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Maybe because her mom had been too young when she got pregnant. And instead of raising Somin like a daughter, she’d raised her like a friend.

It had been great when Somin was a kid. And when she’d discovered makeup and fashion. But as soon as puberty had hit, her mother’s questions had started to make her uncomfortable.

“He’s back, and I just don’t know what to wear if he comes by again. I just don’t know what to do when we see him,” Somin’s mother said, her words tumbling over one another.

Her mother had started toward the bedroom when Somin grabbed her arm and turned her. Her eyes were overly bright. Like she’d drunk too much espresso.

“Who’s back? Who are you talking about?”

“Your father,” her mother said. And Somin’s hands dropped in shock. Her mother spun around to rush into her room.

Your father—the words echoed in her head like a cruel joke. Except her mother would never do that, not about this.Your father.She’d said it with such conviction. With such hope. With such manic joy.

“Eomma,” Somin said, walking back to the master bedroom. Her mother stood in front of her closet, dresses clutched in her hands.

“Which one looks best on me? I mean, which one makes me look lessold? It’s been so long. I don’t want him to think I look old.”

“Eomma!” Somin shouted, pulling the dresses from her mother’s hands. “What are you talking about? Appa is... he’s not here anymore.”

“I know he’s notsupposedto be here. But we were given a miracle. I don’t know how. I didn’t believe it at first, but then he said my name. And I’d never forget your father’s voice. It was him. It was really him!” her mother said, her eyes becoming wider, almost panicked. Like she needed Somin to believe her. Like she’d break if Somin didn’t.

“Oh, Eomma,” Somin said as she realized what was happening. “I have to tell you something.” Her voice cracked; she wasn’t sure how to say it.

But she was saved from it by the chime of the doorbell.

“That might be him!” her mother said, rushing to answer.

“Eomma!” Somin called, starting after her, when her phone dinged. It was a text from Miyoung:Jihoon is not Jihoon.

Somin frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

“Jihoon-ah,” she heard her mother say. “You didn’t have to ring the bell.”

Jihoon was here? Where had he been all day? Maybe he could help Somin explain things to her mother.

“Interesting.” Jihoon’s voice echoed down the hall. “You’ve been touched by a spirit.”

“A spirit?” Somin’s mother asked with a light laugh, but there was tension in the sound. Somin knew her mother well enough to recognize it.

What was Jihoon doing?Somin wondered. This wasn’t the way to tell her mother about the supernatural world. She glanced down at Miyoung’s text again. What was wrong with Jihoon? What did it mean that he wasn’t being himself?

“Oh, I see. You were hoping he was real, weren’t you? Hoping a dead loved one had returned to you through some kind of magic of what? True love?”

“Jihoon-ah?” Her mother’s voice shook.

“Jihoon!” Somin barked, stepping into the foyer, intent on giving him a piece of her mind. But instead, she watched as he swung out, slamming her mother into the large shoe cabinet. Her head smacked against the wood with a heavy thud before she dropped.

“Eomma!” Somin yelled, bending to catch her mother.

“She’ll be fine,” Jihoon said, stepping around them. “I just didn’t want her listening in on our conversation.”

Somin stood, positioning herself between her mother and Jihoon.

“Get the hell away from us,” she said, her fists clenching. Never in her life had she wanted to strike Jihoon. Not even during their worst fights. But she also never thought she’d be forced to choose between her mother’s safety and Jihoon.

Jihoon laughed, a low rumble that sounded unnaturally cruel.She’d never seen such violence from her friend who usually had a friendly smile for everyone.

“This isn’t like you,” she said. “You’ve been acting off since...” Her breath caught.Jihoon is not Jihoon.