Chapter Text
There is a story that circulates through the town.
No one knows where it began, nor who first dared to give it voice—whether it carries even a grain of truth is beside the point. It is told all the same, passed from the lips of the eldest to the ears of the very young.
It does not make sense. No sensible soul claims to believe it. And yet it persists. For it offers both explanation and warning, luring the listener close only to leave them trembling at its end. A simple, tragic tale, one might say.
———
The rain had been falling over London since the morning, a thin grey curtain that dulled the streets and turned the windows into blurred mirrors. Carriages rattled past in the distance, their wheels cutting through puddles, while somewhere below a newspaper boy shouted the latest headlines to no one in particular.
She sat by the window of her small writing desk, chin resting lightly against her hand, staring at the unmoving clouds above the rooftops. London in the summer had its charms—crowded markets, music drifting from open taverns, evenings bright enough to stretch late into the night—but lately it had felt strangely suffocating.
Her days mostly followed the same quite dull pattern and she started her days with tea as she accompanied her father for breakfast. He was a busy man and it was often the only time in the day she would see him.
Yujin’s father, Mr. Ahn, spent most of his days among books and papers rather than people. His work as a lecturer often kept him away from home until late afternoon, and when he returned he carried with him the quiet smell of old libraries. Their home reflected quite the same spirit as their tenement house was decorated mostly with shelves crowded with volumes of history and poetry, stacks of carefully folded letters.
Yujin grew up around stories. Her father encouraged her from a young age to explore the world of literature and funded her studies. He planted a passion in her, which did not grow fruitless. She spent most of her days succumbing to papers, surging through words.
Yet even stories had begun to lose their power to distract her. Lately, she'd been weirdly bored. She'd tried a little change of scenery, went on more walks, admiring Hyde Park. It was fascinating at first, however, she quickly got tired of it.
Her friends said it was the common disorder of the rich, and laughed, but Yujin didn't feel snobbish or any kind of ennui.
She turned another page of the book resting upon her lap, though she could not recall the last line she had read.
The rain had not weakened; if anything, it seemed to have grown steadier, its quiet tapping against the glass becoming a constant rhythm throughout the house.
For a long moment Yujin simply listened to it. Then footsteps echoed faintly somewhere in the hallway below, followed by the muffled sound of the front door opening. Voices drifted upward soon after, one belonging to the housemaid, the other unfamiliar at first, though something about it carried a warmth she felt she ought to recognize.
Curious, Yujin closed her book and rose from her chair, and she had only just reached the doorway when a figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Yujin!”
The voice burst with cheerful surprise.
“Aunt Rose?” Yujin blinked, momentarily startled before a smile quickly replaced her confusion.
The woman before her removed her damp gloves with dramatic impatience, shaking droplets of rain from the hem of her coat as though the weather itself had personally offended her.
“You look exactly the same,” Aunt Rose declared, putting her both hands on Yujin's shoulders, she studied her niece with great satisfaction.
“I swear you have not changed in the slightest since the last time I saw you.”
“I did not know you were coming, aunt! I will prepare some tea!” Yujin replied with a soft laugh.
“Well, what sort of visit would it be if you expected me?”
Aunt Rose stepped forward and embraced her briefly. She carried with her the faint scent of perfume that Yujin had to get used to since it wasn't the most pleasant smell. All it did was make her dizzy, but of course, Yujin did not have the heart to tell her.
“I came to return a few books your father lent me,” she said, gesturing toward the maid who followed behind carrying a small stack of worn volumes. “I would have brought them sooner, but the weather has been determined to drown the entire city this week.”
“That sounds like London,” Yujin gestured to her aunt.
They sat together at a small table, near the window, between the labyrinths of shelves. The paintings around made the dark room more lively and warm. The maids with porcelain cups and boiling hot water quickly followed after them. Aunt Mira leaned back comfortably in the chair as she got gladly serviced.
“You look great, my dear aunt! Where did you get your dress from?” Yujin started.
“Thank you so much!” Aunt Rose chuckled. “But silly, I received this as a present from your father for my birthday last year.”
“I–I'm, My apologies.” Yujin blushed. “I don't think I ever saw you wearing it, though.”
“Don't be sorry, my dear. It's indeed true that I had not wore it yet, which I hope that your father hasn't noticed just like you,”
Yujin smiled, then she passed the tea to her aunt. The smell of fresh herbs travelled through the room. In the meantime, surprisingly, it stopped raining.
“And speaking of birthdays and your father, he told me it's not far away.”
Yujin groaned softly as she put her spoon away. She knew where this discussion was heading to and she was certainly not in the mood for it. “Please do not remind me.”
“Oh nonsense! Birthdays are delightful!” Rose waved dismissively with her hand as if to blow away Yujin's pessimism.
“They are only delightful when one is a child,” Yujin replied, stopping herself from rolling her eyes. “Now they seem to serve mostly as a reminder that people expect one to accomplish things.”
“Such as finding a handsome husband, perhaps?”
Yujin gave her a look of exaggerated disbelief.
“Ah,” Aunt Mira laughed, raising her hands innocently. “Do not glare at me so fiercely. I am only repeating what every respectable lady in London has surely been whispering already.”
“I assure you, no prince charming has appeared yet,” Yujin said dryly.
“Well that is terribly inconvenient,” her aunt replied with a mischievous grin. “We must remedy that at once.”
She reached into the pocket of her coat as she spoke, rummaging briefly before pulling out a folded envelope.
“This is also why I came here, partly.”she continued, holding it out. It was a letter, stamped with a red wax, with a photograph of a young and handsome gentleman she did not quite recognise. His face flickered something in her memory, but it must've been buried very deeply.
“This arrived at my house earlier today. It seems the postman made a small mistake with the address, and as luck would have it I was already planning to visit.”
Her name was written neatly across the front in elegant handwriting. She never received any letters so this came off as very surprising and unusual. Yujin accepted the letter slowly, and for a moment, she simply stared at it. She tried to wake her memory up and analysed the lad's face thoroughly, yet it was nothing but familiar to her.
“Well?” she asked lightly. “Are you going to open it, or shall we spend the afternoon admiring the envelope?”
“You are certainly in a funny mood today” Yujin responded sarcastically, but there was no bite behind her words.
“Trust me that you will be, too, once you see it my dear niece”
“You hope too much. Tu es fleur bleue.”
She ripped the envelope slightly and then opened its contents.
Her eyes widened. A smile appeared on her face.
“See! I told you, you fool! Your sweet cousin has written to you!”
“Oh my god” A blush appeared on Yujin's face. “Wait, that young lad is Heeseung!” Yujin covered her gasp with her hand. Her mind flashed with recognition and memories awakened themselves in a surge.
Gaeul was her cousin, and her closest friend.
Together they had spent nearly every summer in Whitby, a small seaside town that felt a world apart from London. Yujin remembered the towering cliffs, the narrow cobbled streets, and the endless stretch of grey sea that seemed to breathe with the wind. The two girls had once wandered everywhere together—along the harbor, through the small market square, and down the winding paths that led to the shore.
For years those summers had felt endless.
Yet it had been a long time since Yujin had last visited.
Life in London, her studies, and the quiet responsibilities of adulthood had slowly filled her days until those memories began to feel almost distant, and then they buried themselves deep in her mind.
Now, holding the letter in her hands, they returned all at once.
“He changed so much…” she murmured softly, almost to herself.
Aunt Rose leaned forward with obvious curiosity.
“Well?” she asked. “Are you going to read it aloud, or shall I be forced to imagine the contents myself?”
Yujin laughed under her breath, shaking her head slightly as she unfolded the paper.
“You are shameless!”
“Of course,” Rose replied brightly. “But that does not mean I am not interested.”
The paper crackled softly as Yujin smoothed it against the table. The handwriting was unmistakable and elegant, slightly rushed in places, exactly as she remembered.
Whitby,
June the 3rd
My dearest Yujin,
It has been far too long since I last took pen to write your name, and longer still since I had the happiness of seeing you in person. I cannot help but wonder whether London has swallowed you entirely, for you have been terribly silent these past years.
I often think of those summers when we were children, racing one another along the shore until the tide forced us back and the servants scolded us for returning home with sand upon our shoes. I swear the sea has not forgotten us, though perhaps we have been unkind enough to forget it.
Whitby remains much as you remember it — wild, windswept, and altogether far more interesting than London society, which I imagine must be exhausting in its endless politeness.
Father insists upon holding a grand gathering this season, and the house is already in dreadful preparation for it. I assure you I shall perish of boredom if forced to endure it alone. Therefore I must insist — no, demand — that you come to visit us this summer. Mother asks after you fondly and says your old room shall be prepared exactly as before. I confess I look forward to our late conversations far more than the banquet itself.
The town itself has been rather lively of late. The fishermen complain endlessly of the weather, and the sea has been in one of its temperamental moods again. You know how they are — every rough tide becomes a grand story before long.
Still, I think you would enjoy it here very much. Whitby always seems brighter when summer arrives, and brighter still when one has a friend to share it with.
Do come if you can. It would make the season far more bearable.
Your ever affectionate cousin,
Gaeul Kim
“Oh, what a thoughtless wretch I am, to have neglected a friend so dear!” A sudden sting gathered behind her eyes.
“Oh hush now!” Aunt Rose said gently, reaching across the table to rest a reassuring hand upon Yujin’s wrist. “You make it sound as though you abandoned the poor girl on a desert island.”
“But I might as well have,” Yujin replied quietly. “Years have passed. I promised to write so many times… and yet somehow I never did.” She could not face her aunt, hiding her gloomy expression, hardly containing her tears and worries.
Rose tilted her head, studying her niece with a softer expression than before.
“My dear child, life has a dreadful habit of carrying us away from the people we love. It is not cruelty—it is simply the world being busy.”
Yujin lowered her gaze to the letter still resting between her fingers. The paper felt strangely warm, as though it carried the distant summer air of Whitby with it.
“I did not even realize how much I missed it,”
“Missed what?”
“The sea… the cliffs… the long walks along the harbor.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “And Gaeul, of course.”
Aunt Rose listened and nodded with a satisfied expression.
“Well then,” she said, stirring her tea thoughtfully, “it seems to me the solution is painfully obvious.”
Yujin glanced up.
“You should go.”
The suggestion hung in the air as lightly as steam from the teacups.
“To Whitby?” Yujin asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Of course to Whitby,” Rose replied. “You have been sighing about London for weeks, from what your father tells me. And now the perfect invitation arrives at your door. If that is not fate knocking, I do not know what is.”
Yujin hesitated, smoothing the edge of the letter between her fingers.
“I do not know if Father would approve of me disappearing for the entire summer.”
“Oh nonsense,” Rose said with a dismissive wave. “Your father adores that girl nearly as much as you do. Besides, a little sea air would do you wonders. You look pale enough to frighten the ghosts of Westminster.”
Yujin laughed despite herself. “That bad?”
“Quite dreadful,” her aunt replied solemnly, though the amusement in her eyes betrayed her.
For a moment Yujin said nothing. Her gaze drifted once more to the window. The rain has stopped; the puddles started to disappear; the sun began to shine again. On the streets, children started to play, and the laughter reminded her of her childhood summers directly.
Whitby.
The name alone stirred something restless within her.
She imagined the crashing waves against the cliffs, the cry of gulls circling above the harbor, the sharp scent of salt carried by the wind. Memories of long summer evenings returned to her like half-forgotten dreams.
Perhaps London had begun to feel suffocating because she had stayed too long within its narrow streets. Perhaps she needed the sea again – a wide and new horizon.
“I think,” Yujin said slowly, folding the letter with careful hands, “that I should very much like to see Whitby once more.”
Aunt Rose’s smile widened triumphantly.
“There now,” she said. “I knew it would not take much convincing.”
———
The conversation drifted slowly after that. Aunt Rose, who never remained solemn for long, soon steered their talk toward lighter matters, though from time to time she glanced at Yujin with a knowing softness.
Outside, the rain had faded to nothing more than a pale mist clinging to the rooftops.
By the time the clock in the hallway struck six, the quiet house had begun to stir again. Servants moved about the lower floors preparing the evening meal, and the familiar clatter of dishes echoed faintly through the corridors.
It would not be long before her father returned, and before she'd share the big revelation! But Oh! How nervous she was for no reason! It wasn't because she doubted her father's approval, no! He was one of the noblest and good hearted gentlemen she knew, and it was him who persuaded his daughter to blossom into a lady of refined modesty and chaste character. He would never cut away the wings of a chance, nor would he ever mine a hole under her feet – it was simply not in his magnanimous nature. What really plagued her mind like the pest was her nervousness! Her hands trembled at the thought of responding to Gaeul. She dreaded writing, and not because she didn't want to see her sweetest cousin. Conversely, she desired nothing more in this world than a glimpse of her cherished friend. It was the shame of silence that weighed upon her.
How easily the years had slipped past her, one quiet season after another, until the distance between them had grown far larger than the miles between London and Whitby. And now that Gaeul has written, she was haunted by the remorse of her actions. She failed her duties as her friend!
Perhaps, she thought miserably, there was nothing for it but to apologize in person. A letter might explain much, but it could not carry the warmth of sincerity as easily as a spoken word.
And so she resolved that when she saw Gaeul again — and she would see her again — she would beg forgiveness for every silent year between them.
The thought had scarcely settled when the sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the house below.
A familiar voice greeted the servants in the hall, followed by the rustle of a coat being removed.
The sudden warmth that filled her chest surprised her; no matter how ordinary the day had been, the sound of his voice always carried with it a strange comfort.
Yet tonight another feeling stirred alongside it — a quiet nervousness she could not quite suppress.
.
The familiar sound of her father’s voice carried gently through the hall below as he greeted the servants, followed by the quiet rustle of his coat being removed. Yujin lifted her head, because that means that he had returned.
In an instant her anxious thoughts scattered, and she rose from her chair at once, hurrying toward the staircase to meet him.
The hall below was softly lit by the fading evening light that filtered through the tall windows beside the door. A servant had already taken her father's coat, and he stood speaking with the housemaid in his usual calm manner.
Mr. Ahn was not a particularly imposing man, though there was something quietly dignified in the way he carried himself. His glasses rested low upon the bridge of his nose, and a faint dusting of chalk still clung to the sleeve of his coat. Though possessed of a tall and commanding figure, he carried himself not with the stern authority of his station, but with a gentle, unobtrusive nature
When he noticed her descending the stairs, his expression softened immediately.
“Ah, Yujin,” he said warmly. “There you are.”
She reached the last step a little more quickly than she intended.
“Father! You have returned earlier than usual.”
“Only for a few minutes,” he replied with a small smile. “Though I suspect you make it
sound far more dramatic than it truly is.”
His gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer than usual.
“You seem in remarkably good spirits this evening.”
Yujin felt her hands tighten slightly around her dress. “Do I?”
“Indeed,” he said. “Either London has suddenly become a far more exciting place than I remember, or something pleasant has happened while I was away.”
A faint flush crept into her cheeks. It still surprised her how quickly her father could read her like an open book. Perhaps why he was always focused on them.
“Something did happen,” she admitted with a smile. Mr. Ahn regarded her with quiet curiosity, though the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “I am certain the mystery will reveal itself soon enough. Dinner should be ready shortly.”
“Dinner is prepared, sir.” A shy maid added quickly.
Mr. Ahn inclined his head politely and offered his arm to his daughter. “Very well,” he said calmly. “You may tell me everything at the table.”
Taking her father's hand, they entered the dining room, where the table and the dishes were already laid with the care of their maids.
The soft glow of candles and lamps painted the room in an amber colour. The scent of spices and freshly baked bread mixed with the wooden, old smell of the room. The table was too big for them two, but they still kept it in case more guests came with a visit one day.
Once seated, Mr. Ahn unfolded his napkin with the calm deliberation of habit. Yujin sat opposite, only a candlelight was between them.
The servants began quietly placing the first dishes upon the table. The soft clink of porcelain and silverware filled the momentary silence.
Her father was wearing a faint smile, but the long day seemed to have left its mark upon him; there was a thoughtful weariness in his eyes.
“How was your day, Father?” she asked gently. She did not want to be impolite before tiring him with her own stories of the day.
Mr. Ahn glanced up, mildly surprised by the question, though not displeased. “Much the same as most days,” he replied. “Several lectures, an argument with a particularly stubborn student, and a small mountain of papers that I am expected to read before tomorrow morning.”
“That sounds dreadful,” Yujin said sympathetically.
“Not dreadful, merely a habit."he corrected calmly as he reached for his glass. “It will probably continue similarly for the rest of the summer.”
“But that does sound dreadful!”
Mr. Ahn allowed himself a quiet chuckle.
“If you insist on calling scholarship dreadful, I fear you may wound my professional pride.”
“I would never dare,” Yujin replied quickly, though a small smile betrayed her amusement.
A servant placed a bowl of soup before them, the steam rising gently into the candlelight. They ate in comfortable silence, until her father glanced up again. “Tell me,” he said casually, “did you ever finish the volume of Greek mythology I lent you last month?”
Yujin blinked slightly, caught off guard by the sudden change of subject.
“I did read most of it,” she admitted. “Though I suspect I still owe you a proper discussion about half the stories.”
“Most of it?” he repeated with mild suspicion.
“Well… nearly all of it,” she corrected, smiling sheepishly.
His eyes narrowed with playful skepticism. “And the myth of Persephone?”
Yujin paused briefly before answering. She was searching for the story in her mind as if looking for a book in The Bibliothèque nationale de France. “Yes. That one I remember quite well.”
Mr. Ahn leaned back slightly in his chair.
“And what did you think of it?”
“I found it rather strange,” she said slowly. “At first it seemed like a simple story about the changing seasons, but the more I thought about it, the sadder it became.”
“In what way?”
“Well…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Persephone was only a girl picking flowers. She wasn’t looking for the underworld. It found her anyway. And now she has to return there again and again, forever, because she ate six seeds without even knowing what they were.”
Mr. Ahn nodded thoughtfully, putting his spoon away. The maids were walking in and out the dining room, cleaning and serving.
“A rather poetic explanation for winter,” he said.
“But also rather cruel,” Yujin added. “That something you did as a child—something you barely even understood—could bind you to a place for the rest of your life.”
Her father was quite taken aback from Yujin's words. His jaw hung slightly low, until he closed it and remained silent for a moment.
“Greek myths rarely concern themselves with fairness,” He paused, thinking again. “They are more interested in inevitability. In what was always meant to happen, long before the girl herself could understand it.”
“I suppose so,” Yujin said, shrugging her shoulders as she stirred her soup absentmindedly, not even looking at her father. “But I still think Persephone deserved to know what was waiting for her in that field. To recognize what she was walking toward.”
A faint smile appeared on Mr. Ahn’s face.
“I am pleased to see that you are not entirely persuaded by ancient gods who steal young girls’ futures.”
Yujin laughed softly.
Then her father set down his glass and regarded her more carefully."I am delighted to observe you cultivating your own understanding, rather than merely adopting the opinions of others” He took his napkin again “Now,” he said, “I believe it is your turn.”
“My turn?”
“You mentioned earlier that something pleasant happened today.”
Yujin felt a small spark of nervous excitement return.“Oh—yes!”
She reached into the pocket of her dress and carefully unfolded the letter. “I received this! ”
Yujin passed the paper to her father from across the table with a smile. He adjusted his glasses slightly
“A letter?”
“From Whitby.”
At once his expression brightened with recognition. “From the Kim family, I presume?”
Yujin nodded.
“Oh! It is from Gaeul!” A thoughtful smile spread slowly across his face. He remembered, too. But unlike Yujin, he still had a great bond with Gaeul's parents as they knew each other from their youth and never stopped. The guilt gnawed at her yet again.
“My dear daughter! What's wrong? It is not because of the letter, is it?” Father cried.
“No! And yes!” Yujin pushed away her father's hands, worrying the old man even more.
“Oh, you women! I have observed – through my whole life – with no small measure of fatigue, that the feminine temperament is, by its very nature, prone to overwhelming emotionality and a rather trying disposition. Now tell me, my sweetest daughter, why does the splendid news plague my daughter's soul?”
Yujin remained silent for a while, trying to breathe and compose herself. Then, she faced her father again, and began. “Pray, forgive my wretched conduct; I have acted the part of a treacherous friend. I have acted with great negligence towards my friendship with my innocent cousin. I have behaved in a manner utterly unbecoming of a friend; I am covered in shame for my coldness and neglect.” She covered her face with her hands yet again, finally bursting in tears from the culpabilité she had been holding in for the whole day. “Mea culpa!”
Mr. Ahn listened without interrupting, though a faint crease had appeared between his brows. When she finished, he regarded her for a moment with a mixture of concern and gentle amusement.
“My dear child,” he said at last, “you speak as though you have committed some dreadful betrayal.”
“For have I not?” she murmured. “Years have passed without a single letter from me. And yet she writes as though nothing were wrong.”
Mr. Ahn folded his hands calmly upon the table. “That,” he said, “is usually the mark of a sincere affection.”
Yujin peeked from the gaps between her fingers and she noticed no anger nor disappointment on her father's face.
“A friendship that survives neglect without complaint,” he continued, “is rarely a fragile one.”
She remained silent, but she stopped hiding behind her hands. Her father was already holding out a napkin for her and she gratefully accepted it.
“I have disappointed her,” she insisted quietly.
“Perhaps,” her father replied with a mild shrug. “But disappointment is hardly a mortal injury. If every neglected letter destroyed a friendship, the world would be a very lonely place indeed.”
Despite herself, Yujin let out a small breath of laughter. Mr. Ahn watched her with a softer expression now.
“Tell me,” he said, leaning back slightly, “what exactly does Miss Kim propose in this letter?”
“She asks me to visit Whitby for the summer,” Yujin answered. “There is to be some gathering at their house.”
“And you would like to go.”
It was spoken with quiet certainty rather than suspicion.
Yujin hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Yes,” she admitted. “Very much.” Her voice softened.
“I think… it would be easier to apologize properly in person.”
Mr. Ahn considered this thoughtfully while the servants quietly replaced the dishes before them.
“At times,” he said after a moment, “distance grows so gradually that we scarcely notice it until we attempt to cross it again.”
Yujin listened attentively.
“But if the bridge still exists,” he continued calmly, “one should not hesitate too long before walking across it.”
“Then… you do not object?”
“My dear Yujin,” he replied gently, “I see no reason why you should remain in London when an old friendship calls you elsewhere.”
Relief spread across her expression so suddenly that he could not help but smile in return.
“Thank you, Father.”
“You may thank me by writing a proper reply tonight,” he said lightly. “Preferably before your cousin begins to suspect that London truly has swallowed you whole.”
Relief spread across her expression so suddenly that he could not help but smile in return.
“Thank you, Father.”
“You may thank me by writing a proper reply tonight,” he said lightly. “Preferably before your cousin begins to suspect that London truly has swallowed you whole.”
At this Yujin could not help but laugh. The heaviness that had burdened her only moments ago seemed to melt away, leaving behind a lighter, warmer feeling in its place. She rose from her chair, unable to sit still any longer, and gathered the folded letter carefully in her hands.
“Aunt Rose said almost the exact same thing,” she admitted with a smile. “Though perhaps in slightly less polite terms.”
Mr. Ahn chuckled quietly. Everyone knew Aunt Rose's ardent character undoubtedly. “I have no question about that.”
The servants had begun clearing the table, and the candles burned lower as the evening deepened around them. Yujin straightened her dress and stepped closer to her father.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said gently.“And… for your advice.”
Mr. Ahn inclined his head with quiet affection.
“You are most welcome, my dear.”
She hesitated only a moment before leaning forward to kiss his cheek, a small habit she had never quite abandoned despite the years.
“Good night, Father.”
“Good night, Yujin,” he replied warmly. “Do not stay up too late composing your apology.”
“I cannot promise anything,” she said playfully as she was already turning and making her way toward the doorway, the letter still clutched in her hand. The corridor beyond the dining room was dim and quiet now, lit only by a few lamps along the wall.
Yet her steps felt lighter than they had all day
———
She entered her room lightly and closed the door behind her.
For a moment she remained standing there, as though the quiet of the chamber had not yet caught up with the events of the day.
Only that morning she had been sitting by her window, convinced that the hours ahead would pass with the same dull sameness as every other. Yet a single unexpected visit from Aunt Rose had managed to overturn the entire rhythm of her day, stirring both excitement and a rather uncomfortable guilt within her.
Her room, however, remained exactly as it always had.
The large window overlooking the street stood half open, allowing the faint evening air to drift through the thin curtains. Beyond it the lamps along the pavement had begun to glow, and the distant murmur of carriage wheels rose faintly from the road below. The chamber itself was spacious but comfortably arranged. A wide bed stood against the far wall, its dark wooden frame draped with pale linen and embroidered pillows that had been arranged far more neatly by the housemaids than by Yujin herself. Beside it stood a small writing desk scattered with books, loose papers, and the occasional forgotten ribbon — quiet evidence of long evenings spent reading rather than sleeping. Against the opposite wall stretched the great wardrobe her father had commissioned years ago, its polished doors hiding an almost unreasonable collection of dresses, gloves, and travelling cloaks accumulated over the course of many London seasons. The room itself carried a faint scent of paper, mold, lavender, and candle wax — a scent so familiar that Yujin scarcely noticed it anymore as every house in the city carried the same smell.
Yet tonight was ending differently.
Instead of changing immediately and habitually into her nightdress, Yujin crossed the room and sat down at her writing desk.
The familiar surface was scattered with loose papers and books, though she brushed them aside impatiently to make space. She reached for the small bottle of ink and frowned slightly when she noticed it had thickened from disuse. It had clearly been some time since she had last written a proper letter.
After stirring it carefully with the tip of the pen, she unfolded a clean sheet of paper and sat comfortably. The letter from Whitby rested beside her hand as the blank paper faced her.
She dipped the pen into the ink and began to write.
Dear Gaeul,
I scarcely know how to begin this letter, for it is written with equal parts joy and shame. Joy, because hearing from you again has reminded me of how dearly I value our friendship. Shame, because I cannot pretend that I have been the friend you deserved these past years.
You wrote to me with such warmth that one would almost believe no time had passed between us, yet I cannot forget how many letters I meant to send and never did. For that silence, I ask your forgiveness with my whole heart. I can only hope you will allow me to make amends for it.
Your letter awakened memories I had nearly allowed to fall asleep. I found myself thinking again of our summers in Whitby — the long walks along the shore, the cliffs above the harbour, and the endless conversations we used to have when we ought to have been sleeping. I had not realized until today how much I missed those days, and how much I missed you. You must know how grateful I am that you wrote to me despite my neglect. Your kindness shames me more than any reproach could have done.
And so I hope you will permit me to apologise properly when I see you again, for I very much intend to accept your invitation. If you will still have me, I would like to come to Whitby this summer and renew the friendship I have treated so carelessly.
I must also thank you for including the photograph. It took me a moment to recognize him, but I was quite astonished when I did. Heeseung has changed so much since the days when we all ran about the harbour like unruly children. I hardly know whether to think of him as the same boy we once knew.
Please give my warmest regards to your parents. It will give me great happiness to see them again after so many years.
Until then, accept my sincerest apologies and my deepest gratitude for writing to me when I
so clearly deserved scolding instead.
Your ever affectionate cousin,
Yujin
Yujin carefully set her pen down, sliding the letter from Whitby beside the freshly composed reply. Her chest felt lighter than it had all day, though her mind was anything but empty.
She rose slowly from her chair, the soft rustle of her skirts filling the quiet room. The tall window framed a London street now dark and the sky like a Grimshaw's painting.She imagined those streets stretching forever, yet somehow all of London could not match the breadth of her memories, nor the stirring of her heart at the thought of her upcoming trip.
Moving to the wardrobe, she traced the polished wood with her fingertips, pausing to examine her selection. This was no ordinary evening, no ordinary night; the letter had awoken something in her—a small, quivering flutter that demanded she prepare as though she were stepping into a new chapter of her life. Perhaps tomorrow she would begin packing, but tonight she would dress with care, letting herself feel the weight of her own reflection in the mirror.
She selected a gown of soft cream, embroidered delicately with threads of silver. She lifted it from the hanger and studied herself briefly in the full-length mirror, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her reflection seemed unfamiliar, yet familiar in ways that made her chest swell. London had changed her, yes, but so had time itself..
Her thoughts drifted inevitably to her childhood. Gaeul had sent a photograph of Heeseung, but not of herself, leaving Yujin to reconstruct her cousin in memory. Heeseung’s serious face, handsome even as a child, seemed almost to mock her in its maturity, while Gaeul’s image was more ethereal: soft beauty tempered with a sharp intelligence, a gravity that belied her year
Yujin’s gaze softened as she recalled herself, a little girl skipping along the harbour, her attention caught by the flutter of a butterfly, its wings painted with gold and amber light. She had paused, fascinated, when a figure appeared from the bushes, graceful and strange in the haze of memory, but the vision quickly fractured, cut short by the shadow of her mother’s face, serene yet haunting. After that summer, after that loss, trips to Whitby had ceased. Her father, fearful for her safety and perhaps her heart, had kept her close in London, grounding her in the narrow streets and stately rooms of their home.
Now she was a young lady, almost of marriageable age, no longer the child who had run carefree along cobbled lanes. She could decide more of her own path, and the thought filled her with both trepidation and delight. Perhaps Whitby would be the stage for unexpected encounters, new friendships, or even a young lad, a kindred spirit who might make her cheeks warm with stolen smiles. The mere notion caused a blush to rise unbidden, a playful, unrestrained bloom of excitement that made her heart beat a little faster.
She walked to the window and leaned lightly against the sill, gazing at the empty streets below. In her mind, she wandered the cliffs once more, felt the salt of the sea air in her lungs, and imagined Gaeul waiting with that knowing smile that had always made Yujin feel seen and understood. How different it would all be now! London had shaped her into one person, Whitby into another, yet somehow both selves were intertwined, waiting for a moment to reconcile.
A soft sigh escaped her lips as she turned away, moving to the bed. She carefully pulled back the covers, slipping beneath the embroidered linen. The quiet of the chamber seemed to embrace her. She settled back against the pillows, the letter still pressed to her chest, and let her mind drift. The wind whispered through the open window. Soon it shall be the waves to do so. Patience, though!
———
Her heart fluttered as she adjusted the straps of her gloves and smoothed the folds of her cream gown.
The weather cleared yesterday. The rays of sun fought its way through the grey clouds. A few carriages passed and the whole street busted with life.
Yujin stood on the doorstep, a small travel trunk beside her, the carriage waiting with horses stamping impatiently at the curb.
The morning was crisp, and the streets of London shimmered faintly under the soft spring sun. The drizzle from the night before left the cobblestones glistening.
“Are you quite ready, my dear?” her father asked, his voice gentle, eyes crinkling at the edges as he took her hand.
“I believe I am, Father,” Yujin replied, though her chest was tight with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.
“Are you certain you have everything?” he asked, his tone gentle, though a trace of concern lingered.
“I believe so,” Yujin replied, settling lightly into the carriage. She watched his eyes narrow briefly in mock suspicion. “I’ve packed far too many dresses, but
He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Whitby awaits. Do not forget to breathe in the sea air for me. And… write to Gaeul immediately upon your arrival.”
“I will, Father,” she said with a shy smile.
“Good,” he said, stepping back as the coachman lifted the reins. “You may have an adventure, but I trust you’ll survive it nonetheless,” he said, offering her a small bow with his hand pressed to his chest. “Whitby will be terrific, my daughter. Make it memorable.”
Yujin’s lips curved into a soft smile. “I shall, Father.”
However, just when Yujin wanted to gesture to the coachman to begin the journey, she heard a familiar voice shouting something similar to her name. Instinctively, she looked outside, but the crowd made it impossible to recognise a friendly face. Her father was confused, too. It seemed like he also heard the clamor as he was swinging his head right and left.
However, just as Yujin was about to signal to the coachman that they might begin the journey, she heard a familiar voice calling out from somewhere along the street.
“Yujin! Wait!”
The cry was half-lost in the bustle of the morning. A few passersby turned their heads curiously as a figure hurried through the crowd, skirts gathered hastily in her hands as she made little effort to maintain the dignity expected of a lady.
Yujin leaned slightly from the carriage window, narrowing her eyes in search of the source of the commotion. For a moment the movement of the crowd obscured the figure entirely.
Then she saw her, and a laugh spread instantly across her face.
“Aunt Rose?”
Indeed it was she. The woman was advancing at a pace that was far from graceful, her hat slightly crooked from the effort, though she appeared entirely unbothered by such details. Mr. Ahn raised an eyebrow in mild astonishment as she finally reached them, slightly breathless but triumphant.
“My goodness, Rose,” he said calmly, “one might assume the carriage was fleeing the country entirely.”
“It nearly was!” she declared dramatically, placing a hand against her chest as she caught her breath. “You cannot expect a lady to allow her favourite niece to depart without a proper farewell!”
Yujin laughed softly, leaning forward from the carriage window. “You did not have to run, Aunt,” she said warmly. “I would have written to you.”
Yujin always teased her aunt for being almost as though she had stepped out of a Shakespearean play or a Greek myth. The woman always simply answered, with great satisfaction, that life was far too dull without a little theatricality.
“Oh, I know that,” Rose replied dismissively, waving her hand as though the notion were entirely irrelevant. “But writing is terribly dull compared to delivering things in person.”
She reached into the pocket of her coat and produced a small folded envelope.
“This arrived after I left your house yesterday evening,” she explained, handing it up to Yujin. “Another letter from Whitby, I suspect. I thought you might prefer to have it sooner rather than later.”
Yujin accepted it with a surprised expression. “A second letter already?”
“Do not look so alarmed,” Rose said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Perhaps the young gentleman feared his photograph had not made a sufficient impression.”
Yujin felt warmth rush instantly to her cheeks.“Aunt!”
“What?” Rose continued innocently. “I merely observe that the boy has grown rather handsome. It would be quite unreasonable of me not to mention it.”
Mr. Ahn coughed lightly beside the carriage, though there was a trace of amusement in his expression. He did not want to mingle in women's problems.
“Rose,” he said mildly, “you will frighten the poor girl before she has even left London.”
“Oh nonsense,” she replied cheerfully. “If she cannot endure a little teasing, how will she survive Whitby society?”
Mr. And shrugged his arms and sighed. Yujin shook her head, though she could not suppress a smile.
Just as she thought the conversation had ended, Aunt Rose seemed to remember something else. “Oh—one more thing.”
Her expression softened slightly as she reached once more into her coat. This time she withdrew a small object wrapped carefully in a handkerchief.
“For you.”
Yujin unfolded the cloth slowly.
Inside lay a delicate golden cross. An abbreviation was engraved on it. INRI.
Her breath caught.
The piece was small and simple, worn smooth with time. She recognised it instantly from the photos on their fireplace. She memorised this cross even in her dreams.
“It was your mother's,” Rose said quietly.For a moment the lively tone she usually carried disappeared entirely.
“She gave it to me many years ago,” she continued gently. “But I think… it belongs with you now.”
Yujin held the cross carefully in her palm, her fingers trembling slightly as the memory of it returned—her mother's hand resting lightly at her collar, fastening it there when she was very young. She thought that the cross was gone. That her mother was buried with it, or that one of her maids lost it.
“I thought you might like to take something of hers with you,” Rose added softly.
Yujin could not immediately find the words to respond. She simply closed her fingers around the cross and nodded.
“Thank you,” she said at last, her voice quieter than before.
Aunt Rose's usual brightness returned almost at once, as though she refused to let the moment grow too solemn.
“Now then,” she declared, stepping back from the carriage, “off you go before I become sentimental enough to delay you entirely.”
Mr. Ahn gave a small nod to the coachman.
The reins lifted. The horses shifted.And slowly, the carriage began to move.
Yujin leaned slightly from the window, one hand clutching the cross as she watched the two figures grow smaller behind her—her father standing calmly beside the street, and Aunt Rose waving enthusiastically as though she were sending someone off to war rather than a summer visit.
She fell quickly asleep. Her mother's cross rested in her hand, clutching it.
———