So Changbin {Tuchany}

Ban Chan stood on the shore of a forest lake, watching the setting sun. Crimson and gold reflected in the water, mingling with the shadows of the centuries-old pines. He sought inspiration for a new symphony, but the melody eluded him, hidden in the rustling of the leaves. The evening chill had already begun to creep beneath his light jacket when he raised his head to the sky to bid farewell to the sun.

And froze.

High above, piercing the twilight sky, flew neither a meteor nor a satellite. It was a star. White, pure, pulsating with a soft silver light. It didn't trace a fiery arc, but hovered, descending along a smooth, almost graceful trajectory. And it was heading straight here, toward this forest lake.

Chan didn't have time to jump back. The star touched the mirror-smooth surface of the water. There was no splash, no roar. Only a quiet, deep boom, sending ripples across the water, and a blinding but soft white flash that momentarily illuminated the entire forest. And then—silence, only the water slowly calming.

Cautiously stepping on the wet sand, Ban Chan approached the shore. His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat. In the center of the lake, where the star had fallen, the water still glowed with a faint phosphorescent light. And in that light, he saw a figure.

She lay on her back, barely touching the surface of the water, as if it had become a solid, transparent bed supporting her. It was a boy, perhaps his own age. Long, jet-black hair flowed across the water, creating intricate patterns. His face was beautiful—with clear, noble features and a calm, almost serene expression. His eyes were closed, but for good reason—they were hidden by a thin, snow-white lace bandage that clung tightly to his face. It didn't look rough or forced; on the contrary, it seemed part of him.

But the most astonishing thing awaited behind them. From beneath the water, just above their shoulder blades, enormous, majestic wings rose.