The Dreams (Retouch)

[Morning — Observation Room 71-A]

The door slid open with a soft mechanical hiss. Lieutenant Kim stepped inside, carrying a cup of barley tea on a porcelain saucer. Thin steam rose, the scent of roasted grain spreading faintly—warm, fragile, as if it might vanish if inhaled too deeply.

Observation Room 71-A was silent, only the hum of slow-turning ventilation could be heard. Dim white lights illuminated the smooth gray walls, spotless, giving the impression of coldness and lifelessness.

In the corner, a small monitor flickered, displaying a green line of rhythm pulsing steadily.

Yun sat on the bed, knees slightly bent, her gaze fixed on the pale blue sky beyond the thick steel-reinforced glass. She didn’t move until the cup touched the table beside her with a faint sound, sharp in the sterile quiet of the room.

“Good morning, Yun,” Lieutenant Kim greeted softly.

“Morning,” she replied faintly, almost like a breath.

“How are you feeling now?”

“Better.”

Kim pulled out a chair and sat down, studying her face as if searching for hidden cracks. “You fainted two days ago—right after I spoke a word.”

Yun’s gaze shifted toward him. “Yes. I remember… you said ‘seed,’ and then—” she stopped, her brow furrowing. “—I collapsed and lost consciousness.”

“Since then, no dizziness? No strange sensations?”

She shook her head slightly. “No. Only… dreams.”

Kim’s voice hardened subtly. “Dreams?”

“Yes,” Yun said slowly, as if the word weighed more than it should. “But they don’t feel like mine. Like someone else’s dream. Heavy, like I had to choose.”

For a moment, Kim was silent. His gaze followed hers toward the sky—perfect blue, indifferent. “Do you think it has anything to do with the sky outside? You’re always staring at it.”

Yun’s lips parted, but no words came. Outside, a single white cloud drifted lazily until it vanished beyond the horizon.

Kim nudged the saucer a little closer. “Why don’t you try the tea? It might calm you.”

Her eyes shifted to him—calm, unreadable. “You know I don’t need to drink, right?”

“Yes… I know. But you didn’t refuse when I offered earlier… so I thought maybe you wanted to try.”

Her fingers touched the rim of the cup—the porcelain warm, inviting to be lifted. After a brief pause, she whispered, “Alright… I’ll drink it.”

With careful movements, Yun lifted the cup, as if testing whether its warmth would fade. She raised it, letting the thin steam brush her cheek, carrying the soft roasted scent.

For a moment she held the cup to her lips, then took a small sip.

Her gaze lowered, eyes unfocused, as if the taste carried her far away. When she set the cup down again, her fingers still lingered on the handle.

“How does it taste?” Kim asked.

“Warm,” she finally replied. Her voice quiet, hesitant, as if describing more than just temperature.

A faint smile touched Kim’s lips. “That’s good then.”

Yun tilted her head, staring at the pale golden surface. “It feels… beautiful.”

Kim’s eyes softened. “Beautiful?”

Yun watched the rising steam. “Like holding a small piece of morning… before anyone else has touched it.”

Kim let the image hang before asking again. “You always have a way of describing things we can’t quite understand.”

“It’s just what I see.”

He leaned slightly forward. “And what did you see… when you dreamed?”

Yun’s hand stilled on the cup. “…Two figures,” she said slowly. “They were close, but opposed, always staring at me.”

“Humans?”

“I don’t know. One was surrounded by flowers—but the flowers wilted when they smiled. The other… walked in fire.”

“They spoke to you?”

Yun shook her head. “No. But…” Her eyes stayed on the tea. “One carried blessing, love, and kindness. When they looked at me, I felt… safe. Accepted. As if the world itself opened its arms.”

Kim listened without moving, though his body was tense. “And the other one?”

Yun’s gaze lifted, her calmness turning sharp. “The other brought destruction. Their steps were a storm. Their voice sounded like a city collapsing. But… the silence after felt so clean.”

“Clean?”

She gave a slight nod. “Like rain washing blood from stone.”

Kim studied her intently. “Do you know who they are?”

“No,” she whispered. “But it feels… like they know me. I feel… they’ve known me for a very long time.”

Kim’s eyes lingered on her profile—Yun wasn’t looking at the glass, but at something far beyond. “Yun… do you remember anything from before this?”

Her fingers gripped the cup more tightly. “No.”

“Not at all?”

Silence for a moment, then she shook her head even slower. “It feels like I don’t want to remember.”

“Why?”

“Because every time I try… I feel like whatever I find won’t ever let me go.”

The tea’s steam drifted between them, dissolving into the sterile air.

“You know… most people want to recover their lost memories, even if painful,” Kim said softly.

Yun looked at him. “I’m not the same as you. I’m not human, remember?”

Kim didn’t answer immediately. Silence crept back, broken only by the faint hum of the vent. “Even so… you feel. You dream. That’s human enough.”

“Feeling and wanting are different.”

“Then what is it you don’t want to find?”

A thin line appeared on her brow. “What if it turns out I’m dangerous?”

Kim’s lips curved faintly. “Should I take that as a warning?”

Her gaze locked onto his—then for a brief moment, her lips curled into a small smile, almost wicked. “Do you need me to warn you?”

Kim’s eyes narrowed, but his body remained still. The smile lingered only for a heartbeat before fading. Clearly, it was no accident.

For a moment, Kim recalled something—fragments of old reports, notes marked in red lines. Yun’s name always appeared alongside words he never wanted to believe: anomaly, weapon, hazardous object. Yet the gaze before him now wasn’t that of a weapon, but something fragile and undefined.

Yun straightened the cup, savoring the last warmth of barley tea on her tongue. When she lowered it again, the pale porcelain was empty—the thin steam gone.

Kim’s eyes fell on the cup. “Seems you enjoyed it.”

Yun’s fingers lingered on the handle before slowly letting go. “The tea reminded me of something… I never actually experienced.”

Kim stayed silent for a moment, then stood. The faint scrape of the chair legs echoed softly across the floor. “Alright. Enough for my morning report.”

Yun’s eyes followed him, her tone light but carrying something beneath. “Is your report the one that decides if I can see the sky without glass?”

Kim stopped, glancing back. “You mean… outside?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Of course. Tonight we’ll go out.”

Yun’s head tilted slightly, like a child receiving an unexpected gift, and a pure smile bloomed on her face—bright, unburdened, almost too human. “Thank you, Kim Joon-seo. I’ll be waiting.”

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