The Cursed Saintess Came to My House (2)

A woman claiming to be Han Junseo stood right in front of me inside my apartment. What should I say? Should I ask if she was really who she said? Throw out a question only we'd both know the answer to, just to confirm? Or would it be better to just believe her?

Should I offer some warm words like, "That must've been tough," or "You're okay now," or "How did this even happen?" My mind was a tangle of options, but the words that actually tumbled out of my mouth didn't fit any of them.

"Looking like a drowned rat. Get in here already."

It wasn't suspicion or sympathy. Those words burst out instinctively, almost reflexively, in the exact same tone I always used with Han Junseo. Without a shred of doubt or even a hint of pity, I let the woman into my home.

The moment she crossed the threshold, her bare, rain-soaked feet slapped against the entryway tiles with a wet squelch that echoed in the narrow space. With every step, water dripped from her clothes, forming little puddles that spread across the floor. Under the entryway light, her footprints were stark—bare soles swollen bright red. I didn't even want to imagine how far she'd walked in this downpour without shoes.

But once inside, the woman couldn't move any further. Just a step past the entryway, right before the living room, her feet stopped dead. Whether her tension had finally snapped or she'd simply run out of strength to stand, she collapsed right there with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a heavy thud.

My gaze dropped instinctively at the sound. The woman, crouched on the floor, looked up at me. Her eyes, peeking through soaked strands of hair, glistened with moisture and trembled. That gaze felt strangely heavy—drawing me in like she wanted to say something, then releasing me as if she just needed to catch her breath. Repeating, over and over.

That's when I noticed it. As she slumped, her oversized shirt shifted to one side, exposing more of her chest. Between breasts far too prominent for her petite frame, something was wedged there. A thin scrap of paper clung desperately to her wet skin, but as her posture gave way completely, it slipped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠free and fluttered to the floor.

I crouched down and picked it up. It was a business card. Cheap paper, edges curled from the rain, with tacky gold foil lettering that gleamed dully.

"Hah."

I froze, business card in hand. Of course. The first things to swarm someone this broken weren't the cops. Not kind neighbors or good Samaritans. The ones who slithered in first were always that type—sniffing out wounds, then burying their faces in them to suck them dry.

That was the order of the world.

A bitter taste spread in my mouth, far sharper than the lukewarm champagne I'd sipped earlier. Without a word, I crumpled the card in my fist. The damp paper mashed easily under my fingers, but I had no time to dwell on the sensation. I tossed the wad onto the entryway shoe rack and headed straight for the bathroom.

I grabbed two towels from the shelf. My reflection in the mirror looked as blankly expressionless as ever—oddly normal for the circumstances—but there was no time to scrutinize it. Clutching a towel in each hand, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I stepped back out. The woman was still crouched in the entryway, unmoving. The puddle around her had grown, starting clear as rainwater but turning murky, some unidentifiable sludge leaking from her soaked clothes.

How long had she been wandering out there? The spreading stain on the tiles told the story well enough.

What the hell made her like this? I wanted to ask right then—where she'd come from, why no shoes, where that damn card had come from. Questions burned in my throat, but I shoved them down. First things first: deal with the drenched, freezing mess she was in.

I unfolded one towel and draped it over her head. The soft fabric settled over her wet hair, and her shoulders twitched faintly—but she didn't pull away. I pressed down a couple times to soak up the water, then grumbled in my usual gruff tone.

"That's what you get for walking in the rain. You know where my clothes are, right? Grab something and go wash up."

She lifted her head slowly from under the towel, and our eyes met naturally. We were close. From my angle looking down at her crouched form, it was almost like peering straight into her crown. As she tilted her head back, her irises filled my vision—and something snagged.

The color was off. The Han Junseo I knew had pitch-black eyes, near enough to pure black for any Korean guy. Even catching the light, they were just dark voids.

But this woman's eyes, staring up at me, had a faint gray tint up close. Under the entryway light, her bloodshot whites framed irises that were oddly cloudy gray.

Weird... foreigner? Another layer of doubt piled on. Eye color was a pretty decisive difference. Logically, the odds were higher she wasn't Han Junseo.

But I didn't ask. If she really was Junseo, she'd know this place like the back of her hand. He'd raided my fridge like it was his own on drunken visits, knew exactly where I kept spare clothes—and even my underwear drawer.

If it was him, she'd grab what she needed without guidance. If not, she'd stand there clueless. That'd be my test.

But she didn't move. Towel over her head, she just looked up at me—no words, no action. Not even a sign of standing.

She sat frozen, like she'd forgotten how to use her body altogether.

I waited a while, but nothing changed. Finally, I circled behind her, slipped my arms under her waist, and lifted gently. She was cold—unnaturally so, seeping through her wet clothes. Her waist felt fragile, almost breakable in my grip, and the soft weight of her breasts brushed my forearms through the shirt, but I ignored it. Priority one: get her standing on her own two feet.

As I pushed up from behind, she struggled to unfold her knees and rise. She wobbled, tilting to one side before catching herself, then toddled forward like a baby learning to walk. Entryway to hallway, hallway to the passage by the living room. She braced against the wall, stumbling, and it tugged at me—but I just watched from behind.

And she headed straight for the bathroom. I hadn't guided her or pointed the way. She bypassed the living room and kitchen, turned down the inner hallway, and stopped right at the bathroom door.

But she didn't stop there. Staggering, she pivoted to the storage cabinet next to it, opened the door, and peered inside.

It was the one for loungewear. A spot only I—and Han Junseo, who'd been in and out dozens of times—knew about.

She didn't even grab anything before slipping into the bathroom. The click of the lock echoed down the hall.

This was Han Junseo. Eye color, height—those were secondary. No one else knew the layout like that. Even with her mind numb and instincts in charge, her body remembered the path. It wasn't her brain proving it; it was pure habit.

I stared at the locked bathroom door for a long moment, then turned away.

My friend, transformed into a saintess-like beauty, had come to my door on Christmas night. Soaked to the bone, barefoot, clutching a single business card to her chest. Too wretched for a miracle, too brutal for a reunion.

Feels more like a curse...)

The cursed saintess had come to my house. Was that the right way to put it? Screw phrasing—what mattered now wasn't words.

Water started running from the bathroom. I went back to the entryway and began mopping up the muddy puddles with a rag. The shower roared beyond the door. The tiles were coated in water so murky you couldn't tell rain from filth; one swipe, and more spread from the sides. It took two rags to finally reveal the floor, and the sheer volume made it hard to believe it had all come off one person's body. This wasn't "a little wet."

She could've died like this. Even as just some random person, this was life-threatening. At least she had the strength to turn on the hot water—small mercies, if you could call them that in this mess.

The gushing water cut off abruptly. A squeak of the faucet, then silence. I hung the wet rag over the washer and headed to my bedroom. I opened the closet, stared for a bit, then pulled out a dark hoodie from the corner.

I wore it often; he'd snag it every visit. On drunken nights, he'd grab it first, pass out on the sofa—and I'd gripe that no matter how much I washed it, the booze and smoke stench never fully came out.

Oversized enough for comfort, it should fit her new body without issue.

The real problem came after.

Underwear... pants... what about those? No women's underwear here, obviously. My pants would just slide right off her hips. Complications on complications, but no time to agonize.

First, give her the clothes he liked best. I cracked the bathroom door; hot steam billowed out. I shoved the hoodie through the gap.

"Put this on. You know, the usual."

No response. It was the same routine ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as always—handing post-shower clothes to the guy—but the reaction was different. Back then, he'd snatch it with a "Oh, my fave!" Now, no one pulled it from the crack.

Steam climbed my arm, soaking my sleeve, but I didn't withdraw. Rushing her would just make her shrink back more.

Finally, slender fingers grasped the sleeve. I closed the door, wiped my damp arm on my collar. The steamy sleeve felt gross, but changing was a hassle—I let it be.

Then straight to the kitchen.

What to feed her first?

I opened the cupboard over the sink and grabbed a ramen packet. Same as always. On days he dragged in after a girl shot him down or bombed a job interview, I'd just boil ramen without a word.

No questions, no lectures. Pot on, water in, powder stirred, noodles added. He'd slurp it down, broth and all, then snore on the sofa.

That was our way of comforting each other.

I filled the pot with water and set it on the burner.

And no cracking an egg in it. Han Junseo hated eggs in ramen—muddied the broth, he'd say. I reached for the fridge door, then dropped my hand.

Yeah. Just like always. Plain and simple.