the tragic story of taehyung, who is faced with a dire dilemma: to support his father lucifer's apocalyptic plans to rid the world of humanity or to abandon this realm for his home in heaven.
/ ongoing (heavily editing.)
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A sweaty mist carried by the wind from a tiny seaport gusted through an open window, causing the sheer blue curtains to dance at its sudden touch.
I sat upon my white canopy bed, smoothing my hands over the faded floral sheets, letting the warm April breeze caress my face. A bouquet of white and purple lilies in a glass vase and an unfinished novel rested on the nightstand beside me.
I climbed to my feet and walked towards the window, pushing the soft curtains aside and peering out. A gloomy sky and gray, ominous clouds dotted the atmosphere, draining the vibrant blue from earlier. The sticky and salty air tickled my skin, marking the beginning of the hurricane season.
My eyes traced the outlines of the buildings outside the ever-gray skies. I should have known them all by now: the streets, with their winding paths and hidden alleys, the air heavy with the scent of salt from the sea, and the earthy dampness that clung to everything.
But, still, it all remained strangers to me, each one as anonymous and unwelcoming as the day we arrived six months ago.
"Only one more month left of this, and I'm out of here," I whispered to myself.
I turned away from the window, walked out of my room, and down the stairs, shutting the door behind me.
As I trod down the stairs, I suddenly paused. A silent energy made its presence felt within the thick walls, a quiet that was more than mere absence of sound. It was as if the house itself was listening, waiting.
Why is it so quiet?
I shook off the feeling and strode across the living room and down the hall, until the sight of my mother in the kitchen, stirring a big pot on the stove with a wooden spoon, washed over me with relief. Knowing I wasn't alone brought comfort.
"What are you cooking?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silence as I entered the kitchen.
She turned from the stove, her face lighting up. "Soup. Are you hungry?"
I nodded and took a seat at the table, the wood cold beneath my fingertips.
Everything here felt alien—the smells, the sounds. The way the floorboards creaked differently underfoot, the unfamiliar cadence of the rain against the windows. Even the absence of the urban din I'd grown up with. So foreign, still.
The soup began to sizzle, a sharp, urgent sound that made my mother spin around, snapping the burner off. She ladled the soup into two bowls and then joined me at the table.
I leaned my face towards the bowl and took a breath. This should have been comforting, familiar. We always had soup whenever it rained. But for some reason, it wasn't.
"Smells good. Have you been practicing?"
Mom hinted at a smile and nodded. "Everything's fresh. I thought it'd be nice to try something new, something from here."
