After a Thousand Lifetimes of Rain

Chapter 1: The Man in the Dream

The nightmare always began with the sound of snapping iron.
Jungkook woke up crying again.
It wasn't the dramatic, gasping awakening of a typical nightmare. There was no flailing, no frantic bolting upright. He simply woke up already submerged in the middle of it, his cheeks soaked, his throat constricted to a narrow point. His chest felt hollowed out, as though someone had reached beneath his ribs while he slept and scooped everything bare. Beside him, his right hand was violently fisted into the sheets, clutching the empty fabric until his knuckles gleamed white.
The dorm room in Seoul was quiet, bathed in the dim gray of early morning. *3:47 AM* glowed from his phone screen. The air conditioner hummed its steady tune at 24 degrees, carrying the faint, earthy scent of rain through the cracked window. On his desk, his Sports Science textbooks were stacked in neat, precise towers. His life was normal. Safe. Undeniably easy.
The grief, however, was a physical weight that made no sense.
In his sleep, he was always dragged back to the exact same place: a vast, uncultivated field of wild grass that brushed against his knees, glowing silver under a moon that hung too large and too close in the sky. The heavens above were the color of a fresh bruise—deep violet and suffocating black—pressing down on the earth. The wind didn't blow; it moved through the grass like searching fingers.
And running ahead of him was a boy.
Jungkook could never see his face. The dream blurred it, like viewing a memory through wet, translucent paper. He could catch the narrow line of the boy's shoulders, the dark hair falling messy against his nape, and the wide, sweeping sleeves of his clothes—not a modern hoodie, but something ancient that caught the wind. Yet his features remained infuriatingly out of reach.
He knew his voice, though. He knew it better than his own mother's.
*"Yah! You're always so slow! Come on!"*
It was teasing, fond, and thick with the quiet certainty of knowing someone so deeply that annoyance and devotion were the exact same thing.
In the dream, Jungkook was always laughing. He could feel the vibration in his own lungs—that stupid, invincible warmth you only possess when you are young enough to believe love is a shield against the world. He was running, his bare feet numbed by the cold dew, reaching out.
Then the sky would tear.
It didn't darken; it ripped. A long, jagged fissure split the violet heavens, and from that void poured a cold that was neither wind nor weather. It was vast, aware, and endlessly hungry. It possessed no form, yet Jungkook felt its gaze lock onto them.
The boy's laugh broke instantly into a scream—not of fear for himself, but of absolute, agonizing loss.
He reached for Jungkook.
Jungkook reached back.
Their fingertips hovered a breath apart.
And then the dream would wrench Jungkook backward with a violent, sickening force, as if his soul were being yanked from his flesh. The boy was dragged the opposite way, swallowed whole by the silver grass.
Jungkook sat up in his dorm bed, trembling, his skin clammy. He was twenty-one, the adored only child of parents in Busan who cared for him to the point of suffocation—sending too much allowance and calling every evening. He had never known real hardship. He was tall, athletic, blessed with a healthy, sunlit charm. Captain of the Sports Club at Hankuk University. Good grades achieved without ever having to bleed for them. He was the kind of person others called "blessed" and meant it without a trace of bitterness.
He was genuinely kind, too. He held doors for the cleaning staff, carried heavy crates for the cafeteria ladies, and listened when people spoke. Because the world had been gentle with him, kindness cost him nothing.
So why did he feel as though he had been mourning a corpse for a hundred years?
He went to the small bathroom and splashed freezing water over his face until his skin stung, forcing the specters back into the dark.
Hankuk University in early autumn possessed a picturesque quality that felt almost staged for admissions brochures. The old stone buildings on the main hill were wrapped in lush ivy, and the promenade lined with zelkova trees was just beginning to turn a pale, brilliant gold. Students wrapped in heavy vests hurried past holding iced coffees despite the crisp bite in the air.
Jungkook walked toward the sports complex with his gym bag slung over one shoulder. He was late, but no one would call him out on it.
"You're doing that face again," a raspy voice observed.
Yoongi fell into step beside him. His best friend since freshman orientation, Yoongi was smaller, pale, with ash-grey hair he dyed himself and sharp, tired eyes. He wore a heavy black hoodie regardless of the season. Brilliant and dry-witted, he constantly looked as if he were carrying the weight of a long week.
"Didn't sleep?" Jungkook asked quietly.
Yoongi cast a brief glance sideways. "The dream?"
Jungkook gave a single nod. Yoongi was the only person he had ever told.
"The same boy?"
"The same boy. He was laughing this time. Right before it tore."
Yoongi didn't ask what "it" was. He didn't push. His own life was its own quiet, exhausting battle. He was tangled in a toxic cycle with Minho from the Business department—a handsome, deeply insecure guy who would call Yoongi at two in the morning accusing him of looking at someone else, only to show up at eight with a convenience store bento and a quiet apology. It was a slow, draining poison, and it pained Jungkook to watch his friend shrink smaller and quieter month by month.
"You look worse than I do," Jungkook offered, trying to lighten the weight between them.
"We can't both be the tragic ones," Yoongi muttered back. "Take today off. It's my turn."
A genuine, small smile broke through Jungkook's exhaustion.
They reached the edge of the athletic field where the rest of their group was already gathered on the turf, loud and unorganized.
Jin was sitting on an overturned cooler, long legs stretched out, his handsome face scrunched in exaggerated agony while Namjoon attempted to explain a complex strategy using plastic water bottles. As the eldest senior, Jin was responsible to a fault, mothering everyone while acting like Jungkook's overprotective older brother.
"Jungkook-ah! You're late! Namjoon is doing math again!" Jin bellowed, waving his arm wildly.
Namjoon, tall and broad-shouldered, pushed his glasses up his nose with a sheepish grimace. "It's not math, hyung. It's tactical positioning."
"It has numbers and arrows, Namjoon, and it's scaring me," Jin shot back.
Nearby, J-Hope was stretching in a bright orange headband, already light with sweat. "Yoongi! You came! I genuinely thought you'd passed away in your sleep!"
"Thanks, hyung," Yoongi said dryly, though he dropped his bag and sat down right next to him anyway.
Jisoo sat cross-legged beside Rosé on the sidelines, both wrapped in their club jackets and sharing a pair of wired earbuds. Jisoo was sharp, composed, and the only senior capable of shutting Jin down with a single look. Rosé had her dyed-blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail, her bright laugh carrying across the field.
And then there was Jackson—a senior with sharp eyes and a booming laugh who had been captain before passing the title to Jungkook.
"Captain's finally here. We can actually start," Jackson said, tossing a full water bottle toward Jungkook's chest. Jungkook caught it effortlessly with one hand. "You look like you've been crying."
"I haven't," Jungkook said instantly.
"Liar," Rosé chimed in with a cheerful grin. "Your eyelids are completely swollen."
Jungkook rubbed a hand over his face. "It's just allergies."
"Allergies for six months straight?" Jisoo asked, raising an eyebrow. Her tone was gentle, but her eyes were too perceptive. She looked at him with the quiet awareness that he was keeping a secret, though she was always polite enough never to pry.
This was his anchor. Loud, bright, completely safe. Jin squabbling, Namjoon attempting logic, J-Hope radiating energy, Jisoo and Rosé offering quiet commentary, Jackson shouting drills, and Yoongi sitting steadily at his side. When he was surrounded by them, the silver grass felt distant. The hollow ache in his chest felt manageable.
Further down the perimeter, far from the noise of the turf, sat two figures on the low stone wall beneath the Grandfather Tree—a massive, ancient zelkova that had stood on the campus grounds for nearly a century.
Jungkook had seen them around campus before, but he had never truly stopped to look.
One was Park Jimin, a second-year from the Contemporary Dance department. Small and striking, Jimin possessed a soft face paired with the undeniable, fluid strength of a dancer. He was known across campus for his gentle nature, though he was fiercely protective of one person in particular.
The boy sitting next to him was taller, even slouched. He wore a plain, oversized white t-shirt and dark jeans, his black hair hanging slightly too long, shading his forehead. From where Jungkook stood, he could only catch the boy's profile—a straight, elegant nose, a quiet mouth, and skin so pale it looked almost translucent under the morning sun.
Jimin was talking animatedly, his hands moving through the air. The other boy listened quietly, nodding along, his fingers nervously twisting the hem of his shirt. He looked small. Gentle. Like someone who would apologize to a doorframe if he bumped into it.
"Who's that with Jimin?" Jungkook asked, the question slipping out before he could catch it.
Yoongi followed his line of sight, his posture shifting slightly. A familiar, guarded stillness settled over his face—a reaction Jungkook had grown used to over the past year. Jimin had been quietly, painfully in love with Yoongi for months. It was obvious to everyone on the field except Yoongi, who was too consumed by the chaos of his own relationship to see the way Jimin looked at him from a distance.
"Kim Taehyung," Yoongi said, his tone flat, carefully neutral. "Korean Lit. Second year. He's... a bit unusual. He's been Jimin's best friend since high school."
"He looks—"
*"YAH! HEADS UP!"*
A rogue football, miskicked from the main field, came hurtling like a missile straight toward the stone wall.
Taehyung didn't move. He hadn't heard the shout, his eyes still fixed downward on his own hands.
Jungkook moved on instinct. His gym bag hit the turf as his legs took over. He was the fastest sprinter in the department, covering the distance in seconds, but he wasn't quick enough to intercept the ball. He was only fast enough to throw his body between the leather ball and the boy on the wall.
The ball clipped the meat of Taehyung's shoulder with a sharp *thud*, the momentum knocking him cleanly off the wall onto the damp grass.
For a second, the air went still. Then panic erupted.
Jungkook was already down on his knees beside him. "Hey! Are you okay? Hey, look at me—can you hear me?"
Up close, Taehyung was striking in a way that felt almost unnatural. He was beautiful, but it was an ancient, delicate kind of beauty—long lashes casting dark shadows over his cheekbones, a tiny mole resting just beneath his lower lip, and skin clear as glass. His white shirt was smudged with green from the grass.
He stared up at Jungkook, his dark eyes wide and unfocused with shock.
Jimin was there a second later, dropping to his knees on Taehyung's other side, his hands hovering over his friend's shoulders, terrified that touching him might cause more pain. "Tae! Tae, talk to me! Where does it hurt? Can you move?"
Taehyung didn't look at Jimin. He didn't even seem to hear him. His eyes remained fixed entirely on Jungkook.
And then, his face broke open.
Jungkook had seen countless smiles in his life—Jin's boisterous, squeaking laugh, J-Hope's blinding beam, Jisoo's composed grin. But he had never seen a expression like the one now dawning on Taehyung’s face.
It was incandescent, wide, and brilliantly boxy, revealing all his teeth while his eyes squeezed shut into soft crescents. There was no reserve to it, no hesitation; it was the radiant, unselfconscious smile of a child who had just been handed the single thing he had waited a lifetime to receive. It transformed his entire presence from distant and ethereal to painfully, vividly alive.
Yet beneath the brightness, something felt subtly off. The smile was almost *too* wide, held a fraction too long, like a gorgeous piece of porcelain with microscopic hairline fractures running just beneath the surface.
"I'm okay," Taehyung whispered. His voice was soft, carrying a strange, raspy huskiness. He still hadn't looked away from Jungkook.
Jungkook felt his breath catch sharply in his throat. There was an unsettling, phantom familiarity to that boxy grin—a feeling like a forgotten word resting right on the tip of his tongue, aching to be remembered.
He swallowed hard, clearing his throat to break the sudden intensity hanging between them. Reaching out, he gave Taehyung’s uninjured shoulder a quick, light pat. "Be careful out here, alright? The guys over there don't look where they're kicking."
He stood up quickly, wiping his palms on his sweatpants, and turned to jog back toward his team.
Behind him, Taehyung remained sitting on the damp grass, his fingers slowly pressing over the exact spot on his shoulder where Jungkook’s hand had rested. That wide, beautiful, goofy smile was still fixed on his face.
Jimin let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping. Taehyung so rarely smiled like that anymore.
"See?" Jimin said softly, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "Not all the sports guys are brainless aggressive types."
Taehyung gave a small nod, his eyes tracing the faint lines of his own palm.
"Jungkook," Taehyung whispered, the name rolling off his tongue like a secret. "His name is Jungkook."
A sudden, sharp pang twisted in Jimin's chest. "Yeah," he said carefully, studying his friend's face. "Do you... know him?"
Taehyung didn't answer. His smile softened, lingering for a beat longer.
Then, it froze.
It didn't fade; it locked. In a terrifying split second, the warmth vanished from Taehyung's posture. His spine snapped bone-straight, his shoulders stiffening into rigid lines, and his fingers clenched into tight, pale fists against his knees. His breathing turned shallow and rapid. His dark eyes went completely blank, staring unblinkingly at a patch of empty air.
The boxy smile remained carved into his face. Wide. Unmoving. A static mask stretched tight over an empty room.
Jimin's blood ran instantly cold.
"Tae?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "Taehyung-ah."
No response.
"Tae, hey, come back to me. You're at school. Look at me, it's Jimin."
A couple of lowerclassmen walking past slowed down, glancing over in confusion. A small, awkward crowd was beginning to form near the edge of the track.
Taehyung’s lips moved. When he spoke, the voice that emerged was entirely wrong. It lacked his usual breathy cadence, sounding flat, dry, and terrifyingly layered—as though the words were echoing up from the bottom of an ancient, hollow stone well.
"It has been so many years..." Taehyung rasped to the empty air, that wide, vacant smile still frozen on his lips. "He hasn't smiled at me like that... in so many years..."
Jimin seized Taehyung's ice-cold hands, his panic rising. "Kim Taehyung! Stop it! Look at me!"
Across the grass, mid-stride, Jungkook stopped dead.
A sudden, agonizing tug slammed into his body. It was a physical, violent sensation—like an invisible iron hook driving straight behind his sternum, pulling him backward with terrifying force. His hand flew to his chest as his knees buckled slightly.
For a horrifying second, the scent of fresh rain and cut turf vanished, replaced by the heavy, suffocating smell of crushed silver grass and damp earth.
Jungkook whipped his head back toward the Grandfather Tree.
"Jungkook?" Jin’s voice cut through, sharp with immediate alarm as he grabbed Jungkook's arm to steady him. "What's wrong with you? You look like you just saw a ghost."
Jungkook couldn't speak. His throat was completely locked. For a fraction of a second, he would have sworn a voice whispered right against the shell of his ear—a voice dripping with centuries of unbearable, broken happiness:
*You smiled at me.*
Then, as abruptly as it had come, the line snapped. The phantom pull vanished.
Jungkook stood shivering in the middle of the bright autumn morning, his hand pressed hard against his hammering heart, his entire body soaked in a cold sweat.
"Jungkook!" Yoongi demanded, shaking his shoulder. "Hey!"
"Yeah," Jungkook choked out, taking a ragged breath. "I... I thought someone called my name."
He forced his legs to move, turning away from the tree and walking back toward the gym. He didn't look back. He couldn't.
If he had turned around, he would have seen Jimin frantically pulling Taehyung into his arms, shaking him until Taehyung finally blinked, his gaze clearing as he looked around in terrified confusion. He would have seen Taehyung asking Jimin in a small, trembling voice why everyone was staring at him, entirely unaware of the words that had just left his mouth.
And he would have seen Taehyung look up just as Jungkook vanished around the corner of the building—tears suddenly welling in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks for a reason his conscious mind could not comprehend, as he whispered:
"I remembered him. For a second, I remembered him... Why can't I hold on?"