The Warmth of Pale Hands

“It’s fine. I’ll just take notes in my notebook and copy them later,” Ye-kang said softly.

“Well, I never really understand the lessons anyway, especially physics. Just looking at the formulas gives me hives,” Chang-min admitted with an embarrassed laugh.

He was smaller than most boys his age, with a face that had a naturally soft and cute appearance. His round, double-lidded eyes held a mixture of curiosity and bashfulness toward the new transfer student, but no malice.

“You have to be careful, Ye-kang,” he continued. “Bad luck just makes things harder for you.”

After a brief hesitation, Ye-kang murmured, “Really, it’s fine. Thank you, though.”

While the predators in the classroom were clearly the ones she avoided the most, she couldn’t help but feel wary even toward those who were kind. She didn’t want anyone who got close to her to suffer later, to bear the brunt of the fallout from being associated with her.

With a click, she opened her notebook and pressed down on her pen, turning her gaze toward the blackboard. Sensing her determination, Chang-min didn’t push further. Instead, he began doodling on the pristine pages of his textbook.

The lesson began, but the curious glances thrown her way didn’t let up. For Ye-kang, the attention was nothing short of unwelcome.

“It’s not your fault, honey. But what can you do? You’re just unlucky, always attracting the wrong kind of people. Even if you became a nun, some monk would probably still want to date you.”

The memory of her mother’s voice, laced with a cynical laugh, sent a chill down her back. Ye-kang forced herself to focus forward, shaking off the unpleasant recollection.

There’s no such thing as fate, she told herself. She’d just been careless. Just unlucky.

The teacher began writing on the green chalkboard with white chalk when something landed with a soft thud on her desk.

A gust of air stirred her hair as the object—another textbook—landed squarely in front of her. Reflexively, she turned her head.

“Teacher, may I lend the transfer student my textbook? It looks like she doesn’t have one,” Je-ha said casually.

The scattered attention in the classroom converged once again on her and the class president.

“I-it’s okay,” Ye-kang stammered, flustered. Truthfully, she didn’t appreciate his “kindness” at all. In fact, it irritated her. Truly considerate people didn’t act so unilaterally. If Chang-min’s offer had been genuine goodwill, then Je-ha’s gesture felt more like an assertion of power.

“…Just use it,” Je-ha muttered, his gaze fixed on her.

The weight of his words was clear—they weren’t a suggestion but an order. Her heart began pounding again, faster and heavier. Refusing Chang-min’s kindness had been easy, but this was different. Refusing Je-ha’s textbook now would feel like picking a fight.

“Good thinking,” the teacher said, nodding approvingly. “It’ll be easier for you to follow along. Besides, Chang-min’s textbook is probably covered in doodles anyway.”

“Ah, teacher!” Chang-min exclaimed in protest as quiet giggles rippled through the room. Ye-kang seemed to be the only one who couldn’t join in on the laughter.

“But Je-ha, isn’t that a bit too nice of you? Doesn’t suit you.”

“Didn’t you tell me to be nice to her earlier?” Je-ha shot back with a grin.

His words might have come off as defiant, but his smile neutralized any sharpness in his tone. When he smiled, the starkness of his otherwise cold, sharp features melted into something dazzling. He looked like a portrait of perfection, the kind that could completely captivate anyone looking at him.

“Hey, Kang Ye-kang, don’t smile. It’s annoying,” someone muttered from the side.

The class president had likely never encountered someone who reacted negatively to him. Ye-kang could imagine how easily his perfectly composed face might twist into irritation if he ever did.

“If the transfer student drags down the class average on the mock exams, it won’t be good for the teacher’s prenatal care,” Je-ha added with a smirk.

“Wow, thanks for your concern,” the teacher replied with a sigh.

Je-ha chuckled, his voice low, then turned to Sang-mi. “Let’s share.”

Though Sang-mi muttered something about him being annoying, she still placed her textbook in the middle of the desk. The class settled back into the lesson.

[He’s not a bad guy, so don’t worry.]

The small note Chang-min slid to her caught her attention. His handwriting was messy, but he didn’t seem to care. Neither did Ye-kang—her focus was entirely on whether the boy across the aisle had already started planning ways to make her life miserable.

Chang-min tapped his pen toward Je-ha’s direction and scribbled another messy line on the note.

[He’s class president because of his grades. Top of the school.]

Does being smart guarantee a flawless personality? Absolutely not. In Ye-kang’s experience, those with sharp minds often bullied with a subtle, insidious cruelty. The teacher’s unwavering support for Je-ha now seemed to have its reasons.

[His family’s super rich. His maternal grandparents are loaded.]

This wasn’t good. Chang-min seemed to notice the deepening shadow of unease on her face. Tilting his head slightly, he whispered quietly,

“And that XXX church? Je-ha’s father runs it.”

Ye-kang frowned, the lines on her forehead deepening as she instinctively turned to look. The subject of their note was staring intently at the chalkboard, but it was clear he had overheard Chang-min’s comment. Only Chang-min seemed oblivious to the fact.

“He’s a pastor’s son. How could he possibly do anything bad?”

Je-ha’s sharp, cool eyes narrowed slightly, and his lips twisted into an odd angle.

Even without meeting his gaze directly, she could feel it—sometimes, malice approaches far more tangibly than kindness.

As summer loomed closer, a dangerous heat simmered in the classroom, packed with students straddling the fine line between adolescence and adulthood.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The ancient fan rattled noisily, circulating hot air in the stifling room. Je-ha lightly ran his tongue over his long lips.

…Shit.

Even without sound, his lips formed the word clearly.

Sang-mi glanced at him, blinking her large eyes in mild confusion. Before their gazes could meet, Ye-kang quickly looked away.

Her mind swirled, more chaotic than the complex physics equations that filled Je-ha’s textbook. Her palm dampened against the pen she gripped tightly.

Class president. Top of the school. Wealthy. A pastor’s son.

Every word used to describe him felt like a warning siren, each one amplifying her instincts to keep her distance.

She already knew from the beginning—her instincts told her to stay away. Now, she had more than enough reason to heed them.

After all, three years ago, she had been the daughter of a shaman who performed the naerimgut ritual to accept her divine calling.

* * *

“Off to school,” Ye-kang mumbled softly, standing behind her mother, who knelt in prayer at the shrine. Without waiting for a reply, she turned to leave.

The new school had an early start time, with an additional mandatory hour of self-study before classes began. She needed to hurry.

“Ye-kang.”

She froze, one hand already on the peeling iron gate.

Her mother’s appearance was pristine despite the early hour. She wore a traditional hanbok with her hair styled neatly in a chignon, a picture of composure.

Even before unpacking their belongings after the move, her mother had set up the shrine. The next step was calling the local newspaper to place a two-line classified ad: “Sincere prayers offered.” Alongside the text was a small black-and-white photo of her mother, dressed formally with her hair pinned back.

Within three days, the ad brought her first client.

“…What’s this?”

Even though she knew what her mother was holding, she still asked.

“Take this and go into town. Get your uniform fitted today.”

Her mother’s face glowed like a full moon, a stark contrast to the frail figure she had once been. Her bright, almost otherworldly gaze always left Ye-kang with an unexplainable tangle of emotions.

Her chest felt tight, as though something hot was swelling and churning deep inside.

“It’s too early for winter uniforms. I can wait until summer break,” Ye-kang replied hesitantly.

The memory of her mother receiving the naerimgut ritual flashed vividly in her mind again. The piercing clang of gongs and jingling cymbals echoed in her ears. Her mother, who had once been too weak to even sit up in bed, leapt across the dirt floor with vacant, unfocused eyes, as if carried by an unseen force.

“The weather’s stifling even before dawn. Why are you talking about winter uniforms? Get a summer one instead,” her mother said firmly.

“Summer’s almost over. It’d be a waste of money,” Ye-kang replied.

Once school was over, she’d bid farewell to uniforms for good. With just a month left until summer break, she planned to make do with her old one until then.

“My princess, nothing bad’s happening at school, right?”

“Nothing. It’s just started,” Ye-kang denied immediately.

Her mother’s gaze softened. “My sweet girl. I’ll pray for you—pray hard. The spirits will recognize it. They’ll see how beautiful and kind you are, like a flower. So please, listen to me. Get the uniform. Don’t live in a way that makes people notice you, Ye-kang. You don’t need to.”

Her mother’s hands moved over her head, shoulders, arms, and sides in a practiced rhythm—a symbolic gesture to cast off ill fortune. According to her mother, Ye-kang’s fortune made her irresistible to spirits, who clung to her without mercy.

“Fine. I’ll go,” Ye-kang said, nodding quickly before the conversation could drag on. She had heard the same refrain countless times since her mother had become a shaman: Don’t stand out. Live a normal life.

“Be careful on the road. I’ve been seeing a dark car trailing behind you lately,” her mother added, her tone serious.

“Yes, Mom,” Ye-kang answered, forcing a smile as she accepted the wad of cash.

The money reeked of desperation—a smell unique to the fears and pleas of those who had handed it over, hoping that a shaman’s words, or even the voice of a ghost, might grant them some control over their uncertain futures.

As she stepped through the gate, Ye-kang clenched her fist tightly. Beside the rusted, peeling blue iron door hung a newly purchased lotus lantern, adorned with the Buddhist swastika (卍) symbol. The sight was one she still couldn’t get used to, no matter how many times she saw it.

Leaving the scene behind, she quickened her pace, the weight of the cash in her bag pressing against her side like a reminder of the world she desperately wished to escape.