Kisa suddenly feels very light, very insubstantial. “Wait,” she cries as she begins to fade. “Will I see you again?” There’s so much she wants to ask her, so much she could learn about the phenomenon of past lives, how they might possibly linger in the depths of the unconscious. She can barely see Hani now, but she knows, somehow, that the gumiho is smiling.

“I’m always here, Kisa,” Hani shouts back, laughter in her voice. “We share the same soul! Fuck your Ship of Thes—”

She wakes with a gasp, the sheets sticky with her sweat. The bed is empty next to her, and a sliver of light from the bathroom seeps into the dark bedroom, followed by the low murmur of Seokga’s voice. He must be calling another irate god, who’s demanding to know what exactly happened on the SRC Flatliner.

Remember what I told you.

Kisa’s body is pleasantly sore with new aches as she hurries out of bed and slips on her underwear, then Seokga’s sweater, swiping it from where it lies in a puddle of soft fabric on the floor. It’s huge on her, practically a dress. Breathing hard, Kisa rushes into the sitting room, where she’s stashed the stolen journal underneath the settee’s thick cushion. Grabbing it, Kisa returns to the bedroom where she flicks on the lights and—not bothering to sit back down—opens the journal and begins to read.

The first entry is dated in 2018. The handwriting is the long, elegant script of an older woman, but Kisa has always been a fast and adept reader. As she skims, her stomach drops as if she’s on a roller coaster, flying down from the highest peak. Clenching the sides of the journal, her hands begin to shake and Kisa leans against a bedpost for support. For a moment she can barely make out the next sentence, the journal quivering underneath her unstable grip. It’s only with an excruciating effort that she stills them enough to continue unraveling the horrible, damning truth.

Faster and faster she skims, the pages fluttering rapidly as she makes her way through the contents, barely aware of how her skin has turned clammy, sweat pooling at the base of her back. Kisa’s eyes have begun to burn and strain as she reads and reads, puzzle pieces falling into place with horrible, nauseating thuds and clicks.

When Kisa reaches the end of the journal, she has to force down a surge of bile. Everything is here. Everything. All of her suspicions and all of her questions answered in that innocuous, looping font. “Seokga,” Kisa rasps, but she doesn’t stumble toward the bathroom, where the god’s voice is rising in agitation. She knows what he will do, overcome with rage, and they mustn’t yet show their hand. Instead, she’s lurching to the door and into the hallway.

Somi. She needs to find Somi.