The villagers gasp, their eyes naturally turning to Cheong and myself, where we stand at the back of the crowd. I wonder what it must be like for the emperor, to have woken from an enchanted sleep after a hundred years, remembering nothing of the time he spent as the Sea God. For someone who loved stories so much, he now plays a part in one of the greatest of all.
“He’s won back his palace with the help of the great-grandsons of his former followers,” the messenger continues, “and is working to restore peace and order to the land as we speak.”
A cheer goes up at this wondrous news.
After the messenger’s proclamation, many villagers approach Cheong to thank her for her great deed, and she glances at me with a look of resignation. I shrug, smiling at her.
We noticed it a few days after our return, that most of the villagers believed it was Shim Cheong who ended the curse upon the Sea God, as she was the last bride to be sent down—and the only one, besides me, to have returned. At first horrified, she tried to correct the many well-wishers, but I told her that I didn’t mind. And I don’t mind, truly. After all, in the last story I told the Sea God, Shim Cheong was the Sea God’s bride.
Seasons pass, and come spring, Sung and Soojin welcome a child into the world. Her great-grandmother names her Mirae, in honor of her bright future.
As spring blends into summer, I start to make the walk down to the beach. My family notices and, guessing the reason, makes preparations for my departure. My grandmother and sisters sew me a beautiful dress with fabric procured from their own gowns, both to honor me and to remember them by. My brothers fashion me a dagger—Joon carves a magpie into the hilt—to join my great-great-grandmother’s knife.
Exactly one year after I arrived back in the world above, I’m waiting on the beach, my family surrounding me, when the sun sets and the moon rises. Shin doesn’t appear. The next day we return to the beach, and then the next, and the next, until it’s only me who waits every day by the sea as summer turns to fall.
First confusion clouds my thoughts, then doubt that he ever loved me, then understanding. Because if the emperor lost his memory when his soul was returned to him, then likely Shin did as well.
* * *
Fall turns to winter, and the following spring the same messenger comes back, surprising us all by declaring that the emperor has plans to travel to our small village in order to celebrate the anniversary of his miraculous return. A festival to honor the Sea God is to take place, first in the village and then on the cliffs by the sea, and the villagers rejoice.
Soon caravans arrive from the capital, bringing with them noblemen and court ladies whose servants pitch elaborate tents in the fields, exciting the children and setting the elders to grumbling.
For weeks, the whole village prepares for the emperor’s arrival, stringing up lanterns in the eaves of the buildings in the village square and between the branches of the trees that line the pathway up to the cliffs.
Cooking fires blaze far into the night, and the loud banging of iron against wood can be heard from sunup to sundown as roofs are repaired and new buildings constructed to accommodate the hundreds of merchants and craftsmen who flock to our village in hopes of enticing the nobles.
The seaside temple dedicated to the Sea God is restored to its former glory, and an artisan is commissioned by the village to paint a mural of the dragon on the wall, surrounded by ninety-eight lotus flowers, to honor every bride sacrificed to save our people.
The hard work makes me wistful for the magic of the Spirit Realm, but it’s also a welcome distraction from when my thoughts turn heavy, the longing I feel like a splinter in my heart.
The morning before the festival day, there’s a loud commotion outside our home. Cheong and I look up from where we sit by the hearth, picking the tails off bean sprouts.
“What’s that?” Cheong says.
I listen carefully. “Circus performers?”
“Maybe it’s the eldest Kim son again,” Cheong teases. “He is quite determined to claim your favor.”
I fling a bean sprout in her direction. “I’m only eighteen. I won’t get married for another ten years, at the least!”
The door slides open, and Joon rushes in. We watch as he leans against the doorway, panting. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. No words come out.
“Joon, my love,” Cheong says patiently. “Who has come to visit, making all that ruckus? Are those drums I hear?”
“The emperor,” Joon says, breathless. “The emperor has come.”