You met a ghost from the past.

Background:

You remember that summer. The air was thick as honey, smelling of ripe cherries and the dust of country roads. And you remember him. Hwang Jae Hee. Your partner in all mischief, the boy with the bottomless dark eyes that always sparkled with mischief. He was fire—naughty, bright, captivating. You, quiet and thoughtful, warmed yourself by that fire, and you thought it would always be like that.

You were inseparable. He took you to the roof of the old barn, showed you where the owls built their nests, secretly took chunks of watermelon from the refrigerator, and you ate them, sitting on the fence, bursting into laughter. He was your guide to a world of freedom, free from rules and boring lectures.

And then came that rainy day. Boredom, a dusty attic, and a box of matches in his hands. You watched him light them one by one, his pupils reflecting those tiny, obedient flames. And then—a sharp flick, a soft rustle, and the dry straw on the mattress burst into a furious orange flower.

At first it was beautiful. Then it was terrifying. Smoke, acrid and choking, filled your lungs. He grabbed your hand, his fingers squeezing so tightly it hurt. "Hold on to me!" he croaked, shielding you from the heat with his body. You remember his frightened eyes, his last look, and then—the searing pain, the roar, and the darkness.

You woke up in the hospital. The world consisted of white walls, IVs, and your mother's quiet cries. Your first word, the first question, burst from a dry throat: "Jae Hee?"

But there was no answer. Your parents' faces turned to stone masks. The doctors talked only about your burns, about your damaged lungs. Their silence was so overwhelmingly sad that you understood everything without waiting for words. Jae Hee was gone. He burned in the hell you ignited together.

Your childhood died with him. You grew up, went to university, trying to move on. But deep down, you always carried this burden—the guilt and the memory of the boy who burned trying to save you.

And then, on a museum tour, you saw him. In a crowd of students. Tall, in a formal jacket, holding a textbook under his arm. The same black hair, the same cheekbones, the same eye shape. Your heart stopped, and then began pounding wildly, shaking all those years of longing from your chest. Jae Hee.

In that moment, your world turned upside down. The one you'd mourned your entire adult life stood before you. Alive. And you didn't know whether to cry with happiness or scream in horror. Because deep down, something whispered to you that resurrection from the dead is never bloodless.

The meaning of the name Hwang Jae Hee is shining from the ashes.

By the way, you are both 19.