1. Shamanic Initiation
"Mmm……."
When I peered into the mirror, a cute little girl stared back at me.
Tilt my head to the left, turn it to the right — same result every time.
Beneath hair still tousled from sleep, jade-green eyes sparkled.
"Gotta say, she really is adorable."
It had already been a few years since I was reborn as a girl.
I was well used to life as a little girl by now, and yet every now and then I still found myself captivated by how uncanny this face was.
Even though it felt more familiar to me now than my face from my past life ever did, looking into the mirror somehow made me want to turn my head this way and that all over again.
"But carrying this face into being a shaman? Yeah, that's a bit much."
A few days ago, I had come down with a fever no one could explain.
We went to the hospital, I took my medicine, but the fever simply refused to break. My parents took turns pressing a hand to my forehead every night, checking my temperature over and over even in their sleep — and in the middle of all that, my maternal grandmother showed up at the house.
She studied my condition for a moment, then clicked her tongue.
"It's spirit sickness."
This, from a woman who practiced shamanism for a living.
My mother's face went rigid. My father said nothing for a long while. Grandmother just told them to let the child rest first, and ushered the two of them out of the room.
A few days later, as if by magic, the fever broke.
And I —
"……I feel perfectly fine?"
Amazingly enough, I was living my life as an ordinary, perfectly normal person.
No ghosts. No strange voices whispering in my ear.
I even checked the corners of my room and peeked under the bed, just in case — nothing.
Maybe Grandma got it wrong.
Of course, my position wasn't exactly ideal for insisting there was no such thing as ghosts — seeing as I was someone who had died and been born all over again.
I believed in shamanism, sure. I just didn't want to become a shaman.
And I wasn't fond of the paintings that hung around Grandmother's house, either. They were creepy-looking. Who on earth lives with things like that in their home?
Forget aptitude — the working environment alone was a dealbreaker.
"Yeon-ah, you're awake?"
Mother's voice drifted in from the living room, and I pulled myself away from the mirror.
Breakfast first. Everything else can wait.
I was barely six. Far too young to be debating my future.
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm okay now."
Even after hearing my answer, Mother's hand went straight to my forehead. Only after squishing my cheeks and smushing my face every which way did she finally look relieved.
"You're not dizzy? Nothing strange showing up anywhere?"
I shook my head, and Mother let out a short breath.
For those few days, my parents had suffered more than I did. Mother in particular would bolt upright at the slightest toss or turn I made in the night.
So today, unlike my usual self, I didn't grumble and fuss — I obediently tipped my head forward. Her hand smoothed my hair down a few times.
"Hungry? Sit down. I'll have it ready in a second."
The table was laid out with all my favorite side dishes.
I wasn't a terribly picky eater, but the tastes and dislikes I'd carried over from my past life remained as strong as ever.
Nothing like a little illness to earn the royal treatment.
Not that I had any desire to get sick again. I'd learned, thoroughly and painfully, just how miserable a fever is in a child's body.
If anything, I should count myself lucky it was the first real illness of this life.
"Where's Dad?"
"Out meeting a friend. He left right after his show ended — before dawn, that one."
I'd met my father's friends a few times. Every last one of them was a character. Then again, my father was quite the eccentric himself, so I suppose it made sense.
"What's my daughter going to do today?"
"Play sleeping."
"You just woke up."
"Then play lying down."
Mother laughed — though for some reason, she looked a little ticked off about it.
"Want to go shopping with Mom? We can get something delicious for lunch out."
"Nnngh. Too much effort."
"……Other kids beg and beg to go out. You really are a strange one, you know that?"
I set down my spoon and looked up at her. She clearly wanted the kind of memories a mother could only make with her daughter.
It was just — such a hassle. Shopping was something you did when the seasons changed and you needed new clothes. That was plenty.
"Staying home with you and eating the food you make is the best thing in the whole world."
"Is… is that so?"
Mother placed one more side dish on top of my rice, looking distinctly cheerier than she had a moment ago.
If there was one thing that had grown in this life, it was most definitely my flattery skills.
Convincing my parents to accept a temperament so different from other children's took a certain amount of charm.
Some might sneer — you used to be a man, where's your pride? — but I was, at present, a girl attending kindergarten. A person who didn't even receive an allowance yet could afford this much effort.
And so that precious weekend slipped by watching reruns of dramas with my mother.
"Ooh, he's handsome. What do you think, sweetie?"
"Good face, but the acting is……"
I rested my chin on the arm of the sofa and watched the screen.
The man in the drama had just been betrayed by a friend he'd trusted. Looking down at the documents, he closed his eyes. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
"Ugh…… why does it feel so unnatural?"
"I can see it too. It completely breaks the immersion."
The other party hadn't even opened their mouth yet.
And yet the man had already moved past hearing the explanation, confirming the facts, and sorting out his feelings all by himself.
I opened my mouth to critique further — then shut it again.
Judging someone else's acting is easy. But there was no guarantee I'd have done any better had I been standing in his place.
In my past life, I had been an actor.
To be precise, I was someone who had wanted to succeed as an actor.
I performed with a small theater troupe, appeared in independent films, and more than once played roles addressed only as "Man 1" or "Passerby 3."
Back then, I told myself it was all part of the process. One line today, three lines in the next project — someday, surely, I'd land a role with a name.
My lines did grow once or twice, in fact.
Then the edit came out and not a single one had survived.
That was roughly how it went, over and over. I'd audition, wait for a callback, and when money ran short, pick up more part-time work. When that ate into rehearsal time, I cut back on sleep instead.
It wasn't until my late twenties that I finally recognized my own limits and gave up the dream.
Hard work doesn't make everyone good. After that, I lived an ordinary life doing other things.
Objectively, I believe it was the right choice — for my own sake, if nothing else.
And yet sometimes, after watching something truly good, a small ache would surface. If only I could have stood inside a scene like that, just once.
"Yeon-ah. Crumbs."
I glanced down at my stomach. My clothes were dusted with cookie crumbs.
Suffice it to say, the current me fit far better on this sofa than inside any drama.
Besides, the sofa was more comfortable. Win-win.
And lucky, too. Lucky to have been born into a home like this.
"Daddy brought chicken!"
At that sweet spot right before dinner, my father came home trailing a magnificent aroma. I climbed down from the sofa and headed for the table — only to feel a flicker of disappointment the moment he opened the box.
"Ugh. Bone-in."
"Daddy likes this kind better. I'll pick the meat off the bones for you, though."
"Then it's fine."
Father smiled and set a small plate down in front of me.
The parents of this life were good people. We weren't short on money, and if I wanted something, they had the means to support it. There was no need for me to decide on a future just yet.
At least, that's what I thought.
"Yeon-ah — would you ever consider auditioning for an acting role?"
An utterly out-of-nowhere question, with zero context.
"Hmm…… no."
The answer shot out faster than I'd intended. Father's eyes went round.
"You love dramas that much?"
"Watching them and doing them are two different things."
I turned my gaze back to the chicken. Starting over at something you'd already failed at takes more courage than you'd think — especially something you'd truly loved. I had no desire to repeat the same disappointment while nursing the hope that this time would be different.
"Nobody's saying you have to become an actress right now. I ran into Hak-young today, and he says the drama he's shooting needs one more child. The child actor they'd lined up suddenly dropped out."
"So you want me to do it?"
"Just a camera test, for starters. Hak-young says he's seen your face and thinks you'd suit it."
Beside him, Mother nodded along.
"There's no need to force yourself. It could be a fun experience — that's the only reason we're asking."
"What's the part?"
"A child shaman, apparently?"
The chicken suddenly refused to go down.
When I stared at him, Father gave an awkward little laugh.
"I was surprised too, hearing it. How does coincidence pile up like this?"
At this point, was somebody doing this on purpose? I say I hate shamans, and immediately they want me to play one?
I took a sip of my cola.
"How big is the part?"
"Not long, he says. The female lead's childhood."
"Does the director watch in person? Or is it just a camera test we send in?"
No answer came. When I lifted my head, both my parents were staring at me.
"How does our daughter know any of that?"
"I-I saw it in a drama. Don't remember the title."
I picked up a piece of chicken. I'd nearly gone and asked which production company it was.
"Anyway, there's a script, right?"
"We did receive one."
"I'll look it over and decide."
Because Father was already beaming, I hurried to add:
"Just looking. That's all."
Truthfully, getting to read the script for a brand-new drama was a fairly tempting prospect.
Showing that much interest couldn't hurt, could it?
Back in my room, I turned on my tablet. The file they'd sent was fairly long, but the part with my role spanned exactly two pages.
Working title: Nakhwadang — the Hall of Falling Flowers.
An occult mystery drama digging into the secrets surrounding an ancient shaman house and the redevelopment project closing in around it.
The role I'd been offered was the female lead Yoon-ha as a child.
One line in her character description caught my eye.
Yoon-ha sees the traces of fate that bind people together.
At Nakhwadang, they called it Seeing the Path.
It wasn't a matter of knowing everything the future held, though. She caught only fragments — a place, an object, an emotion — and even the order in which they'd unfold was never certain.
"So she doesn't see ghosts. Huh."
That part was a surprise. Apparently not every shaman role involved conversing with the dead.
I lay on my stomach on the bed and read through the scene.
Late afternoon, a gut done and cleared. Young Yoon-ha sits at the edge of the wooden veranda, watching the courtyard where the rain has only just stopped. A car halts outside the gate, and a boy clutching his father's hand steps through it.
Young Han Do-jin.
As Yoon-ha looks at the boy, brief images layer themselves over her vision. A gate soaked with rain. White cloth. Burning papers. And Do-jin, grown to a man, returning to Nakhwadang once more.
At the last, Yoon-ha smiles, faintly.
—You came.
"……That's the entire line?"
I flipped the page, but there was nothing more. A single line. Considering how many extra actors never even got that much, it was honestly decent treatment.
Except it was not a simple role.
If she were merely greeting the child walking in, a plain hello would do.
But the stage directions had deliberately wedged visions of the future in between.
Which meant whatever she said had to be different before and after seeing them.
What would that even feel like?
You look at a stranger — and see their future. And that future contains even yourself.
Frightening? Fascinating? Pitiable?
None of the images written in the script looked like pleasant ones.
And yet Yoon-ha didn't cry, didn't flinch. She smiled.
I went back to the beginning and read the scene again. The girl on the veranda, the boy passing through the gate, and all the things that had not yet come to pass.
That was when I caught the scent of incense from somewhere.
"……Huh?"
The moment I raised my head, something rough pressed against my palm. Not a blanket. Aged wooden planks.
The tablet was gone. The bed was gone. A red skirt of a chima draped over my knees, and beneath it, small bare feet stretched out.
A water droplet fell from the eaves and broke the surface of a shallow puddle in the courtyard.
What—
I tried to speak, but my body only drew a quiet breath. Without any regard for my panic, the tips of my toes stirred, slow and unhurried.
A little bored, actually. The damp breeze slipping inside my sleeve was cool and strangely pleasant. Though I'd never seen this place before, my body was utterly at ease here.
I tried to move my fingers. Instead, my head turned.
Outside the gate, a car door clicked shut. A man came in, holding a young child's hand.
My gaze went to the man's face first, then dropped lower — to a neatly dressed boy carefully choosing his steps so the dirt wouldn't soil his shoes.
The boy lifted his head.
The sound of falling water stopped.
No — it ceased to be heard at all.
Over the boy's shoulder, an entirely different gate superimposed itself. The same place, but the rain fell far harder there. The one standing before that gate was a grown man, and the hand clutching his soaked hem was white-knuckled.
Then, a flash of white cloth. Someone bowing their head. Before I could grasp what was happening, the edge of a piece of paper caught fire.
Short, vivid scenes swept past my eyes — a leaning pillar of Nakhwadang, a hand reaching out of the darkness — and then, once more, the man standing before the veranda.
A woman stood beside him.
I couldn't hold her face for long. But the instant I saw her, something deep in my chest tugged, strange and insistent. She was a stranger, and yet I couldn't look away.
Just as the boy in front of me and that man were one and the same, it felt as though I, too, were connected to that woman.
What is—
Even as the question formed in my mind, my body didn't move. Only the fingers braced against the planks tightened, a little.
An unknowable sorrow welled up. Nothing had happened to make me grieve — and still, my chest felt heavy and hollow, as though I stood face to face with someone who had walked an endless, endless road to arrive here.
I looked up at the man's rain-soaked face. I didn't know how he had come this far. I didn't know what those glimpsed scenes meant. But this much was unnaturally certain: that he would come here.
The sound of the dripping water returned.
The man vanished, and the boy remained — a child still holding a grown-up's hand, standing in the courtyard with a slightly sulky face.
The gaze I had been holding a moment ago settled a little lower now. Clean clothes. Not a single strand of wet hair. And yet it didn't feel like the first time I'd seen him at all.
Over the heaviness left in my chest, a small, peculiar warmth bloomed — a strange, unbidden gladness. The corner of my mouth lifted.
"You came."
The words went out toward that child. But they weren't meant for the boy standing before me.
—Thump.
The tablet tumbled onto the blanket.
I bolted upright on reflex. My room. I spread out my palm — no marks, no grain of pressed wood. My socks were still on my feet.
And yet, deep in my chest, that unfamiliar feeling still lingered.
I picked the tablet back up. Everything I had just seen was written there, in the stage directions. A few short lines — and while I read them, I had been sitting in that rain-soaked courtyard.
"You came……."
I tried it out loud. It wasn't the same. It felt like a voice doing a rough imitation of itself — when that one short phrase had unmistakably held so much more.
Only then did I understand.
I had gone into the script — and come back.
I hadn't learned anything new about where Yoon-ha was born or what kind of child she was. The circumstances of that glimpsed future were still a mystery to me.
But I knew exactly how it had felt to look at that boy. I knew why my gaze had risen and then fallen, why I hadn't been able to smile right away.
Because I had lived through it myself.
"……So that's what spirit sickness is."
I looked down at the tablet.
Forget seeing ghosts — apparently, I get possessed instead.