The palace slept, but the night refused to.Cicadas hummed through the darkness; the lotus pond rippled beneath the lanterns. Ji-Ho sat alone on the stone terrace, robe loosened, hair untied, eyes fixed on the constellations.
They glittered the same way they had on that mountain night.
He remembered the petals, the scream, the weight of her falling. The moment when time cracked open.
"Thanu…" he whispered.
A single tear broke loose before he could stop it. It surprised him; a prince shouldn't cry. Yet the stars seemed to look back with the same silent grief.
Suddenly a voice squeaked behind him.
"Your Highness! You're crying at the sky again! Shall I bring an umbrella?"
Ji-Ho jumped. It was Do-Ri, his new personal eunuch — small, hyperactive, and absolutely unfiltered.
Ji-Ho wiped his eyes quickly. "I wasn't crying. The wind attacked my face."
Do-Ri gasped. "Assassins in the wind! I knew it!" He brandished a feather duster like a sword.
"Put that down before someone dies of embarrassment," Ji-Ho groaned.
Do-Ri peered up at the stars. "You're looking at the Archer constellation. They say lovers separated by fate meet again beneath it."
Ji-Ho's grip tightened on the railing. "Maybe that's why it hurts to look."
Do-Ri blinked. "Hurts? Should I fetch the royal physician? Or the royal poet?"
Ji-Ho sighed. "Neither. Go… dust something."
Lost Prince Syndrome
The next morning, Ji-Ho tried to find the Judgment Hall for the daily council. Unfortunately, he had no idea where anything was.
He confidently strode out of his quarters, turned left… and found himself in the royal kitchen.
The cooks froze mid-ladle.
One whispered, "The Crown Prince… came for breakfast?"
Ji-Ho smiled awkwardly. "Inspection. Of… rice."
A chef immediately began bowing. "The quality rice! Finest in the kingdom!"
Someone shoved a bowl into his hands. "Taste, Your Highness!"
Ji-Ho tried to decline, but Do-Ri materialized beside him with his feather duster. "He loves rice!"
Five minutes later, Ji-Ho left the kitchen stuffed with three bowls of porridge and still completely lost.
By the time he reached the courtyard, he spotted Ha-Jin, the palace guard assigned to his detail — tall, stoic, expression carved from stone.
Ji-Ho ran to him in relief. "Ha-Jin! To the Judgment Hall, now."
Ha-Jin bowed. "As you command."
Five steps later, Ji-Ho realized Ha-Jin was following him.
"Wait— do you not know either?"
Ha-Jin blinked. "I assumed Your Highness knew."
Ji-Ho dragged a hand down his face. "Perfect. Two geniuses lost in a square palace."
Chaos in the Judgment Hall
By sheer luck (and Do-Ri's nose for food, which led them via the banquet corridor), they burst into the Judgment Hall fifteen minutes late.
Ministers were already lined in rows, fans fluttering in silent judgment.
Lord Nam exhaled in visible agony. "Your Highness, the session began at the Hour of Dragon."
Ji-Ho blurted, "Well, I prefer the Hour of Rice."
A collective cough rippled through the room.
The Dowager Queen raised an eyebrow. "You were eating?"
"Research," Ji-Ho said quickly. "Into… agricultural morale."
Then he noticed Thanu among the scholars' ranks, trying very hard not to laugh.
Lord Nam cleared his throat. "Scholar Thanu, please explain your theory regarding the 'rotations of destiny.' "
She stepped forward gracefully. "In essence, fate moves like the heavens — repeating patterns until the soul reaches understanding."
Ji-Ho's heart lurched again.
A minister snorted. "Superstition! What proof have you of these cycles?"
Thanu's eyes glinted. "The heavens remember even when people forget."
Every word cut straight into him.
Another minister grumbled, "Preposterous. What next, claims of memory beyond death?"
Ji-Ho slammed the table before he could think. "And what if it's true?"
The hall went dead silent.
All eyes turned. Lord Nam looked like he might faint.
Ji-Ho coughed. "I mean… hypothetically. Philosophically. As a thought experiment."
Do-Ri whispered loudly from the doorway, "His Highness believes in love ghosts!"
"Do-Ri!" Ji-Ho barked.
Half the ministers gasped. The Dowager Queen fanned herself. "Love… ghosts?"
Ji-Ho wished for an actual ghost to drag him away.
The Rain Pavilion
That evening, Thanu carried scrolls across the courtyard when a sudden summer rain broke loose. Servants scattered, umbrellas popping like mushrooms.
She ducked into the nearest pavilion — only to find Ji-Ho already inside, drenched and sulking.
"Your Highness?"
"Don't," he said, holding up a hand. "I was conducting… atmospheric research."
"Without a roof?"
"I was testing how wet the royal robe gets."
Thanu laughed, covering her mouth. "And the result?"
"Extremely wet."
Silence settled between them, filled only by the drumming rain.
He studied her quietly — the curve of her smile, the calm in her eyes.
"You said something today," he murmured. "About the heavens remembering."
She tilted her head. "Yes. Why?"
He hesitated. "What if… someone remembered something they shouldn't? Another life, maybe."
Thanu looked at him for a long moment. "Then I'd say that person carries a blessing and a curse. A heart too stubborn for time to erase."
Ji-Ho's throat tightened.
Lightning flashed, illuminating her face — so familiar, yet impossibly distant.
Then Do-Ri burst in, screaming, "YOUR HIGHNESS! The palace thinks you were kidnapped by the rain!"
Ha-Jin followed, soaked but still dignified. "The Queen demands your immediate return."
Thanu quickly hid her laughter behind her sleeve. Ji-Ho groaned.
"Tell them I was meditating!" he snapped.
Do-Ri nodded solemnly. "Meditating in a puddle. Understood."
Thanu laughed outright this time, and something warm uncurled in his chest despite everything.
The Night Remembrance
Hours later, the rain had stopped. Ji-Ho stood again on the terrace, hair damp, the smell of wet earth rising around him.
Above, the clouds parted to reveal a single, brilliant star — the Archer again.
Memories surged like a flood:Her laughter at Seoraksan.The petals swirling in golden light.His unfinished confession.Her hand slipping from his.
He gripped the railing until his knuckles whitened.
"Why do I remember when she doesn't?" he whispered. "Why bring me here at all?"
A soft voice answered from behind.
"Perhaps… because you asked for another chance."
It was Thanu. She stood at the doorway, hair loose from the rain, expression unreadable.
Ji-Ho turned slowly. "What did you say?"
She smiled faintly. "Nothing. Good night, Your Highness."
As she walked away, a single petal — impossibly, absurdly — drifted from the sky and landed on his sleeve.
He stared at it, heart trembling.
Somewhere deep within the palace, a clock struck midnight. The sound echoed like fate counting down.