear.

It was only in wee hours of the morning , when the lights were dim and the night shift staff sat around the service desk drinking soju and playing gin rummy, that Heechul allowed the carefully constructed mask to fall, vulnerability replacing the sneering veneer that frightened candy stripers and veteran nurses alike.

The frail man teetered over to his dresser and pulled out a small lacquered box from its hiding place buried under clothes he no longer wore, the stark black enamel interrupted by cranes in muted shades of pink and lavender. He brought the box back to his bed and began a ritual that had taken up a special place in his nightly routine. Box opened, each item was taken out and held in hands gnarled with age, fingers shaking as they traced each beloved keepsake.

News clippings worn yellow with age, speaking of the "boyband" with too many members and maybe not enough talent.

A black feathered fan stolen from a video shoot.

A violin string.

A tiny gilded cross, the gilt rubbed off until there was nothing but dull silver beneath.

A brightly coloured plastic fish.

Bamboo chopsticks from a trip to a certain dumpling shop.

Each item held a memory, a connection to a past that seemed so far away now. Fifteen items, a myriad of memories. He closed his eyes and saw faces where his eyelids should be - happy, young faces that joked and teased, mostly in Korean but occasionally in Mandarin and rarely in English. This was what Heechul clung to, memories and objects in a black lacquer box decorated with pink and lavender cranes.

"Girly colours," he muttered to himself, cursing the fact he used to love such pastel shades.

"No, happy colours."

Heechul looked up, his eyes narrowing as he saw the familiar face, one he hadn't seen in years. It was as if he hadn't aged a day, all bright smiles and gangly limbs as he perched at the edge of Heechul's bed.

"What are you doing here, Seasoning?"

If anything the smile widened, the nickname brightening those sharp black eyes - and if the young man realized he was incorporeal he said nothing about it.

"I could always say I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past, right?'"

"That might work if I believed in God..."

"So you kept it..." It was more a statement than a question, a quiet pleasure in the spirit's voice as he nodded at the box in Heechul's hands. "Cranes are a symbol of longevity, you know."

Heechul snorted and gestured at his body, frail form crippled by age. "If this is what you meant when you gave it to me then you can take the damned thing back." The anger faded, leaving the man looking lost, his next words making the smile on ZhouMi's face fade.

"You all left me behind. You promised you wouldn't leave me."

The ghost squirmed uncomfortably under that look, reminding Heechul of the first time he met ZhouMi, earnest dongsaeng stumbling over recently learned Korean as he bowed so low his prominent nose nearly touched his knees. "It wasn't your time, hyung."

Heechul opened his mouth to protest, then visibly deflated. "This isn't fair."

"No one ever said life was fair, hyung. In fact, I'm pretty sure you used to tell everyone else that quite a few times." The ghost tilted his head, the action so reminiscent of the man Heechul had once known - and loved. "But someone had to be "left behind"," he said, his fingers adding the quotes. "And you, of all of us, were one of the strongest. Could you imagine if it had been Henry or Ryeowook?"

Picturing the violin virtuoso, the father of several chubby-cheeked prodigies, outliving him and being alone was impossible. The youngest of them had died at a ripe old age, surrounded by the family that loved him. Same thing with Wookie, whose golden voice was silenced far too soon. Heechul's heart had shattered into so many tiny pieces when he'd read the obituary, a faded copy hidden in the bottom of the box, paired with 13 others. The old man shook his head. "No, not them...but I'm not strong, Seasoning, not really. It's all just a facade - I don't want to be alone."

"There are others here," Mi said. "They might not be us, but you could be friends with them."

Heechul shook his head. "It isn't the same. They are old and creaky, have no fashion sense whatsoever....and they like pudding."

ZhouMi chuckled, pulling Heechul into a warm hug. The Chinese man had always been so free with his hugs but at that very moment Heechul would have paid all he had left to feel warm flesh instead of cool air wrapped around him.

The days passed, the old man perhaps not quite as cantankerous as usual. Every time he wanted to snark and snipe he thought of a broad smile and refrained, the iciness inside thawing bit by bit. Each night ZhouMi would visit and if a curious soul listened through the door to 152 he'd hear Mr. Kim chuckling, the sound warm and pleasant as the old man recollected days gone by, the sound only tapering off as Heechul fell asleep in a cool, otherworldly embrace. This went on for weeks, candy stripers no longer fleeing from the former entertainer (as long as they didn't go near him with those horrendous outfits, of course), employees no longer complaining of the old man's eccentric demands.

One evening the smile ZhouMi met Heechul with was gentle, the words he spoke both dreaded and desired.

"It's time, hyung. We're waiting for you."

The old man nodded. "It's about time, Seasoning. I've been waiting forever." Suddenly his eyes widened and he frantically looked around for his beloved treasure, 'girly' cranes and all. "What about my box? I can't leave it behind. It holds all my memories of the rest of you."

"You know, the most important memories aren't there," a ghostly hand tapped the box, then moved to lightly cover Heechul's heart, touch cool and soothing. "They are here."

They found him the next morning, face bearing the quiet repose that only death could give - the peace he had so long sought finally found. Cradled in his hands was the black lacquered box.