The building creaked when the sun shifted against its walls, as if it remembered the weight of time.
Se-ri stood in the second-floor hallway, arms crossed, staring at a narrow wooden door near the end. Unlike the main office door with its glass pane and brass knob, this one was simple—flat, no markings, and slightly warped. Paint curled at the bottom edge, and a faint seam of dust trailed where the base met the floorboards.
"This is it?" she asked.
Joon-ho leaned casually against the wall nearby, arms folded over his chest. His ghostly outline was faint today—just enough to be seen when the light hit at the right angle, like smoke caught in a sunbeam.
"My old records room," he said. "Everything that didn't fit in the main cabinets went in there."
She narrowed her eyes. "Everything meaning?"
"Case archives. Clippings. Private notes. Drafts I didn't want anyone else reading."
"So… stuff you should've thrown away."
"Stuff I couldn't."
She turned to the door again, resting her fingers lightly on the knob. It felt cool and a little sticky, like it hadn't been touched in years.
"What am I looking for?"
"Anything with Choi Hwan-soo's name on it. There were things I couldn't file through the courts, so I kept them off the record. Sometimes what you're not allowed to submit tells you more than what you can."
Se-ri exhaled. Then twisted the knob and pushed.
The door groaned open.
A breath of stale air puffed out—dry paper, old glue, and a faint metallic tang that might've once been cleaning fluid. The space beyond was narrow but deep, barely lit by a high, dust-caked window. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, sagging in places under the weight of unmarked boxes and faded binders. A stepladder stood tucked in the corner, its paint flecked and rusting at the hinges.
She took a step in.
The floor creaked beneath her weight, and the dust swirled around her ankles like fog.
Joon-ho followed behind, his footsteps soundless. He didn't float this time—didn't glide or flicker. He moved as if pretending to walk again, just to stay connected to the space.
"It hasn't changed," he said quietly. "Not a damn thing."
Se-ri looked over her shoulder at him. "That's not a compliment."
He almost smiled.
She stepped deeper inside, letting the door ease shut behind her. The air was warmer here, still and thick, as if preserved in wax. She approached the nearest shelf and began scanning spines.
Most were unlabeled.
Some were numbered in pencil, others marked with yellowing stickers: "Client Privilege," "Pending," "Confidential."
She ran her finger along the edges, hesitating at every name that looked vaguely familiar. Her eyes caught on a few folders dated from 1986—mostly finance cases, some minor disputes—but nothing about arson. Nothing about Choi.
"Where did you put it?" she murmured.
Joon-ho leaned slightly over her shoulder, peering at the shelves. His voice was lower now.
"Middle left. Blue binder. The spine's cracked."
She scanned the shelf again.
There.
She reached up, tugged gently.
The binder didn't move.
She pulled harder. It resisted, then came free with a puff of dust that made her cough and wave a hand in front of her face.
"Great filing system," she muttered.
"Didn't expect anyone to go through it twenty years later."
She opened the binder carefully, its plastic cover crackling as it bent. Inside were pages held by rusted rings, all slightly curled at the corners. Newspaper clippings. Annotated copies of court reports. Polaroid photographs taped to loose sheets. One was of the warehouse after the fire—charred beams, blackened windows, a twisted metal stairwell collapsed onto the ground like a broken skeleton.
Se-ri studied it for a long time.
"Have you ever been to the site again?" she asked.
Joon-ho didn't answer immediately.
Then: "I tried. But ghosts don't travel well."
"Meaning?"
"My tether's here. This building. The moment I try to go too far, I fade."
She turned toward him. "So you're stuck."
He nodded. "Until it's done."
Se-ri looked back at the photo, her throat tight.
She flipped the page. A hand-drawn floor plan. Annotations in red ink. Arrows pointing to the fire's point of origin.
And beneath it—
A name scribbled hastily.
"Y. Nam — check background. Access records?"
She tapped it. "This was the judge, right?"
Joon-ho moved closer. "Nam Ji-hoon. Presided over three major corporate cases that year. All decided in favor of the companies."
"You think he was bought?"
"I think he was loyal to something. Or someone."
She frowned. "This is all circumstantial."
"It was all I had. But there's more—"
He turned toward the back wall and pointed to a small cabinet beneath the lowest shelf.
"In there."
She crouched and pulled the drawer open.
Inside was a black folder. No label.
She took it out and flipped it open on the floor.
And stopped.
It was full of letters.
Not official. Not typed.
Handwritten. Some signed. Some not.
The first was dated March 1987.
"I told you I didn't want to testify. I can't risk my family. You said I could remain anonymous. You lied."
The second:
"He didn't do it. You know he didn't. I heard them planning it. But if I speak, they'll bury me, too."
Se-ri's skin chilled as she flipped through them. Half of them were folded, tear-stained, the ink smudged in places. Real voices. Buried. Hidden.
She looked up.
"You had witnesses."
He nodded. "But they were too afraid."
"And you didn't submit these?"
"I couldn't. No names. No verification. The court would've thrown them out."
"But you kept them anyway."
"Because they were real."
She stared down at the letters again.
Faint writing. Different hands. One or two written in what looked like shaky Hangul, rushed and panicked.
This wasn't just a case file.
This was a burial ground of every voice that hadn't been heard.
And somehow, they had landed in her lap.
"You kept all of this," she said softly.
"I couldn't forget them," he replied. "Even after…"
He trailed off.
She looked at him again. He stood by the cabinet, one hand resting on the shelf—though it passed through slightly, like shadow through wood. His expression wasn't proud. It wasn't haunted.
It was human.
She stood slowly.
Cradled the black folder against her chest.
"Okay," she said. "We start here."
Joon-ho met her eyes.
She didn't flinch this time.
"I'll digitize everything. Build a timeline. Cross-check court records. Then—maybe—I'll figure out who these people were. Maybe they're still alive. Maybe they'll talk now."
"You think they'll remember?"
"If they're anything like you," she said, walking past him with the binder and letters in hand, "they never forgot."
He smiled faintly.
And didn't say another word.