The Scholar's Vigil

Rain lashed Min-jun's back.

Each drop struck like a judgment.

He scrambled up the final slope, boots slipping on mud-slicked stones.

His sodden robes dragged at him, heavy as a sinner's conscience.

Lightning fractured the sky.

The villa materialized in the flash—a skeletal hand of gray wood against the dark.

Min-jun shoved the main door.

It groaned open at his touch.

The sound echoed like a welcome from the grave itself.

He stumbled inside, dripping water onto floorboards that hadn't felt a scholar's steps in decades.

The smell hit him first—wet wool, ancient dust, the copper tang of old rain.

Lightning revealed the main hall's decay.

Tattered paper screens hung like shredded skin from broken frames.

Cobwebs draped the beams in ghostly sheets.

The rusted iron bell hung silent on the far wall, its tongue long since stolen.

Min-jun's fingers trembled as he knelt by the collapsed hearth.

He struck flint to steel.

The first spark died.

The second caught.

Flames licked at dry kindling, casting shadows that danced like memories across the walls.

His hands moved through the familiar motions of survival.

Gather wood.

Build the fire.

Create warmth where none existed.

He arranged his calligraphy tools on the only intact table.

Brush rest.

Inkstone.

Paperweight.

A small island of order in the chaos.

Firelight caught faded calligraphy on the walls—virtues written by scholars who once believed their words could change the world.

Integrity.

Justice.

Courage.

The characters had blurred beyond reading, obscured by decades of neglect like his own conscience.

Min-jun adjusted his empty spectacles.

The lenses were glass, clear and meaningless.

He had stopped believing they helped him see anything.

"One must consider the practical course," he whispered.

The words tasted like ash.

He rubbed the calligraphy brush scar on his thumb.

The raised tissue throbbed beneath his touch.

Three years of silence.

Three years of withdrawal.

Three years of telling himself that prudence was wisdom.

Wind howled through the broken lattice.

The sound rose and fell like voices of the dead.

Min-jun bowed his head slightly, a reflex he couldn't break.

Even alone.

Even here.

The fire crackled.

Outside, the storm intensified.

Inside, the shadows lengthened.

Min-jun sat on his heels, watching the flames dance.

He was safe.

He was alone.

He was exactly where he belonged.

Somewhere beyond the villa walls, midnight approached.