Someone waiting for you

The cold autumn wind wandered through the streets, lifting swirls of fallen leaves and carrying the laughter of children dressed as witches, ghosts, and superheroes. Halloween was in full swing, yet Lee Minho felt utterly alone. Every year he and his friends celebrated together, but this time everyone had gone their separate ways — some with family, some with girlfriends, and one had even escaped to a ski resort. Minho had never been fond of noisy parties, especially on Halloween night, when the streets were filled with people in the guise of monsters — or, perhaps, monsters disguised as people. Anyway he didn’t stay at home. Walking to clear his head, he unexpectedly stumbled upon an antique shop he had never noticed before. Its windows were dimly lit, and the sign — if there was one — was lost in the shadows. "Probably opened just for the holiday," he thought. The door creaked invitingly, as if whispering for him to step inside. The air inside was thick with the smell of dust, old books, and rusted metal. The light was low, the silence heavy. This shop was definitely not new — and it certainly hadn’t opened yesterday. “Doesn’t look new at all,” Minho muttered, only to startle when a stooped old man appeared from nowhere. “What are you looking for, young man? An antique clock?” At his words, the air suddenly filled with the echo of countless chimes, though Minho couldn’t see a single clock. “Or perhaps… an ancient scroll of spells?” The old man lifted his hand, and a leather-bound book materialised on the counter. It flapped open with a dusty sigh, sending up the scent of mould and time. “No, I don’t need anything. I just came in to look,” Minho said, stepping back. He tripped — but instead of falling to the floor, he landed in a soft, ancient armchair that seemed to appear just to catch him. “No, young man,” the old man rasped, “those who enter here never leave empty-handed.” Minho’s eyes drifted to a nearby display. Among all the grim objects decorated with skulls and strange symbols, one thing caught his attention — a key. The simplest of them all, tarnished yet carved with intricate patterns. It seemed harmless. Innocent. "A key that opens nothing," flashed through his mind. “I’ll take this,” he said, pointing to the key. “Excellent choice,” the old man grinned, his eyes glinting in the gloom. Minho reached out, and the key seemed to leap of its own accord into his chest pocket, chilling him through the fabric. “How much do I owe you?” “There’s a sale tonight. A thousand won will be enough.” “Are you sure this is an antique?” Minho asked, pulling out a bill. “Of course, young man. You’ll find out soon enough.” The old man vanished as silently as he had appeared, leaving Minho alone in the heavy quiet, a strange unease curling in his stomach. Outside, the feeling of being watched refused to leave him. He quickened his pace, deciding that his walk had been more than enough adventure for one evening. But when he reached his apartment door, the key slipped out of his pocket. It didn’t fall. Instead, like a living thing, it hovered in mid-air, faintly glowing with a dark light. Then, smoothly, it slid into the keyhole and turned by itself. The door opened — but his hall was gone. Before him stretched an immense hall, its walls vanishing into shadow, lined with darkened paintings that seemed to hide their own secrets. The air was cold, like in an abandoned museum. The key floated away down the corridor, and Minho followed, spellbound, his heart pounding in his chest. He passed through door after door, room after room — each one different, as if he were walking through a labyrinth of time itself. A medieval castle. A Victorian parlour. An Asian pavilion filled with the soft chiming of bells. Fear blended with fascination, each step drawing him deeper. Finally, the key stopped before a door unlike the others. Plain. Light. Almost homely — like the door to his own bedroom. The key hovered by the lock, touched it lightly, and vanished into the air. Minho pushed the door open. The keyhole didn’t match, yet the door yielded easily. A thick fog poured out, scented faintly of lilies. He stepped inside — and found himself back in his room. The very same room he had left only an hour before. “What the hell…?” he whispered, freezing when a cold hand brushed the back of his neck. He turned — and saw her. Shin Sora. The one who had died a year ago. Her skin was marble pale, as if carved from moonstone. Her lips — crimson as blood — parted slightly, revealing the sharp glint of fangs. Her eyes, midnight-dark, gazed at him with a sorrow and tenderness that felt ancient. “Who are you?” he breathed, stepping back. “It’s me, Minho.” Her voice was soft, like the whisper of autumn wind through leaves. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long.” “No. Sora is dead. You can’t be her.” “Do you remember when we walked by the Han River? When you gave me the little keychain?” She opened her palm — and there it was, the small, tarnished trinket he’d placed in her coffin. “Do you remember running through the rain, scaring your cats when they were asleep on the windowsill?” Only the two of them had known that. Now she did too. “But how…?” Minho’s voice trembled. “You did this, Minho. You prayed for me to return. Your love, your despair, your prayers — they opened the door between worlds. This key is our bond. It led you to me.” She stepped closer, and Minho felt the icy chill radiating from her, but he didn’t back away. “You have a choice,” she whispered. “Become like me — a vampire — and we’ll be together forever. Or see me only once a year, on Halloween night, when the key calls you back to me.” Minho said nothing. He didn’t want to choose. He only wanted to feel her close — her scent of lilies, her voice, her breath. He pulled Sora into his arms. Her body was cold and fragile, but real. He kissed her. Her lips were icy but alive, soft and sweet — until he tasted the metallic hint of blood spreading across his tongue. Sora had bitten his lip. Then she moved lower, her cold breath burning against his neck. He didn’t have time to stop her before he felt the sharp sting of fangs piercing his skin. Pain flashed through him — sharp, blinding — then melted into warmth, and then into a freezing cold that made his whole body tremble. His heart slowed. Then it stopped. He pushed her away and caught sight of himself in the mirror opposite. There was a reflection. His own — but deathly pale, waxen. And his eyes — once dark and alive — now glowed with the same unearthly light as hers, filled with a strange wisdom and a wild, new hunger. Sora smiled, her crimson lips even brighter now, and stepped closer again. “Thank you for choosing me,” she whispered, her voice laced with triumph and boundless tenderness, brushing her cold lips against his once more. And in that moment, the fog around them thickened, closing in like a curtain — sealing the last doorway to the world of the living. When it finally thinned, the room was empty. Only a faint scent of lilies lingered, and the slightest trace of blood in the air. Halloween was over. But for Lee Minho and Shin Sora the eternity had just begun.