It’s been six long months since my parents passed away — six months soaked in hardship, rage, and guilt.
I never imagined grief could taste like this — bitter, hollow, and endless.

I was thrown into a world I barely understood — my father’s business, the unpredictable tides of the stock market, the board meetings, and everything in between. I stumbled, fell, learned to crawl, and somehow kept going.

I left Oxford. I abandoned my research halfway — the dream I once thought would define me.

But sometimes, no matter how hard we fight, destiny writes its own script.

Now I find myself in Busan, standing before the house where I spent my childhood summers — the same house where my gentle grandfather once lived before he passed away when I was ten.
My parents had moved to Italy, and for years, so did I.

And now, I’m back — watching the workers carry in massive cartons and furniture boxes, one after another. My orders were clear: transform this place into something magnificent — a mansion wrapped in silence and surrounded by a sprawling garden.

Everything here now whispers my taste.
The walls — a calm blend of muted grey and charcoal black.
The furniture — sleek, modern, and dark, perfectly matched. My room breathes in deep crimson — the colour of quiet rebellion.
There’s a gaming room upstairs for my escapes, and a cozy room downstairs for my Bam.

I watched the movers carefully lift my old paintings — the ones I bought back when I didn’t even understand what art meant, only that I wanted it.

I was spoiled.
Maybe I still am.

My underground garage gleams — a shrine to indulgence — lined with limited-edition cars and roaring bikes.

Hours slip away as the workers put the final touches on the mansion. When they’re done, it stands before me, perfect — dark, beautiful, and entirely mine.

“Boss, everything’s done. Shall I order food for you?” my assistant, Gihun Min, asks while pulling out his phone, his eyes waiting for my nod.

I nod silently.

I stepped inside the mansion, watching the workers drag the last of the cartons out before driving away in their trucks.

The house stood quiet now — strange, yet somehow more familiar than anything else.
My gaze drifted to the grand painting hanging on the front wall — my parents standing beside him. Big, beautiful, painfully perfect.

That photo was taken on my eighteenth birthday.
Back then, I’d just gotten my fiftieth girlfriend — a ridiculous milestone I’d foolishly celebrated like an achievement.
Now, years later, I have nothing. Nothing that matters, at least.

The sun was setting, painting the glass windows in gold and blood-orange. Gihun had already left; I’d sent him off with a list of errands.
I sank into the round, black-leather couch — firm, cold, just the way I liked it. I’ve always preferred darker tones — colors that don’t shine too bright, that keep their secrets well.

That’s when I heard it.
A faint sound — something shifting upstairs, right above me.

At first, I thought it was just my imagination, the house creaking under its own weight. But then it came again — a soft scrape, definite, real.

Someone was up there.

A worker left behind, maybe. Or a burglar foolish enough to pick the wrong mansion.
Either way, I had to check.

I shrugged off my coat, letting it fall carelessly over the armrest, and made my way toward the stairs.

I knew this place by heart — every corner, every echo.
The attic was barely twenty steps from the staircase. I climbed the narrow ladder and reached for the handle.

The wooden door groaned open — and a wave of dust exploded into my face.

Wait—dusty?
I specifically told those idiots to clean the entire house. How did they miss this place?

The air was thick, dry, choking. I coughed as the particles clawed at my throat.
“Ah—damn it.”

But when I stepped inside, expecting to find a thief or a stray worker, I froze.

There, on a pile of old wooden boxes — someone was lying down.

A girl.

What the—who’s she?

I moved closer, cautious but curious. Her small chest rose and fell steadily — calm, peaceful.
Everything I wasn’t.

Her hair was a tangled mess, like a bird’s nest made of dusk and dust. Her school uniform was torn and faded, the edges frayed and stained.

A high-schooler? In my attic?

“Hey,” I called out. No response.

“Hey.” I repeated, this time shaking her shoulder gently.

She stirred. Her face turned toward me, and for a heartbeat — I forgot to breathe.
She looked… pitiful, yet oddly delicate. Round cheeks streaked with dust, lashes trembling like fragile wings.

What was she? A dust storm come to life?

Her eyes opened — chestnut brown, but darker, deeper. She blinked at me as though she couldn’t quite believe I was real.

“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice sharper now. This girl had trespassed into my house, and I wanted answers.

She tilted her head slightly, studying me with quiet curiosity. Then, as if remembering her manners, she stood up, brushed her skirt, and smiled.

“My name—my name is Jieun,” she said softly, pointing to the pocket of her uniform where a name tag was pinned.

Park Jieun.

Her voice was light, innocent — like a child’s, untouched by the bitterness of the world.
Nothing like the voices I heard at my parents’ funeral.

“What are you exactly doing in my house?” I said in a dangerous tone, not wanting to melt.

She blinked at me once again, and as if she was trying to think, she put a finger on her chin and then answered, “I live here.”

“From how long?”

And as if that question meant something, she moved toward a wall and softly said, “Wait—let me count.”

She pointed at the wall. It had lines drawn all over it, as though she’d been keeping track of every day and night she’d spent here.

So many of them.

And she was counting them.

“One, two, three,…”

Irritated, I turned her toward me by her shoulders and said in a harsh tone, “Who exactly are you, and what are you even doing in my house?”

Hearing my harsh tone, I saw her flinch.

“I… I’m a ghost… and… and I live here,” she stammered.

For a moment, I froze. Was she serious? Or some patient who’d escaped from a psychiatric lab?
Either way, I couldn’t bear her.

“Fuck—did you lose your damn mind? Don’t joke around here,” I said, my voice growing harsher.

“Who are you?” I asked again, firmly this time.

She fidgeted with her fingers, looking nervous, as though she had nothing to say. Her silence was my answer.

“I’m calling the police.”

Her head snapped up immediately, her eyes wide and glassy with tears.

“Don’t call… don’t call them, they’re bad,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Then get out of my house,” I said, grabbing her arm.

I know I was too harsh.
But she was crazy.

What do you expect from someone who just found a stranger in his attic claiming to be a ghost, huh?

“I… I don’t have anywhere to go,” she whispered, and the first tear rolled down her cheek.

Ignore it, Jeon.
She’s crazy.

“I don’t care. Live on the footpath. Get out of my house,” I said, yanking her forward and dragging her straight down the ladder.

She didn’t even try to fight back — I could only hear the soft drag of her footsteps behind me.

When I finally had her at the front door, I said, “Don’t ever show up near here again. I’ll call the police.”

“I… I don’t have anywhere to go,” she muttered again, her head lowered.

“I don’t care. Disappear. Vanish. Or get eaten by ghosts. I don’t care. If I see you again, I’ll call the police,” I warned her.

As if obeying my words, she turned.

And as I blinked, she disappeared.

Wait.
Did she just disappear?
Into thin air?

Am I hallucinating? Am I mentally ill because of my parents’ death? I stood there blinking at the door.

Who was she, really?

I think I need a doctor.
Damn it.

But… as much as I know, I’m not sick. I’m not trapped in trauma over my parents’ death. I had this strange feeling — she wasn’t just my imagination.

But still… a ghost?
She didn’t look like one. She looked like a lost girl — someone who had simply forgotten her way home.
Anything but a ghost. No chance.

Ghosts like her don’t exist.

But what if… she really was one?
And not my imagination?

I ran a hand through my hair, closing the main door shut.

I had just seen a girl disappear right in front of my eyes.
Why wasn’t I panicking or scared? I don’t know. Maybe if she was a ghost… she wasn’t a scary one.

Or maybe… I’m just too dumb to fear a ghost.

A/n' PoV—

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