Everyone remembered the wedding. The bride in white. The scent of lilies steeped into the old chapel's stone, clinging like ghosted perfume. Bells pealed through the hills, their song curling into the wind like laughter long since lost.

Luminous and trembling, a vision of something too fragile to last. Her veil drifted behind her like a sigh not yet breathed. Choi Soobin — upright, immaculate, heir to lineage and legacy. He looked at her the way men look at marble statues: reverent, distant, unfeeling. She looked at him the way people look at locked doors, whispering they aren't trapped.

Their union was not a romance but a transaction. A name bound to another, ink dried on parchment, sealed in quiet blood.

And yet, in the shadows beyond the chapel gates stood another soul, watching as she stepped into a future that did not belong to her. And in his chest — something shattered. Not with a scream, but a silence so loud it cracked through bone.

Yeonjun.

He had loved her always. Softly. Hopelessly. As boys love stars — from a distance, believing foolishly that one day, they might fall just for them.

He loved her laughter, bending like willow branches in the breeze. The way her footsteps barely touched the earth, as if the world itself hesitated to hold her. He loved her before she ever looked his way.

And when she smiled — almost apologetic — and said: “They've arranged my marriage to Soobin”

His vision blurred. He tasted blood where he bit back what he could never say. He nodded. He didn't scream. He didn't beg. But that night, he tore every drawing of her from his sketchbooks — and pieced them back together with trembling fingers, as if he could unbreak what had already been broken.

He did not go to the ceremony. Instead, he walked the winding path through the woods, a white lily clenched in his fist like a wound. A funeral in place of a wedding.

They say grief is silence. But Yeonjun heard it everywhere — in the birdsong that sounded too bright, in the gravel crunching beneath his boots, in the voices echoing from the village — none of them hers.

And then — a scream.

Later, they would call it an accident. They would say she tripped, running. That her gown caught on roots. That she fell.

But no one could explain the bruises blooming on her skin. The torn veil. The blood spilled beneath her skull like a second bouquet she was never meant to carry.

He went to her grave the next night. And the night after. And the one after that, until the earth knew his footsteps better than his home did.

He brought her remnants — relics of an unfinished love story: a song he once wrote when she laughed beside him, a ribbon she dropped by the lake in spring, a pebble smoothed by the water she once swam in.

He knelt beneath the moon and whispered into the soil: “I feel you, wherever my feet take me. It's like I'm possessed, like all of me belongs to you. This emotion feels like it might suffocate me.”“Only you are my breath, only you are my truth. You're the one I don't wanna lose. Come back to me”

And one night — she did.

She stood by the old well, barefoot and pale, her wedding gown clinging to her like mist spun from sorrow. Her eyes — vacant, glassy, sad but so tragedically beautiful — and yet, they saw him.

He froze — breath caught, ribs splintering around the impossible shape of her. The ghost of her wedding dress trembled in the wind like a sigh too tired to leave. And yet... she looked at him. Not through him. Not past him. At him.

Yeonjun took a step forward — slow, as if approaching a sacred thing he feared would vanish with too much breath. The world narrowed: no birds, no forest, no time — only her.

His voice came out hollow, reverent. “You came back...” He laughed — soft, bitter — and it cracked in his throat like glass. His hand trembled at his side, aching to reach for her, but afraid to shatter the veil between them.

“You're real. Aren't you?”

Silence.

The fog curled around her ankles like a vow. Her eyes, though empty, knew him in a way no living soul ever had.

“I waited,” he whispered. “Every night. Every night since they buried you in that cold dirt like you were just a body. You're not. You're not—” His voice broke. “You were never meant to be his. You were never meant to be gone.”

The ache in him twisted sharper, crueler. “I still hear your laugh. I still see the way you looked at him — like you were trying to love him. But you never smiled the way you did with me, did you?”

He stepped closer now, the well between them, like an open grave. “You remember, don't you? Tell me you remember me.”