Weeping

All I needed was somewhere to get out of the rain.

My phone had been useless ever since I took the wrong trail, and the rain only grew heavier, making the way back down feel impossible. Around the time water started seeping into my sneakers, I spotted a light between the trees. I moved toward it and came upon a mansion — a fairly large one.

I wondered who could possibly live in a place like this, but the lights were on, so I knocked.

A woman answered a short while later.

"You're soaked through."

She was wearing a black dress. Living in a mansion deep in the mountains seemed a little strange, but what caught my eye first wasn't that — it was her face. She was quite beautiful.

"I'm sorry. I took a wrong turn somewhere. Would it be all right if I waited out the rain here?"

"Of course. Please, come in."

Water was dripping off every part of me, and I caught ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠myself self-consciously staring at the floor.

"I'm getting everything awfully wet..."

"It's quite all right."

I thanked her again and again as I stepped inside.

A fire was burning in the parlor's fireplace, and two teacups had already been set out on the table in front of the sofa. The woman handed me a towel, and as I dried my hair I glanced at the wall — several old portraits hung there.

Between them was a single empty frame.

I wondered for a moment whether a painting had simply been removed, then picked up my tea.

"You're drinking with your left hand, I see."

"I'm sorry?"

My hand stopped.

The woman was smiling.

"One usually takes tea with the right—"

"Oh — forgive me."

Was that really a rule?

I had no memory of ever hearing it, but it wasn't worth quibbling over under someone else's roof, so I switched hands.

"It's quite all right. It's your first time, after all."

The words first time nagged at me a little.

First time at what, exactly?

But once I took a sip of the tea, the thought dissolved. It was lukewarm, with a sweetness that lingered on my tongue far longer than I expected.

I was about to set the cup down when I felt the woman watching my hand.

She said nothing at all.

Wondering what the look meant, I glanced at the table — a saucer sat right beside my hand.

"Oh."

The instant I placed the cup on the saucer, her gaze dropped away.

It was nothing, truly, and yet from then on I caught myself checking every single time I set the cup down.

I had nearly finished my tea when the woman looked at my clothes and spoke.

"You should wash up and rest."

"No, thank you. I was planning to head back down soon."

"It's still raining quite hard."

I looked out the window. It wasn't the kind of rain you walked out into.

"There's a guest room. I'll dry your wet clothes for you as well."

Taking a shower in a stranger's house felt like a step too far, but the feeling of my trousers clinging to my legs was too unpleasant to bear.

In the end, I accepted her hospitality a little longer.

The guest room was ordinary. A bed, a desk, a wardrobe, even a small attached bathroom stocked with towels and a brand-new toothbrush.

"Leave your clothes outside the door."

"Thank you."

"Rest well."

Only after the door clicked shut did I feel myself relax a little.

A long shower under hot water, a change into the clothes she'd laid out — I felt almost human again. I sat on the edge of the bed, plugged my phone into the charger, and turned on the screen. And then I remembered what she'd said over tea.

Was drinking tea with your left hand actually rude?

I typed it straight into the search bar.

Nothing came up.

The loading spinner just kept going round, so I looked at the top of the screen — no signal bars at all.

"Ah."

It had been like this ever since I'd entered the mountains.

I tried turning on the Wi-Fi. A single network appeared — HOME — and it had no password. I connected, pressed search again, and this time the spinner whirled briefly before a message popped up.

"Then why even have Wi-Fi?"

A laugh slipped out of me.

I set the phone aside and lay back on the bed.

Maybe I'd been too jumpy earlier. That woman simply seemed like the type who cared about that sort of thing.

With my eyes closed, the sound of the rain felt almost cozy.

I don't know how long I slept.

Knock knock.

The knock woke me, and the room had gone dim.

"Dinner is ready."

Phone battery: 79 percent. Still no signal.

"Yes. I'll be right out."

I changed into my now-dry clothes and stepped out to find the woman waiting.

"Did you rest a little?"

"Yes. Honestly, I feel alive again, thanks to you."

"I'm glad to hear it."

This time, even those words didn't strike me as odd.

As I followed her, we passed the portraits from earlier. The empty frame was still there, exactly as before.

Dinner was laid out in a room with a long table. Soup and bread, roasted vegetables, even meat — a far more proper spread than I'd expected, and just looking at it made my stomach growl.

"Please, eat as much as you like."

"I honestly don't know if I should be imposing on you for even this."

"But you are a guest."

I tried the soup first.

It was delicious.

I tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup, then found myself glancing at the woman.

"Is it all right to eat it like this?"

The woman smiled.

"That much is perfectly fine."

I smiled back. Even my earlier attempt at a web search seemed ridiculous now.

I cut into the meat.

Something caught the blade.

I assumed it was bone and pressed a little harder — and from inside came a sharp metallic clink.

Something was embedded in the meat. Its surface, glazed with sauce, glinted strangely.

With the tip of my fork, I scraped away a little of the flesh.

A ring rolled out onto the plate.

My hand stopped.

"...What is this?"

"What's the matter?"

I picked the ring up. A name was engraved on the inside.

Park Sung-joon.

"It came out of the meat."

"So it did."

For a moment I wondered if I'd misheard her.

"...So it did?"

The smell of the food that had been delicious seconds ago suddenly turned rancid.

"During a meal, it is best to focus on the mea—"

"No — there's a person's name engraved on this thing."

"I had not yet finished speaking."

I shut my mouth.

The woman dabbed at her lips with her napkin.

"You're doing it again."

Again.

I was about to put the ring down when one of the portraits on the wall caught my eye.

A middle-aged man in a business suit.

I wondered where I'd seen him — then remembered. The painting that had hung in the hallway earlier.

A ring was slipped onto the man's finger.

I looked at my own hand.

Then back at the painting.

Identical.

I couldn't help wanting to check the name as well.

Beneath the frame was a small metal plate with lettering.

Park Sung-joon.

And then my eyes met the painted man's.

His mouth was smiling.

But water was running from his eyes.

A single line slid slowly down his cheek and dripped from the bottom of the frame.

Every nerve in my body stood on end.

My heartbeat began hammering against my ears.

"Fuck......"

Click.

The woman set down her teacup.

"Words like that are not very nice."

I shoved my chair back and stood up.

"I'm sorry. I really should be going."

"But dinner isn't finished yet."

"I've had plenty. It was a wonderful meal. Thank you."

The woman glanced once ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the ring in my hand.

"My, you're suddenly in quite a hurry."

"...It's just gotten very late."

"Is that so."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Her voice was as calm as ever.

Without answering, I left the room and headed for the entrance hall.

The door I'd come in through was right where I'd left it.

I took the handle and opened it.

The long table.

The woman sat at the far end of it.

I closed the door.

For a while I just stood there, my hand still on the handle.

What the hell.

I looked around — there was the shoe cabinet, the umbrella stand by the wall.

This was the entrance hall. It was definitely the entrance hall.

I opened the door again.

The long table.

This time I walked to the opposite end of the hallway and opened a different door.

That room again.

The door beside it. That room.

The door next to the stairs opened onto the long table too.

At first, I tried to memorize the layout.

First door on the left. Second on the right. End of the hall.

I opened it again. The long table.

A different door. The long table.

The one beside it. The long table.

Slowly, I stopped remembering which doors I'd already tried.

Table.

Table.

Table. Table. Table. Table. Table. Table. Table. Table. Table. Table. Table. Table.

I took my hand off the handle.

"Have you lost your way?"

The voice came from right behind me.

I turned — and it was that room again.

The woman was drinking her tea.

"...Please let me go."

"Why are you so anxious to leave? Only a moment ago, you—"

"I was wrong. Just please let me go."

The woman stopped talking.

"I was still speaking."

I shut my mouth.

This time I did not cut her off.

I waited.

The woman simply went on smiling at me.

What is this.

Was I supposed to say something?

Or just keep waiting?

After a few seconds, I no longer knew what I was supposed to do at all.

Shifting my eyes away from her, I spotted the window.

If the doors wouldn't work, I could go out that way instead.

I lifted the chair beside me.

The woman didn't move.

I swung it.

BANG!

The glass didn't break.

The chair rebounded, struck the table, and knocked a teacup to the floor.

Shatter.

My breath stopped.

The woman was staring at the broken teacup.

"I'm sorry."

The words came out before I could think.

"I swear it wasn't on purpose. I'll pay for it — I promise."

No answer came.

"I'm sorry."

Only after a long pause did the woman look at me.

She was smiling.

"It's all right."

The strength returned slightly to my legs.

It's all right.

She'd said that earlier, too.

It's your first time, after all.

It's all right.

"...Thank you."

The woman gazed down at the shards of the teacup scattered on the floor.

"After all — I no longer have to treat you as a guest."

Thump.

The sound came from behind me.

I turned. The empty frame was hanging there.

The one from the parlor.

Why would that be here—

Something touched my back.

My body locked up.

It was damp — and it was pressing, just slightly.

"Wait......"

I tried to pull myself away. It wouldn't come free.

If anything, my back was sinking slowly backward into it.

I grabbed the table.

"Wait — please—"

My hand slid off.

I could see the portraits on the wall.

Park Sung-joon.

A woman in a hanbok.

An old man in a military uniform.

Every one of them was looking at me.

Park Sung-joon pressed his palm against the inside of his frame.

His lips moved.

Run away.

There was no sound.

"Somebody help me."

I sank in deeper.

"Please."

The woman was crouched down, gathering up the pieces of the broken teacup one by one.

"I'm sorry. I was wrong."

The fingers gripping the table let go, one at a time.

The last finger slipped away.

My body was drawn into the frame.

I screamed.

Nothing could be heard.

The room still looked exactly the same.

The woman wiped the table, brought a fresh teacup, and set it in the same place.

Two cups.

Steam rose.

I knocked on the inside of the frame.

Thud.

She didn't turn around.

Again.

Thud.

Thud.

I felt a gaze from the side.

It was Park Sung-joon.

He was crying.

I think I understood now, why he cried.

— a moment later —