"Haru, you're coming home this weekend," his mom declared over the phone, her tone leaving zero room for discussion.
Haru slumped further into his practice room chair, sweat still drying on his neck from rehearsal. "But it's my break."
"Exactly," she snapped. "And if I don't see your face in this house by Saturday morning, I'm filing a missing person's report. Don't test me."
He groaned. "You said I needed rest."
"I also said I needed grandchildren one day, and look where we are."
"What does that even—?"
"Saturday. Morning. Or I'm calling the national news."
Click.
The call ended with the sharp finality of a woman who always got what she wanted.
By Saturday, Haru was at the front door of his childhood home with an overnight bag and a vague sense of dread. The kind that comes from knowing his mother had said "no weird guests" before, and last time, it resulted in a surprise tarot party with three neighborhood aunties, a Reiki master, and an actual chicken.
As expected, peace lasted for less than an hour.
"Mom," he called, walking into the kitchen, "why is the living room full of garlic and… why is there a mop duct-taped to the TV?"
His mom peered out from behind a curtain, whispering. "Keep your voice down. We're preparing for something."
"Something" turned out to be spiritual disturbances — according to her lifelong friend Mrs. Jang, who arrived in layered scarves, clinking bracelets, and a gaze that suggested she spoke regularly with the beyond… or at least subscribed to five different occult blogs.
By Sunday afternoon, Haru was kneeling on the living room floor with a bundle of dried sage in one hand and a frying pan in the other.
"Why the pan?" he asked his mother, who was rearranging tea candles around a salt circle with deeply concerning confidence.
She looked at him like the answer was obvious. "It's non-stick. Ghosts hate non-stick energy. Too smooth, not enough friction."
"That's not real logic."
"It is now," she said firmly.
Mrs. Jang stood dead center on the rug, wrapped in her scarves like a spiritual onion, muttering in a mix of Korean, English, and possibly Latin. "The ghost is male," she intoned, eyes flitting around. "Old. Angry. Smells like fermented beans."
"That's just dad," Haru mumbled.
From the kitchen came a shout: "I HEARD THAT!"
Minju floated beside him, arms crossed, thoroughly amused.
"Wow," she whispered, eyes wide with mischief. "Your mom is scarier than me."
"You should possess Mrs. Jang," Haru whispered back. "Five seconds. Just long enough for her to levitate or something."
"Tempting," she said, grinning.
The "ghost hunt" officially began when Haru's mom lit incense, waved a feather duster like a wand, and began chanting what sounded suspiciously like the lyrics to a trot song from 1982.
"Mom. Are you singing 'Amor Fati' right now?"
"It calms the spirits," she said, swaying.
"It calms karaoke bars," Haru muttered, following behind her with the frying pan held aloft like a reluctant knight wielding a sacred relic.
"If anything touches me, I'm suing the afterlife," he grumbled.
Minju snorted. "Too late. I touched your sock earlier."
"Great. I'm haunted and ticklish."
Mrs. Jang suddenly shrieked and pointed to the ceiling. "There! The fan! He lives in the blades!"
Haru looked up. The ceiling fan was wobbling, barely spinning on its lowest setting. "That just means it's loose."
"No!" Mrs. Jang shouted. "That's how they disorient their victims! The confusion is the entry point!"
"Seriously?"
His mother hissed, "Ghost logic. Let her work."
Sighing, Haru climbed onto a chair and cautiously reached up with the pan.
"If you're up there," he called, "spin me right round, baby."
The fan immediately kicked into high gear, spinning so fast it began to rattle.
"AAAAAAAAHHHH!"
He nearly fell off the chair. Minju howled with laughter, floating in circles.
"Okay, okay," she gasped. "That might not have been me, but that was amazing."
They moved to the hallway next, where Mrs. Jang paused dramatically and placed her palm against the wall.
"This… this is the cold spot."
"It's because the window's open," Haru pointed out, motioning to the breeze fluttering the curtain.
His mom clucked her tongue. "Don't argue with the mystic process."
Minju, trailing beside him, leaned in. "She just walked in a circle with garlic and a badminton racket."
Haru raised an eyebrow. "I think she's summoning ghosts and cooking bulgogi at the same time."
"Multitasking queen," Minju said.
They entered the laundry room, the air thick with mildew and faint despair.
"This is it," Haru's mom announced solemnly. "The epicenter."
Mrs. Jang stood firm, clutching a ladle like a sword. "I can feel it. He's here."
"Begone, bean-scented uncle ghost!" she cried into the void.
"Seriously?" Haru muttered, staring at the washing machine.
Minju folded her arms and nodded. "I kind of want to join in."
"You're not helping."
"I'm dead. I'm never helping."
And so, Haru found himself chanting lines from a ghost-busting guidebook written by someone named "Mystic Dave" while his mother fanned incense in wild circles and Mrs. Jang waved a crystal pendulum over a pile of towels. When his dad walked past, he paused, assessed the situation, and turned right back around.
"I'm going to the convenience store," he muttered. "Text me when the exorcism ends."
By sundown, the entire house reeked of garlic, sage, and something Minju described as "burnt lavender anxiety." Mrs. Jang finally declared the spirit pacified — "he has passed into the next realm of beanlessness" — and gifted Haru a sparkly crystal frog as a token of gratitude.
"It will protect your aura," she said gravely.
Haru stared at it. It was glittery. And green. With rhinestone eyes.
Minju leaned in and whispered, "He's going to love this."
"I'm stuffing it in the bottom drawer and pretending it never existed," he replied under his breath.
His mom pulled him into a tight hug, one hand smoothing his hair like she used to when he was five and trying to sneak out to play in the rain barefoot.
"Thanks for helping," she said softly. "Even if you're skeptical. You showed up."
Haru smiled against her shoulder. "Always."
From the corner of the room, Minju watched.
Something about the way Haru leaned into his mother's embrace, how his tired eyes softened, made her ache.
"Your family's weird," she said quietly.
Haru's voice was even softer. "Yours would love mine."
Minju blinked.
The words hit harder than expected.
Her expression wavered. And for a moment, just a blink, her form grew hazy — as if her presence couldn't quite hold itself together.
Then, gently, she vanished.
That night, Haru lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the day's absurdity still echoing in his bones.
On the shelf, the crystal frog sat smugly among his old trophies.
He turned over, groaning, and shoved it under a pillow.
Just before he drifted off, it blinked.
Once.
Then nothing.
Haru didn't move.
"Vacation's over," he muttered.
And pulled the blanket over his head.