Chapter 10 – Clumsy Chaos at the Hwaran House
She didn’t doubt a single thing—not even slightly. It was to the point that Murou found it odd. After she had told her everything.
“…That must’ve been really hard. You must’ve suffered so much.”
Even though it wasn’t her fault at all, she apologized.
“I’m sorry, Murou. It feels like you’re hurting more because of me.”
Murou shook her head, but Tarim wore the saddest face in the world as she tried to comfort her.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all, just tell me. Promise me, okay? You have to.”
Strangely, recalling those eyes made her tense shoulders relax. On her worst day, she had met the best person. Park Tarim had shown up like Santa Claus confused about the calendar and said all the things Murou had never heard before.
That jerk is the bad one. You’re not.
Tell someone—tell everyone. Say it again and again until you feel better.
And then, she added one more thing.
If there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all, just tell me.
Promise me, okay?
A heart that hadn’t fully healed couldn’t accept kindness as it was.
Murou curled up and burrowed into a new comforter. It was probably one Tarim had washed. She almost imagined the scent of a forest from it. When Tarim finished preparing her bed and left the room, Murou opened her lips several times.
She wanted to say it. She really did.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tarim. I’m just scared. That’s all.
At 28, she had erased her own memories, but still wandered the sands. It wasn’t a forest—it was a barren land covered in ugly scabs.
Hoshik had only wanted a drink of water before bed. It was 11:40 p.m. He checked the time, crept down the stairs, and wandered through the darkened living room. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark, but he was so used to the layout that he didn’t bother turning on a light.
The water purifier was at the far end of the kitchen. As he groped to avoid bumping into the dining table, his hand grabbed a soft, hot lump—and he collapsed on the spot. Not even a scream came out.
Back when he said he was moving into this 60-year-old “Hwaran House,” his precinct chief had warned him: “That place is haunted.” Hoshik had laughed it off. “What kind of nonsense is that?” But he should’ve listened.
Now it was happening. The lump slithered from the table to the chair, then oozed down onto the floor. It writhed in the dark. Hoshik scooted back as far as he could. The mass let out a low groan and grew larger. His heart skipped a beat—literally. He clutched his chest. What if he died seeing a ghost? Would it count as a mysterious death?
Would Ikyeom and Tarim become suspects? Even that Murou girl he just met today…?
These were the absurd thoughts that flashed before his eyes—before the ghost-like mass simply stomped past him.
Click. The light came on.
“What are you doing?”
Park Tarim stood there, blinking down at him.
“Shi—!”
He teared up. Kwon Hoshik, who hadn’t cried since his last breakup.
“Why are you swearing? Psycho.”
Tarim stretched with a big yawn.
“Ugh, I must’ve dozed off.”
Realizing she had fallen asleep at the dining table, Hoshik wanted to strangle his landlord. He forced his wobbly knees to stand up, gulped down a full glass of water, and only then came back to his senses.
“You could’ve left the light on… Dammit…”
“Everyone’s asleep, why would I?”
“Why are you here instead of your room?!”
“Shhh! You’ll wake Murou.”
Hoshik wanted to scream—what is she, a baby? You gonna rock her back to sleep? And while you’re so worried about her, your love life hasn’t moved an inch! How long are you gonna live off charcoal for breakfast? But he had no strength after his near-death experience.
Hoshik collapsed into a chair.
“It was all soft and steaming hot, so I thought—how bitter must a ghost’s grudge be to radiate that kind of heat… I… ugh…”
“What are you even talking about?”
His eyes caught a piece of paper spread out on the table. It was the leather-covered notebook Tarim always carried around. She must’ve fallen asleep mid-writing. A pen lay crooked across the page. The last sentence punched him in the brain:
“Can’t remember anything before age 11. Thank goodness.”
“What is this?”
Tarim quickly snatched the notebook.
“…It’s nothing.”
“Who can’t remember?”
“Go upstairs. It’s almost midnight.”
Tarim hurried out of the kitchen. Hoshik checked the clock on the cupboard. 11:57 p.m. Three minutes to curfew. The minute hand of the old German wind-up clock—allegedly the oldest item in the house—ticked one notch closer to 12.
“Damn this stupid curfew…”
Hoshik turned off the kitchen lights and trudged toward the stairs. Each step dropped a muttered self-reproach.
“This is all my karma… I brought this on myself…”
There were three rooms on the second floor. Hoshik closed the door to his own and total darkness fell over Hwaran House.
Knock knock.
“Murou.”
Knock knock.
“Murou, time for breakfast.”
Knock knock knock.
“Murou~”
Knock knock knock knock.
“Muroooou~”
Murou thought it was a dream. She forced her scratchy eyelids open. Knock knock, knock knock knock. The sound came from beyond the door. She dragged herself up and opened it in her pajamas.
Outside stood Tarim, fingers bent mid-knock, caught in the act.
“Huh…?”
“You gotta eat breakfast.”
Now that she noticed, the rich aroma of soybean paste stew filled the living room. Still half-asleep, Murou shook her head.
“I… I don’t usually eat in the morni—”
“What are you saying?!”
That woke her up real quick. She had only said she didn’t eat breakfast, but Tarim looked like she’d stumbled onto a crime scene.
“Breakfast is at 8 a.m. sharp.”
Seriously?
Murou, who had always gone to bed at 4 and woken at noon, was already struggling to adapt to this house’s “miracle morning” lifestyle.
“Twenty minutes left, so wash up and come eat~”
Tarim left with a chipper cheer and skipped off to the kitchen. She had even woken her up—Murou felt bad not eating. Besides, rent included two meals a day, so might as well. Yawning, she dragged her slippers toward the first-floor bathroom, just as she’d been told to use.
Still foggy, her ears felt muffled. She yawned again and opened the bathroom door.
“KYAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”
Oh. My. Eyes.
She slammed them shut immediately. But no matter how tightly she closed them, the primal image of Oh Ikyeom mid-shower would not fade.
“CLOSE THE DOOR!!!!!!”
Ugh. The steam. That volcanic vocal cord.
Feeling her way, Murou quickly shut the door. Tarim came running, spatula in hand.
“What?! What happened—oh.”
Ikyeom’s screech from inside, and Murou squatting outside with her eyes shut told her everything.
“I told you not to use the first-floor bathroom anymore!”
“You never did!!!!”
Ikyeom shrieked from inside.
“Murou, you can open your eyes now. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not…”
“Oh dear, seeing something so gruesome first thing in the morning…”
Tarim blamed Ikyeom’s rock-for-brains forgetfulness and told her to use the second-floor bathroom just for today. Murou trudged up the wooden stairs, trying to erase the memory of Ikyeom’s backside.
His shouting had rattled her skull. Shaking her head, she opened the second-floor bathroom door. Warm steam hit her face like déjà vu.
Oh, Lord.
“…Uh.”
Kwon Hoshik let out a soft gasp. This time, Murou didn’t even shut her eyes.
Something else to forget. Even though she hadn’t yet recovered what she’d already forgotten.
“YAAASSS, this is amazing!!!!”
Ikyeom raved after his first spoonful of stew. Hoshik devoured rice like he was trying to bury his head in the bowl.
“It’s been forever since I’ve seen our own Dae Jang Geum again!!!”
After a long culinary drought, Ikyeom was moved to tears by this meal. Murou sipped the stew with a dry mouth. Her appetite was nonexistent. And yet—
“…It’s delicious.”
When was the last time she had a proper home-cooked meal?
Tarim’s soybean paste stew was so good, she finally understood why Ikyeom called her Dae Jang Geum.
“Why is it… why is it so good?”
For someone who had survived on instant noodles and ready-made meals, this was a culinary revolution for Joo Murou.
