with die man's park juyeonA strange oriental had come to town. He dressed in dark clothes and moved into a derelict detached house on a street so lifeless that few ever passed; it seemed hardly anyone noticed his arrival.

The car turned slowly and rolled out of the fork marked by a road sign. Park Juyeon dragged his luggage up the front steps, mopping sweat from his brow. The climate here was odd: though heavy fog pressed against everything, the air itself was fiercely dry. He settled into a rickety old wooden chair, drew a bottle of water from his backpack, drank, and finally took stock of his new lodgings.

As he looked around, the chair rocked beneath him. Juyeon kept his balance and let his gaze fall on a cardboard box half as tall as a man. The journey had jostled it so badly that some unknown liquid had soaked the bottom; every shift of the box shed new flakes of pulp. Juyeon looked away and fixed his eyes on the portrait that dominated the parlor wall.

In his homeland, Western oil paintings were the privilege of the powerful. Families would summon painters to capture the master’s likeness, frame it, and hang it where all visitors must see. His own childhood home had held such a portrait—different school, same message: this is the face that rules here.

The man in the picture bore no resemblance to Juyeon’s lover, and he marveled, lazily, at the discovery. After all their years together, he had never guessed the man carried another race’s blood, though the features were uncommonly striking.

It was precisely that accident of birth that had granted his beloved such enduring life. Juyeon tilted his head against the chair-back and stared at the crystal chandelier, so old its original color had vanished. He had come seeking information, yet this place looked too dead to yield any.

Outside, the fog made it impossible to tell the hour. He pulled out his pocket watch—three in the afternoon. Perhaps the locals observed siesta; otherwise, why did the street feel like a deserted island He hooked a backpack with one foot, rested his heels on it, laced his fingers behind his head, and decided to nap until supper. Eyes closed, he breathed the strange air.

Even his brief sleep brought a dream. Kgoe Ji Wook lay on the small bed of their house, exactly as in life, eyes shut. Juyeon paced beside him but never tried to wake him. His gaze slid along the straight bridge of Ji Wook’s nose and stopped at the closed lips, as though Ji Wook were about to speak. Yet the sleeping face held him silent.

Juyeon opened his eyes to the same grimy chandelier, rubbed them, and rose. The short rest had only roused the fatigue in his bones. He rolled his stiff shoulders and turned to the box. With a thumbnail he slit the packing tape. A compound odor rushed out; he waved it away and began removing the contents. For easier transport, Ji Wook’s limbs had been clumsily dismembered into uneven, bone-in cuts. The hacked surfaces showed every hesitant blow—Juyeon had never even hunted before, and Ji Wook’s stout sinews had given him trouble.

Lower down, pale blood soaked everything; the stain climbed Juyeon’s rolled sleeves and spread like thick black sauce across the white cuffs. He leaned farther in, fishing out the last pieces. Finally he drew out half a ruined finger, the stump already black with rot. When he was sure nothing remained, he straightened, backbone aching from the long bend. First, he had to wash his hands.

He carried the box to the back garden and pitched it onto the weedy waste, where it would wait for the earth to take it. Then he closed the door and surveyed the scattered parts with a sigh.

His backpack held only nails and sutures—nothing meant for the living. With tired fingers he unzipped it, took out the single bottle of water reserved for himself, and sat down to drink. The air was cool; the meat would not spoil quickly. He considered a walk through town later and, as he tucked the bottle away, noticed an unfamiliar slip of paper at the bottom.

The creased sheet bore a single line in a hand he recognized at once—few of the household servants could write.

“Please return safely.”

He did not know what the note meant. He started to toss it aside, but his hand froze, trembling.

Before he left home, the servants who liked him had gathered in the damp basement kitchen at night. When they heard he would travel far, they stared in surprise.

“How far”
“Far enough to take the iron train,” he answered, borrowing a phrase from a book. No one knew what such a train looked like; he added, “It’s long, and it burns coal.”
This only deepened the mystery. A small girl asked timidly, “Alone”
“Alone.”
The air grew heavy with imminent parting. After a silence, the cook asked, “Won’t the master and mistress mind”
Juyeon did not answer; he merely toyed with the bones left on the table. Another servant tugged the cook’s sleeve. “Let the young master have his way.”
“I only fear for his safety… never mind.”
Juyeon rejoined the talk. “I’ll be gone a long time—don’t forget me.”
The mood lifted; they crowded around him, laughing, vying to prove they would remember. Juyeon kept a painted smile, already distant.

The living breath in the letter calmed him; an invisible hand soothed his nerves. He drew the strange-tasting air of the town into his lungs, wondering what it might change inside him. Suspicion settled quietly over him.

He prowled through the house—once clearly grand, with a dozen rooms. The half-rotted carpet crumbled underfoot. On the second floor he found what had been a library. The former owners had been rich but not scholarly; the books numbered half of those at home. He skimmed the shelves, pulled out the thickest notebooks, and scowled at the blotched, scrawled pages. He tore out a few promising sheets, folded them like bookmarks, and slid them back. When he had finished, he went downstairs.

The pieces on the floor were writhing like grubs. The detached arm, advantaged by its shape, scuttled across the boards, fingers splayed like a hairless spider. Juyeon caught it and sighed. “Don’t rush me.”

He cradled the lively hand, sat by his pack, and clamped it between his knees while he hunted for needle and thread. The hand pawed at his leg. He laughed absently. “Stop—tickles.”

He still intended to drain Ji Wook’s blood before reassembling the body; that would spare him a host of preservatives. Yet something in this place was strange—after no more than a trip upstairs, Ji Wook was stirring, exploring the world with the tireless curiosity of a newborn. Juyeon bit the thread, knotted it four-ply—he always twisted four strands for strength—and bent to his task.