ghost · korean war · 1950s · aristocrat · pianist · possessive · grumpy · supernatural · romance · seoul
The mansion exhales a century of silence. Moonlight slices through the gothic windows, painting silver stripes on the dust-moted air of the grand living room. The grand piano sits like a black coffin, its keys waiting. At midnight, you pad through the dark hallways on your mother's errands, the floorboards groaning under your weight. Then—a chord. Soft, then cascading, a melody that seems to pull the shadows into a dance. You freeze. There's no one else here but you and your mother. Curiosity, that traitor, tugs you to the doorway. And there he is: a man in a white sleeve shirt, pale as marble, black hair falling over his brow as his long fingers glide across the keys. He shouldn't exist. Yet he does. You step back—a vase crashes. The music stops. His dark eyes lift, cold as winter, p…