created from nothing
a vessel of death
conceived to contain
the browning leaves
the fall of darkness
the haze of sleep
insurmountable
inescapable
merciful

──

Lee Minho is dreaming. Every night he prays he won't be trapped in the same void he has been for the last months. The rambling poems, barely decipherable, gone as soon as he wakes. The figure made of light, blazing like the gates of heaven. Every morning he wakes up, eyes strained from squinting.

Tonight he's awoken by a crash and a gust of cold air. The window is open, the curtains are flailing in the wind. He pulls himself out of bed, crosses the room, shuts and locks the window. The night is angry and beautiful, stars slung over the swaying trees.

As soon as it's quiet again, he can hear crying in the nursery upstairs. Minho hangs his head. Damnit. Maybe he's being superstitious, but every time he wakes up in the middle of the night, his niece Hara won't stop crying till morning. He thinks it's his fault. One time he went to the nursery, tried to calm her down himself; he'd never heard a baby wail so loud.

He shrugs into a robe and trudges downstairs, holding the banister to steady himself. The marble floors are cold against his bare feet. He sees his father, nursing a whiskey in the kitchen, and goes in anyway. They address each other with a nod. Minho makes himself a drink — warm milk and honey — while his father polishes off his glass and pours another.

"The crying woke you too," his father says.

"I was already up."

"Haewon should have let me hire a nanny." He shakes his head. "I told her, she isn't the mothering type. She can't even control her own child."

Minho tries to let it slide off his back. He's too old to keep trying to defend his sister like a useless little knight. He stirs honey into his mug, leaves the kitchen — "Goodnight" — and doesn't wait for a reply.

He walks through the living room and the conservatory, out into the rose garden. He sidesteps the beetles on the stone pathway, passes through the tall iron gate, leaves the house behind him. There's nothing to see in the garden anyway. No matter how the gardeners try, the roses haven't bloomed for months, not even in the summer.

The wind is tapered by the trees in the forest, a howl and a chill, and the moonlight is soft through the canopy. Sometimes Minho feels more welcome here than in his own house. Nature seems to like him better than humans do. An owl watches him from overhead, eyes wide. Mice cross his path, barely aware he's there. Even the skittish deer just settle down on the ground as he passes, like he's a neighbour they trust.

It's easier to be outside. Just be. No confines or limits, walls nor ceilings. No nieces that hate him. No fathers that badmouth his sisters in front of him, then turn around and badmouth him in front of everyone else. No mothers that constantly set him up with women though he's been out for years. There's no ambition here. No reputation to keep up. No one to lie to. Not even himself.

Once he makes it back to the house, the baby has stopped crying.

—

It's a Lee family thing. They've been a powerhouse in the city for a century. Never in the limelight, always watching from backstage. Never the politician, always putting them in office. Never featured in the newspaper, always in control of what is. Every firstborn son since his great-great grandfather has maintained their reputation, a family of influence and wealth, a flawless, honourable image. And Minho is next in line.

He understands his privilege. All his life, money has been no object. He's always been clothed, fed, looked after by nannies, kept company by his sisters. But frankly, he would rather be anywhere else than where he is now. His mother gave birth to two daughters before they finally had a son; he knows that's why he's here, though nobody ever says it aloud. Since he can remember, he's borne a weight, the weight of his family, of their expectations. He'll probably die, shoulders still slumped under the pressure.

Minho has his duties — business dealings, negotiations, personal relations, like the work his father does but slightly less important. He is the heir, after all — "the next kingpin of the Lee dynasty," which is something people say only semi-ironically. He's become accustomed to it, though however accustomed he is, he's never been particularly business-minded. Basically, he's shit at being a magnate. So he and the family have come to an unspoken agreement that his sister, Sooyun, should assist him. She's always been savvy, industrious, kind of a bulldozer (which makes her... fun to be around).

It's gotten to the point where he's become just a mouthpiece. She likes to tease him, call him arm candy and a pretty face. He doesn't mind — no, he's grateful to be her pretty face. He constantly wishes he could shirk his fate onto her in a more official way. Then she could do what she's good at, live up to their father's expectations, make the family more powerful than they already are, and he could go into the forest and hang out with the trees while time passes him by.

That day is not today. He's still very much in the world of humans. His family's charity auction is getting close, and the usual guests pay big money for antiquities, so he and Sooyun are meeting with a retailer at the Magnolia. It's a lounge in the heart of downtown, chandeliers topped with burning candles, wide leather booths oriented around an empty stage, drinks issued upon arrival.

Minho and Sooyun sit down with Mr. Gan, each side of the booth manned by their bodyguards. The meeting begins routinely, Minho repeating the numbers and conditions his sister detailed for him on the ride over, but he must have gotten something wrong, because Sooyun cut him off and started talking directly to Mr. Gan. He hasn't been needed in the conversation for a while.

Since they've arrived, the room has been humming with conversation, but void of music. Usually there's a violinist or a folk band, a little ambiance. The stool and microphone look lonely on stage.

Just as he thinks it, a man he recognizes — the manager of the Magnolia — leads a guy with a worn acoustic guitar into the room. They speak briefly, and the manager stands by while the musician climbs onto the stage. He sits on the stool, adjusts the mic to his lips and pulls the guitar into his lap. He cracks his knuckles and plays a few warmup notes.

He begins to play. His fingers slide deftly over the strings, a gentle touch, a gentle sound. The manager leaves after a moment, casting a dubious look over his shoulder. The musician was trembling, just a little, but now he's still. His eyes are closed.

Minho is about to turn away when the musician starts to sing. His voice is high with an attractive scratch, soft and earnest, doting on each word. Minho feels the sound flitter in his chest. He's the only person in the lounge turned toward the stage, the singer's audience of one.

Once there was a young girl / who feared she was going insane

It must be a cover. There's something so familiar in the lyrics. Minho can't place it. The way it's worded makes it sound sacred. The way he sings it makes it sound like a lullaby. His face while he sings — eyes shut calmly, an absent smile on his lips — makes him look possessed, like he's the music's conduit.

Then the singer's eyes peek open, sweep across the booths, the aloof patrons, and finally land on Minho. He makes his first mistake, stammers an "um" and continues singing, eyes closed again.

Minho enjoys it more than he should. He made the singer stutter.

He's startled by Mr. Gan standing in front of him, a hand thrust outward. Minho quickly shakes it, thanking him for coming, as if he hadn't completely checked out halfway through the meeting.

As expected, there's a brusque shove against his shoulder. Sooyun. "Good job, stupid. All you had to do was repeat what I told you — what do you do instead? You forget everything I said. So I take over, all you have to do is pay attention, and what do you do then—"

"I know, I know. I zoned out. I'm sorry. He's a good singer."

Sooyun hadn't noticed there was anyone on stage. "What? Sure, whatever. Look, Mr. Gan didn't mind negotiating with me, but you know some of the backward fucks Father does business with. You have to at least pay attention. You're the face, remember?"

He nods solemnly at his sister the way he used to when she'd scold him for stealing her dolls. "Yes ma'am. Did he agree to supply the auction?"

"Yeah, lucky for both of us. I call dibs on telling Father — I need the good girl points. Mother's on my ass about finding a date for the garden party." A separate event from the auction. It's constant, he swears. "I can't find a single decent guy in the city. I really don't want to let Mother set me up, but I might not have any other choice."

"The party's still two months off, you have time to find a guy you like."

"Yeah right, I'll find a guy I like the same day you find a girl you like."

"Oh so never then?"

"In that neighbourhood." She pulls her purse over her shoulder and scoots out of the booth. "You coming?"

"Not yet. Take the car, I'll charter something later."

His eyes are on the singer. Sooyun looks over her shoulder, at the stage, and then laughs, a snort at the back of her throat.

"You do like pretty boys, don't you."

"Go pass your hairball somewhere else."

"Bitch. Hey, if you're gonna fuck that guy, please get a room. Mother's going to keel over if she sees another friend sneak out of your room at four in the morning."

Minho cringes. "That was one time years ago, please stop reminding me."

"Nope, I need my shits and giggles." She tips her head, listening. "Hm. He is a good singer."

She turns and clips away. One bodyguard follows her and the other stays put. Minho turns his eyes back to the stage, leaning forward with his hands folded on the table. Sooyun is a boor. Though she isn't wrong. (About the pretty boy thing, he means.) He hasn't dated in a while, taking abstinence for a test drive. Not on purpose. Maybe he was just waiting to hear a voice that caught his attention.

It's another two or three songs before the manager reappears and slaps the stage, telling the singer his time is up. He murmurs a "thank you" into the mic and gets to his feet. Minho claps, making the singer smile before he retreats, jumping off the stage like he's suddenly shy. Minho tells his bodyguard to catch him before he leaves, and a moment later, the singer is walking back to the table, guitar sashed around his shoulders, a wary look on his face.

"Hi," Minho says, holding a hand out over the table. The singer shakes it. "I'm Lee Minho."

"Minho, hi. Han Jisung." He clears his throat. "Thank you for clapping. It's kind of dead here."

"Of course. Usually the entertainment isn't as" — fascinating, absorbing, hypnotic — "interesting. How'd you get in?"

"There was a cancellation. And, I mean, I... offered to play for free. I guess it was an offer they couldn't refuse."

He played for free? His voice — for free? "Do you play professionally, Jisung?"

"Uh, not really. I took lessons in high school, I practice a lot."

"Think you have enough material for an hour or so?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Do you write your own stuff?"

"Yes, I do." There's a trace of pride in Jisung's expression.

"That's amazing. Can I have your number?"

Jisung's mouth falls open, talking without sound.

"Pretty forward," he says, "but like, yeah."

Minho narrows his eyes. Did he just offer up his number after two minutes of talking? If Minho knew that was going to work, he would have meant it.

"Great," he says. "My family has an event coming up. You could play during the pre-auction ballroom schmooze if you'd like."

"Oh, for work, you — never mind. Yeah, yes, that'd be awesome. Do you have a pen or something? And paper?"

"No business cards?"

"They're at... the printer?"

Minho smiles, signalling a waiter for a slip of paper. Jisung jots down his phone number and slides it back over the table.

"Thank you," he says. "I'd really like to play whatever you have for me. Seriously, anything."

"No problem. I really like your music. Where do your lyrics come from?"

Jisung's head tilts. The question doesn't seem to have a simple answer. "I don't know. It's like... they come to me in my sleep. Not to brag."

"Why not? It's healthy to brag once in a while."

"My grandmother says bragging is like dope."

Minho raises an eyebrow. "Better... with snacks?"

Jisung laughs. Minho likes the way his face lights up.

"A gateway," Jisung explains. "To egomania, I guess. Her similes aren't great. Never stopped me from doing it either."

"Bragging or smoking?"

"Either. As long as there's snacks."

Minho tries not to smile too wide at that.

Jisung clears his throat and adjusts his guitar strap. "Yeah. Thank you for the opportunity."

"Have a good night."

Jisung thanks him again and walks away. Minho watches him go, tapping his fingers against the leather booth. They'll see each other again. He'll make sure of it.