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genre: fantasy, tragedy, romance | infinite member(s): hoya | length: one shot, 8042 words

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description:

In this odd town, there are two reasons why the church bell would ring.

Someone died.

Or the Great Magician is returning.

And if it is the latter, and he unexpectedly brings someone to the town, someone who is not supposed to be here, someone who is impossibly the beginning of the town's tragedy, she realizes that the small things will turn into bigger ones, and that at the end everyone has to accept what comes their way, that something always lies beyond death.

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THE CHURCH BELL rings six times before I look up from my plate, glance at my parents, and see them nodding at me with tight lips. They stand up first, I follow them afterwards. We leave the house without finishing our breakfast and walk to the market place, where people are already gathering.

 

In our town, odd things happen every once in a while, things that no one has an explanation for. Sometimes people just unexpectedly die, and we mourn for them. We mourned for the nine-year-old who drowned in the ocean a decade ago and for our neighbor's wife who shot herself. We mourn for the dead and we mourn for the living. Sometimes it is easier to mourn for the people who were left behind, for our comrades whom we see clutching their hearts in pain every Sunday in the church. We don't grieve because of death; we grieve for the loss.

 

My father always said that death is unexpected and an odd phenomena. Many people don't understand it, can't grasp the meaning behind it. But it is there, and it is alive. We can't escape it; we can only try to live with it. And this, my father told me, might be the reason why human beings are so afraid of life.

 

I am not afraid of dying, I think. Maybe I can say that so easily because death never really affected me or the life of my loved ones. Or maybe I am just brave enough to accept what comes my way. Or maybe I am one of those people who don't understand the meaning behind it. But I know that I am being completely honest when I say: I am not afraid of unexpectedness or oddity.

 

My parents aren't either, I believe. They always walk with much confidence, and if they knew they were flirting with death or running into the unknown, they would still do that with pride and elegance. But being fearless doesn't equal being indifferent. I know that my parents still worry every single time someone rings the church bell, just as much as I do.

 

It is like this, when someone decides to ring the bell in the church, it is because of one of two reasons: someone died or the Great Magician is returning. All too often it is the former. All too often we are confronted with grief.

 

I trail after my parents, passing by the familiar buildings around the market place, the flower shop, our neighbor's tavern, the library, as we finally reach the end of the court where people have already gathered to look out over the ocean. We squeeze through the crowd, trying to have a better look of what is going on, my mother grabbing my hand to keep hold of me, to not lose me in the midst of slight chaos, when we end up standing pressed against a barber shop to the right, the water just a few meters below us. It strikes me as odd that no one has ever thought of putting a fence up here to separate the wide ocean from our town, to prevent people from falling over the edge of the market place and into the depths of the water. I can vividly imagine someone riding his bike and not paying attention and then tumbling into a pit of blue mass. I feel like the chances of the church bell ringing for the first reason might drop if they just put a fence up here. Because once you fall, you won't be able to get back up. You will drown. You will die.

 

A man next to us leans toward my father and asks, “Do you know what's happening? Why they rang the bell?”

 

“I think it's the Great Magician,” says my father, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “He is returning.”

 

I follow his eyes, and glance over the ocean, looking for that particular outline of an island. My mother is still holding my hand, she is afraid I might fall over the edge. I squint my eyes, trying to see better, and then I see it. A small, dark spot in the distance. The island. Almost too small to notice, if not for the huge tree in the middle and the veil of mist surrounding it. The Great Magician is returning. His island is approaching us.

 

Excitement rushes through me, and I notice my lips stretching into a grin. The Great Magician is returning, so there won't be any grief. When he comes, everything is alright. He knows how to take care of us town people, and he does his job well. Whenever he returns, people are happy, people forget about their pain. When he returns, because his town people are suffering, he will tell stories that will distract us from death's eyes. Or he will come back to deliver a prophecy. He once warned us of a dangerous hurricane, told us to stay in our houses and to not leave until he returned. He saved us. He is saving us.

 

His island stops moving before it touches the edge of the market place, and all of us hold our breaths with anticipation. My mother finally lets go of my hand because, even if I fall now, the Great Magician will save me. I curiously look into the dark, misty forest, trying to catch sight of his silhouette. I wait patiently although my knees feel like giving up. I want to wait because he has helped us so much and it is the only thing I can give him back for his graciousness. So I just stand there at the edge and wait. And then he finally emerges from the darkness.

 

He approaches us with elegant steps, reminding me of the way my parents walk. A dark lilac cloak is wrapped around his body, and he is wearing his wooden mask which covers his whole face. I wonder what he is going to tell us today, a new prophecy or maybe a new story, and I am already thrilled by the thought, when he suddenly takes off his mask, revealing his face for the first time since I was born.

 

There are two rules the Great Magician usually abides by: to not leave his island and to not take off his mask. But today he breaks both of his rules. He sets foot on the market place.

 

His face is long and slender, his jawline distinct. His eyes are round and narrow set, but they emit a kind of gentleness that I only know of my parents. The tip of his nose is round and softly curve above his lips. Faint wrinkles surround the sides of his mouth, and when he smiles, they deepen slightly, but he doesn't look old. In fact, he may only be my parents' age.

 

“My dearest town people,” he begins, and the whispers of the crowd die down, “I am deeply jovial to have returned and be able to see you all.” Someone in front of me shifts and obscures my view of the Great Magician, leaving me staring at his back. “Unfortunately, my work has not allowed me to come and greet you earlier,” he continues as I try to push past the adults in front of me, trying to have a better look of his face, wanting to imprint his image in my head. He seems to be standing in the middle of the edge, the crowd making a circle in front of him. I faintly hear my mother calling my name, but I ignore it and squeeze into a free space at the front. He looks at me for a second, then turns to his island, before saying, “But now I am present, and I am delighted to reveal to you the project that I have been working on for the past ten years.”

 

The whispers start again. I just keep on looking at the Great Magician.

 

“This project I am going to reveal to you in a bit is an important part of me; it is undeniably significant to my existence, hence me taking off my mask for the presentation.” The Great Magician smiles a little. He looks younger in that angle. Younger and gentler. But I still can't wrap my head around the idea of being able to fit a face to his name.

 

I suddenly feel a hand on the small of my back. When I look over my shoulders, I see my father standing behind me, his eyes fixed on the Great Magician. My mother is still standing next to the barber shop, glancing my way.

 

“My dearest town people,” says the Great Magician, “without further ado, I would like to present you my greatest project of all time. Without further ado, I would like to call him out to reveal himself.” He opens his arms, still proudly facing his island, and looks at something in the forest that we all can't see. At first, nothing happens. We are just waiting, not knowing what we should expect, what we can expect from the Great Magician. Some shift their weight from one foot to the other, some stare into the forest. It is eerily silent; no one dares to speak up or drop a breath. The only sound that accompanies the silence comes from the waves clashing against the island's shores.

 

“What is he waiting for?” I whisper to my father, but he just puts his finger to his mouth, hushing me.

 

And then a boy steps out of the forest. A blond-haired boy with black roots, and without needing confirmation I know it's his son. He, with the same set of eyes and the same pale lips, is the Great Magician's son.

 

But I am not the only who knows.

 

Everyone else knows, too.

 

And everyone else knows his son is supposed to be dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"SO YOU ARE tellin' me he located his dead son's soul with his crystal ball and somehow managed to put it into a body which he's grown – I'm talkin' about the same 'grown' as in 'I've grown those strawberries in my backyard' - by himself?” asks our neighbor incredulously, pretending to be talking about a person who is not there even if he actually is. He narrows his eyes at my father. “Is this what you're tellin' me?”

 

“Yes, indeed,” my father replies bluntly, reaching for his glass of water.

 

“I can't believe it!”

 

I shake my head slightly, glancing at the Great Magician's son, who is sitting across of me, his gaze fixed on his plate, eating silently without looking or speaking up. Before our neighbor decided to join us for dinner, because he was so keen on meeting a dead/living person and because he himself wasn't at the gathering to witness the whole thing, my parents had told me to keep curious questions to myself, for the Great Magician's son still seems to be quite confused about his situation. They didn't want me to confuse him even more, and I never intended to. I saw it in his eyes – the fear of not knowing what was going on. I didn't want to scare him more than the rest of the town already did.

 

“So what's your name again?” asks our neighbor, looking at him.

 

“Hoya,” he answers.

 

“And what's like to be dead? To die at the age of nine and wake up as a twenty-year-old?”

 

“I don't know,” says Hoya, furrowing his eyebrows. He seems to be having difficulties. “I have no recollection of the process of dying or the death itself.” He sets his fork and his knife down. I watch him closely. “It's like falling asleep as a kid and then skipping some years and waking up as an adult.”

 

My mother looks at me and nods slightly. Then she turns to Hoya and says, “Before your father left, he told us to take good care of you. He wants you to lead a normal life, to mix with the town people. I guess the best idea is for you to rest and not worry too much about all of this.”

 

“You can always ask for help. We'll be willing to do anything we can to guide you,” adds my father.

 

I stare at Hoya's trembling hands for a long while before he finally says, “Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE WHOLE IDEA of having someone who is supposed to be dead, who should be buried a long time ago, living in my parents' inn, his room right under mine, sounds utterly wrong to me. There is something scary about messing with death. Dead people should be dead, not alive. It seems wrong to bring back the deceased just to erase the grief and pain of the people who were left behind. It seems, in a way, selfish to me. But it is impossible to believe the Great Magician is selfish. And yet, doesn't the act of reviving his dead son suggest exactly that?

 

I swing my legs out of my bed, and for a moment just look at the wooden floor underneath my feet. There are a few scratches from moving the furniture around. I remember having engraved drawings with a fork into the wood as a kid, for which I got scolded by my parents. They told me I should not leave marks behind, especially not in things that are already beautiful without my influence. Averting my eyes away and fixing them forward, I stand up and walk out.

 

At the end of the hallway is my parents' chamber, right opposite of mine. They always leave the door open, for they have nothing to hide. My parents never sleep together; they never sleep at the same time. One of them usually has to stay downstairs, in the lobby, in case of emergency. Which is, in my opinion, a really difficult thing to do. Being the only person to stay awake while everyone else is asleep. I greatly respect my parents for that.

 

I walk down the hallway, passing by the bathroom and the staircase leading down to the guest floor, and stop in front of my parents' bedroom. I peek inside, trying to find out who of them has taken the night shift, only to realize that the bed is empty. Ignoring the difficult feeling in my gut, I turn back around. A door is right next to me. This one leads to the roof. I grab the knob, turn it, and walk in.

 

Moonlight floods in from the open door in the ceiling, placing a soft white blanket over the steps and the wooden floor. This cramped room used to be a storage room before my parents decided to take advantage of our roof and transform the storage room into a staircase leading to the top of our building. They took everything out, the mops, the cartons full of extra blankets and pillows, the boxes of cutlery and silverware, and stowed all of it in their bedroom. Then they just built a staircase in here and put a hinged door in the ceiling.

 

I quietly climb the stairs, the wooden floor creaking every time I set my foot down, and work my way up. It strikes me as odd that my parents have forgotten to close the door in the ceiling, which they would normally do when everyone went to bed. For no one wakes up in the middle of the night to stare at the moon. Except of me.

 

When I finally reach the attic, I sit down on the floor and let the moon take me away. The walls in front of me and on my left were taken down in order to create a place that is half-attic and half-roof. From up here, you can look over the town, though a white wall, which would only reach to my waist if I were to stand up, is currently blocking my view of its right side, the ocean. I inhale softly, and exhale. The flower pots to my left seem to be catching the light of the moon without resistance. I find it mesmerizing to observe.

 

I stand up, intending to sit on the edge of the roof, when I notice a figure already sitting there, his legs dangling in mid-air, back hunched and elbows placed on top of his thighs. I haven't spotted him earlier because of the white wall obscuring my view. But now I can see him clearly. I can see him. And he is mesmerizing.

 

The Great Magician's son is not supposed to be alive; he should be stuck in a nine-year-old's body, buried in the ground or maybe burnt to ashes. He is not supposed to be looking like an adult. He should be dead. And maybe he does look a bit dead under the moonlight that glistens on his skin. And I know this is not supposed to be okay. This is wrong. But at the same time, I must admit, I just can't take my eyes off of him.

 

His neck is short and wide, but it blends well into his shoulders that are broad and strong. His arms are neither too skinny nor too muscular, the perfect size, and his torso slightly slims down around his waist. He is wearing an old Tshirt from my father, which doesn't hang too loosely on him. His black hair is slightly shorter than his blond hair, the latter on top of the former creating a strong contrast. I want to say something or look away, but I can't do either of them.

 

I just keep on watching him, although it occurs to me that he must have noticed my presence in a way, somehow. I just look at him, pretending to dislike the idea of a dead person being revived, when I suddenly hear a sob. Then a strangled sound. A cough followed by another sob, this time louder. And then I see him bending over, his head buried in his hands, his shoulder shaking, trembling. The sounds grow stronger. I find myself running toward him, my legs carrying me out of reflex. I kneel down next to him, and he is crying, sobbing hard, and in that split second of realization I don't know what to do. I scream for my mother. I scream for help. I try to calm him down, his back, but he just won't let me calm him down. He won't let my voice reassure him. He won't let me in.

 

He doesn't see me.

 

He is crying, and he doesn't see me. And then I am certain it really is not okay to revive a person who is supposed to be dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MY MOTHER PLACES a blanket over Hoya's sleeping body, then turns to me and kisses my temple. She looks worn out, a bit tired, but she is trying to hide it. I look at my father whose brows are furrowed in concentration. He notices me staring at him, and smoothens the crease in his forehead. He reaches down to me, smiling, and says, “Please look after him. Your mother and I have to be in the lobby.”

 

“Yes, okay,” I respond, looking at my hands. “Is he alright?”

 

“He is,” my father tells me. “There's nothing wrong with him. At least, nothing that is visible to the eyes.”

 

I nod.

 

“And do me a favor, darling, please don't overwhelm him with questions when he wakes up.”

 

I nod again, and both my parents leave the room.

 

This guest room is lit by a small candle on the night stand. It flickers now and then, but it mostly stays in its initial shape. I stare at it for a long time until I get bored and decide to look at Hoya instead. There is a hurtful stabbing in my chest when I watch him sleep soundlessly. I find it hard to erase the image of him sobbing in the attic. I have never seen a man cry before, and after that incident I realize men can cry and feel as much pain as women do.

 

I stare at his face, at the curve of his lips. He does resemble his father a lot. He looks like a younger version of the Great Magician, only that his father has brown locks. I let my eyes wander across his eyes, his forehead, and then... I am not aware of what crosses my mind when I slip my hands under the blanket to search for his, but I do know that my heart starts to hurt a little when I notice how cold his hands are and when he suddenly squeezes back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A FEW NIGHTS after that, he knocks at my door and walks in, sitting down on the edge of my bed. He has freshly showered, I can see it in the way his blond fringe softly fall over his eyebrows. He doesn't look at me, has his gaze fixed on the scratched up ground. I say nothing, and just keep on staring at him. We stay like that for longer than I want.

 

“Thank you,” he then whispers, finally looking at me. “For that night. I'm sorry you had to see this.”

 

I shake my head. “No, it's okay.”

 

“I don't know why I cried. So I really cannot answer you.”

 

I find it odd that he has known my question before I even showed any sign of uttering it. I find it even odder that he has decided to only thank me a week after the incident. I lean back and say, “Maybe you missed your father.”

 

“No, I don't think that's the case.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

He shrugs. “I don't miss him any more than normal boys my age would miss their parents. But out all of the people I should be the last one to understand what this really tells us.”

 

I remember my neighbor's words about the strawberries in the backyard, and decide to ask him. “So how does this work? Your body, I mean. How did you father 'grow' your body?”

 

“I can recall him having explained it to me when I wokeㅡ Well, when I came back to life.” He chuckles slightly, and it is my first time seeing him show emotions other than sadness. “It starts with the extraction of his DNA. It's the general basis for my body. He places his data onto a Petri plate which he later puts into a tank with his own mixture of water and stuff that no one knows about that provides nutrients for the growing body.” He pauses to see whether I am still listening, his eyes boldly meeting mine. I urge him to continue. He laughs. “Well, and he told me that one day in real time equals half a year in the tank. And my father wanted to find my soul within 38 days after he started the growing, to, well, stay accurate to his son's real age, but he was four days too late.”

 

“How old would you have been,” I ask him, ”if you hadn't died?”

 

“19.”

 

“How old is this body?”

 

He laughs again. “21.”

 

I laugh as well.

 

“So,” I start again, after we somehow managed to calm down, “the Great Magician located your soul and inserted it into this body.”

 

“Pretty much,” replies Hoya.

 

“But you said you can't remember what happened between dying and coming back to life, in those ten years, that it felt like falling asleep and waking up. If that's the case, then why am I not talking to a nine-year-old right now? Why does it seem like your soul matured with time?”

 

He casts his gaze down, lips pressed together, staring at the wrinkles in the blanket. “I have a theory,” he says. “This might not contain any accurate facts, and maybe I am just randomly guessing here, but I feel like after we die our souls keep on living. I think people don't just pass away and become nothing. I think when our bodies decompose and become nutrients for plants, our souls remain and they see the world and continue learning about it. So I think it's useless to grieve for a dead body. I think what really makes a person a loved one is their soul. And in my theory, the soul keeps on living.”

 

“And how do you explain your memory loss? How do you explain the fact that you can't remember what happened in those ten years while your soul was floating somewhere?”

 

“I told you my theory has plot holes in it,” he says, smiling.

 

“Actually, you only told me your theory might be nonsense.”

 

He looks at me, and shakes his head in amusement. “You are so exact.”

 

“Anyways,” I say, feeling a rush of heat creeping onto my cheeks. “Anyways, uh... anyways...” I look down, and feel him staring at me, and something tells me that he finds it amusing how I am unable to remember what I wanted to say. “Um...”

 

He speaks up instead. “Where is my father, by the way?”

 

“Uh, he left a week ago, when he dropped you here. With a town man who wanted your father to revive his deceased daughter,” I answer, not grasping why he couldn't recall the happenings of that day, why he forgot it. Or maybe he was too confused to understand the situation back then. “Everyone is really grateful for him. For the Great Magician. Because now the amount of grief in this town can be reduced.”

 

“Is this really a good thing,” asks Hoya without really asking me. He looks tense. The easy-going attitude from before fading.

 

“I don't know,” I say.

 

Then the church bell rings six times, and we both look at each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOYA AND I stand next to each other on the market place, and we are so close, I just have to turn my head and my nose would be brushing his shoulder. The moon is above the horizon as the Great Magician's island slowly approaches us. Some people behind me push a little, trying to stand in the front line, and I almost fall over the edge if not for Hoya's hands grabbing me by my shoulders, holding me in place. I mouth a thank you as he runs his hands down my arms before he lets go of me. I shiver a little.

 

When the island arrives in front of us, we all step back a little to let the Great Magician enter the town. Hoya next to me seems tense for some reason. He seemed tense when I was talking about how much the town people are appreciating his father's ability to save the dead, and he seems tense now. I feel like he is hiding something, but I also feel like he himself doesn't know what he is hiding.

 

At first, only the Great Magician appears from the dark forest, and he looks very tired, the wrinkles by his mouth more obvious than I can remember from last time. His back is a little hunched, and he doesn't walk with much confidence anymore. His strong presence is still considerably noticeable, but something is lacking. I look at Hoya, and notice the clenched jaw and his furrowed eyebrows. I feel like something is really wrong here.

 

Then the man who lost his daughter two years ago emerges, and his face is radiating with happiness. He has his hand on the girl's waist, supporting her, while she has her arm slung across her father's shoulders. She seems too weak to walk on her own, considering the fact that she is supposed to be dead, not walking, and she was just revived. People around me start applauding, and I don't know why. Or rather I can't understand the reason for their joy, and I sincerely refuse to.

 

“The Great Magician did it again,” calls someone in the back, and the rest join him, clapping their hands even louder. My father comes out from the crowd and helps the man and his daughter step onto the market place. Just like me, he doesn't seem too excited about the news. Just like me, he doesn't feel like messing with death is a good idea.

 

I look at Hoya again, and I want to say something, anything, to bring the easy-going side of him back, but I know that my words would only worsen the situation. I know that at times it is better to let people be serious and unhappy so they won't have to suppress these emotions and release them afterwards. I think of holding his hand instead, just like that time when he was asleep and his hands were so cold, but my neighbor suddenly steps out, confusing me.

 

“Great Magician,” he says desperately, “I am finally fully convinced of your capability, so I need to ask you for a favor.” He greedily grabs the Great Magician's hand, acting as if it were holy and sacred. “Please revive my wife. Please, do me this favor. Please help me. I beg you.”

 

He sighs, wrapping the man's hand with his own. The Great Magician seems tired when he says, “My dearest Sir, I will try to help as much as I can. But tonight I would like to rest a bit. I will stay in town and go back tomorrow morning. It is definitely convenient to talk about these things before I leave.”

 

He locks eyes with Hoya for a moment, and I understand right then and there that his unceasing love for his deceased son will soon mean his end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE GREAT MAGICIAN is sitting in the dining room of my parents' inn, and he exhales softly as I set a cup of tea in front of him. He thanks me with a genuine smile. I try to smile back, but it feels too surreal that he is under our roof that I just step back to where Hoya is standing, next to the door leading to the lobby, and try to calm down.

 

“I am sorry for the inconveniences,” he says, interlacing his fingers in front of him.

 

“Not at all. We are delighted to have you here,” responds my father.

 

The Great Magician smiles a little. “I always seem out of breath lately. Although this time it was easier to locate the soul. She was still around here somewhere. She only died two years ago, after all. Unlike my son.”

 

Something gets the better of me when I dare to ask, “Where did you find his soul?”

 

“At the other end of the world,” he answers gently, looking at his son. “He was always one to explore the unknown.”

 

Finally Hoya relaxes, and I quietly heave a sigh of relief. Both my parents give me a meaningful look for asking unnecessary questions. I try to ignore their scolding gazes.

 

“Anyways, you are free to stay the night, Great Magician,” says my father, glancing at the clock above the kitchen counter.

 

“Is there still a room for me?”

 

“Actually, no, but you can use ours. We'll just stay with our daughter.”

 

“Oh, no, I could not do such a thing. I willㅡ”

 

“You can use my room,” interrupts Hoya, and it is the first he has spoken up since his father's return.

 

We all look at him in bewilderment. He seems a bit confused himself, as if he didn't know why he had said that in the first place, as if those words sounded unknown to him as well. The Great Magician utters our confusion. “And where will you stay, my son?”

 

“Uh...” He glances at me.

 

“We still have extra blankets,” my father chimes in. “We can stack them up, so they will be soft enough to sleep on.”

 

“Oh, this sounds splendid. Then the problem is resolved. Maybe we all should go to bed now. It is late.” The Great Magician stands up from his seat, takes the cup of tea I have placed onto the table for him, and gulps the content down. He is about to put it into the sink when my mother steps in front of him, insisting in her hospitality. He then looks at Hoya, and his eyes light up, as though he had just remembered something. He says, “Son, I'll be going back tomorrow morning. Will you come with me or do you want to stay?”

 

Hoya looks at me, but directs his words to his father. “I would like to stay. If that is okay for you.”

 

“Sure, sure. Stay as long as you desire.”

 

The Great Magician walks toward us, and he smiles at me in particular. But I am too surprised to smile back, and when I finally feel ready to do so, he is already out the door. Hoya turns to me with slight hesitation, and he looks like he wants to tell me something, only he doesn't show any sign of doing that. He opens his mouth slightly, his eyes lowering to my lips, but no words come out. His father then returns and kindly asks him to show him the way to the guest rooms. So he gazes at me one last time, smiles, and walks away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER THAT NIGHT, odd things began to happen in our town. 

 

Our neighbor followed the Great Magician to his island, and they didn't return until yesterday, making their disappearance last for two whole months. In that period of time, the daughter who had been revived was found playing with fire, burning her hands and scorching her forearms for no explainable reason, and at the question as to why she did that, she just shrugged her shoulders, and tried to grab for the torch. A few weeks after that, she left her house, ignited the abandoned barn across the willows, and killed herself, the church bell ringing six times.

 

During those two awful months, Hoya cried twice.

 

After he kissed me for the first time.

 

And when I showed him the place where he died as a kid.

 

It was simple, our kiss. It happened naturally. He said he liked me and that his heart would race when I was near him and that he couldn't stop thinking about me even if he was busy getting accustomed to his new life, to his second chance. He said he had wanted to kiss me ever since I had told him his theory about the soul was nonsense, and from that day forth he couldn't stop imagining the touch of my lips on his. Then he just kissed me, and then he cried.

 

So I asked him, “What's wrong?”

 

And he said he didn't know, that he liked me a lot and that he was happy, but there was something inside him that seemed to be taking away his purpose, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

 

He somehow managed to collect himself after that, and returned to his old self, the strong and easy-going one, the one who joked around and who showed me his affection without actually kissing me. But then he asked me how his nine-year-old self ended up dying, and I told him that he drowned and that it happened on the market place, that he fell over the edge. I knew it so well because the town people had talked about it a lot when the accident had occurred ten years ago, and because I myself always wondered about the importance of leaving the edge unfenced. He said he didn't remember, and asked me to show him the place. I did, and it ended up with him sobbing into his knees. I almost lost him there.

 

Then yesterday his father returned, and we all gathered at the market place, waiting for his island to hit the edge. He emerged from his forest with a stick holding his slumped body up, his eyes having lost all colors, and he looked almost dead, his lips pale. My neighbor appeared right behind him, his deceased wife standing close to his side, her face emitting the same emotions as the other two who had been revived before her – a mix of confusion and exhaustion.

 

I slipped my hand into Hoya's, looking at him with a worried expression. I said, “We should tell him.”

 

And he nodded, his eyes gleaming with something I couldn't really explain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEXT DAY, we follow my neighbor and his wife to the fountain, which is located down the road near the abandoned/burnt down barn. She still seems disoriented with her new situation, and sometimes it looks like she cannot remember what kind of connection she has with that man beside her, but my neighbor doesn't seem to notice that, or he just won't accept it. Hoya is holding my hand all the while, and I feel grateful for his strong grasp.

 

When my neighbor leaves his wife by the fountain to gather, what seems like, flowers, we decide it is the right time to confront him. We approach him slowly, walking across the willow. He notices us, and looks up, annoyed that we are disturbing his quality time with his revived wife. He perks an eyebrow at our interlaced hands, and asks, “What d'you two want?”

 

“You need to listen to me,” I tell him. “This might be confusing and it might sound stupid, but, Sir, please listen to me.”

 

“What're you talkin' about?”

 

“Your wife. She is not safe. This is not safe. It is wrong.”

 

He pulls an irritated face. “If you don't stop talkin' vague to me, I'll go to your father and tell him to teach you properㅡ”

 

“Your wife is a danger to herself,” I interrupt, not anymore caring about my manners. “We are doing a really dangerous thing here. We are playing with death. Sir, dead people should be dead, not alive. You can't mess with Mother Nature.”

 

“You're makin' me really angry here, kid.”

 

“Sir, I am telling the truth. And you know that. The fourteen-year-old girl was not supposed to be alive either and that's why she killed herself. She should have been remembered as a young girl who died because of unfortunate events. Not as someone who was revived only to go back and bite the dust.”

 

For some reason, I want to cry. I want to leave and never see my neighbor again, leave and bury my head into Hoya's chest. I want to run away, but I can't and I know that.

 

I go on, “The whole idea of having your loved one back doesn't sound too bad, and I am sure everyone can agree with me on that. It is a miracle to see your lover one last time, to embrace them, to properly say good bye. But this will never justify the cruelty we are committing here. We should let dead people rest in peace. We shouldn't bring them back.” I feel Hoya's gaze on me. But I continue, “Sir, there's a reason why your wife shot herself back then. You know that very well. And it can happen again. She will soon realize it, she will remember. And then she willㅡ”

 

He slaps me. Hard and quick. I feel heat rushing into my face. My cheeks start to throb, and tears sting in my eyes. From my peripheral view, I see Hoya charging toward my neighbor, fists clenched around the collars of his shirt, forearm pressed against the throat. I quickly gather myself, wipe the tears away before Hoya can see them, and grab his arm, pulling him away from my neighbor.

 

“It's okay,” I say as Hoya releases his grip on him. I turn toward the man I never want to see again, and spit out, “You have been warned. This is wrong and you know it. The sooner you realize it, the less it will hurt.” As I take Hoya's hand in mine and squeeze it, about to leave the scene, leave this part of my life behind, it occurs to me that I am always only providing a problem but not really a solution. I know that it is wrong to revive the dead, but I don't know how to solve this cruelty. I tell people about the importance of following nature's law, and warn them of the approaching tragedy, but I don't offer them a choice. I feel sick.

 

Before we leave, my neighbor shouts, “What about your fellow there, huh? He isn't supposed to be alive either.” Hoya twitches a little, and he seems to be contemplating whether to run back and hurt the man's face or to stay and ignore the provocation. I am glad he chooses the latter. My neighbor continues, “Will he kill himself too?”

 

And we just leave, and we never once look back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I WON'T KILL myself."

 

I tiredly look at him. He is sitting on my bed, his elbows placed on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. We went back to my parents' inn after the incident with my neighbor, and stayed in my room until the moon rose from its sleep to greet its nocturnal friends. I have been pacing around the whole time, not really thinking of joining Hoya on the bed, just to forget for a while. I feel very tired, the muscles in my legs sore from walking, but I don't want to think about it.

 

“I know,” I say, stopping in my tracks. “If you wanted to, you would have done that a long time ago.”

 

He stands up and walks to me, his steps looking casual and suave. His eyes don't leave mine as he reaches his hand forward and slightly touches my cheek with his fingertips. I don't wince at all at the contact of his skin on my sore cheek, but he does. I place my hand on top of his, and lean into his touch. He looks sad, somehow.

 

“This needs to stop.”

 

“What needs to stop?” I ask.

 

“Everything.”

 

He runs his hands down my arms, and I shiver again. “I like you,” he says. “I wished I could have met you before I was given this second chance, before we started messing with death, before this madness started. I wished I could have learned to love you before I died and came back to life. But I guess this is what we get. And I think, you are right. Maybe it isn't such a bad thing to be revived and to be able to fall in love, to be given this opportunity to live properly. I really hope you will remember that.”

 

“What are you going to do?” I ask, because this doesn't seem right.

 

“I said I like you.”

 

“I know. I heard you. But I need to know what you're up to, Hoya.”

 

“I'm going to stop this madness.”

 

Then he just kisses me, and I forget that we are in my room, that my parents are just downstairs in the lobby, that he is not supposed to be alive, that he smells in this certain way that I find myself getting attracted to, that I find myself going back to every single time, just to know that I am safe and that it is home. He kisses me tenderly, with great passion, molding my lips with his, and his hands caress my back, then linger on my waist. He only pulls away to let us catch our breaths, then fits his mouth right back onto mine, and it feels so right. It feels right to have him here, to be in his arms. It feels right to kiss him, to run my fingers through his blond hair. It feels right to have this desire growing in me, and I am not afraid of it. It is unexpected and odd, but I am not scared.

 

He pulls back, and rests his forehead on mine. His eyes are closed. “I haven't told you that, because I thought you would only unnecessarily worry about me, but when I said my life felt like falling asleep as a kid and then waking up older, I actually meant falling asleep, then waking up and knowing you lost something.” He looks at me. “There's an emptiness in you. Ten years of death can really wear you out. It doesn't feel like time really worked on you, but it did. And I can't imagine how anything or anyone could actually fill this hole of having lost years of your life.”

 

I want to tell him that he has me, that I will try anything to decrease the size of his emptiness, that I will love him and never leave his side, but it doesn't seem right. I don't think I am enough for him. I don't think anything could ever be enough for his or their loss.

 

“I guess the reason why the revived ended up killing themselves is because they went insane, and couldn't deal with this new situation anymore. It is madness in us. And the only plausible solution seems to be death. You just go back to where you've come from, hoping you can finally find peace and no one will try to bring you back to life.” He lets go of me, and smiles a little. “But it seems like I'm a bit different. I think I only held on for so long because of you.”

 

I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him, trying to fight back my tears. He kisses me back for a while, then gently pushes me away. His eyes glisten, too.

 

“I like you. And I'm sorry.”

 

My voice cracks a little when I ask, “For what?”

 

“For what I'm about to do. I'm sorry, but I love you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOYA LEFT with his father, and since that day they both never once returned to our town. I don't know how he managed to find the island, or how he managed to convince the Great Magician to not look back and yearn for his town people, but there are a lot of things I don't know about Hoya. There are a lot of things I don't understand about him, a lot of secrets he never told me. And maybe it is better to not know them. Maybe it is better to remember him as the mysterious boy who was supposed to be dead.

 

A few days after Hoya left, the wife shot the man in the head, then herself, allowing the church bell to ring twelve times. People mourned for them, but I didn't. I couldn't pretend to care if in fact I hated my neighbor and held a grudge against him for slapping me and calling me a kid. I wouldn't allow him this pleasure and pay him my respect. I wouldn't grow weak because of death.

 

Our town returned to its normal state in one way or another. People start to grieve again, and people keep on dying. The edge of the market place is still unfenced, and the church bell rings only for the death now, not for something that matters anymore. And I am still not afraid of dying.

 

I can say that so easily, and with utmost conviction, not because death never really affected me or because I am brave enough to accept what comes my way. It is not because I don't understand the meaning behind it, or because I'm oblivious. I can let those words so effortlessly escape my lips because he offered me a perspective to see the world and its life in another way. He showed me a different approach to the unknown, and he made it seem less scary to me.

 

Hoya isn't dead, and he most obviously didn't kill himself. He is at the other end of the world, with his father, and they are both discovering new times and spaces. Even if, by whichever circumstances, he is dead, his soul lingers. And his soul is what made me love him. His soul is what made him Hoya to me. And maybe I'm foolish to believe such a thing, to believe his theory, his words, but this life is what I get and I will never be afraid of it.

 

 

 

 

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The description of this story is so vague, and I have no idea what I'm saying there, and I guess it doesn't do any justice to the real story, but oh well.

 

I kinda like this plot. Not cool enough to be a full story, but I like it. And I like Hoya in here. And I'm so biased right now. But yeah, he is my bias, after all. It's okay to write about your bias. Writing about your bias is a way to deal with those feels. And I have plenty of them right now.

 

I dedicate this to my Adik, alias H, alias bias, alias Food Soulmate, alias Favorite Person, alias Sasaeng, alias Idiot, alias Friendeu, alias Hyung. I think I can never write you enough one-shots for that one story that I dedicated to you, but later deleted it. And this will be my present before I (almost) enter your time zone.

 

 

Please enjoy reading. I mean, I hope you enjoyed it. Past tense. And thank you for subscribing, and reading, and commenting. I am grateful. And I am glad we don't have to be afraid of dying now or of our loved ones dying because the souls linger and stay in this world, if we believe Hoya's words.

 

<3