Park Jongseong Jay

†1815 13 January†

Winter had been long this year.
The stone walls held no warmth, and the firewood in the hearth crackled lazily, reluctantly.
He sat in his private quarters — a modest room tucked away in the eastern wing of the estate.
The candle was nearly burnt out. The glass beside him — half-empty.
His hand rested on a book, though his eyes hadn’t read in a while. He was resting.

He heard the footsteps immediately.
But he didn’t move.
He knew that rhythm — too alive, too assured.

She — the girl he’d known since she was just a teenager.
The one who used to look up at him, call him “teacher,” and frown with boredom.
And now — she was twenty. Almost a woman.
Almost a boundary.
And the only thread left between them — this house.
He still lived here because he now taught her younger brother.

She entered without knocking.
He looked up. Slowly.
No surprise. Just a quiet exhale.

“You often do what you shouldn’t.”

“And yet I’m here. And you haven’t sent me away.”

You. When had she stopped calling him Sir? teacher?

He closed the book.
His fingers trembled slightly, but his face stayed calm.

“Because I can’t.”