The rats fled first.
So-young watched as a dozen small shadows scattered from the warehouse basement door, their claws skittering across concrete. The air smelled of damp earth and something sharper—like overripe apples and wet stone.
Old Man Park adjusted the kerosene lantern in his shaking hands. "Haven't opened this since your uncle died."
The rusted padlock broke with a single strike from his shovel. The door groaned open, revealing darkness so thick it seemed to swallow the lantern light whole.
Dae-ho swallowed audibly. "Are we sure this isn't haunted?"
Li Na shoved him forward. "Only by bad business decisions."
The beam of So-young's flashlight caught the first sack—its burlap frayed but still intact, stamped with a faded apricot blossom and the year 1971. She reached out, brushing dust from the stitching.
Seong-ho's last harvest.
Park's voice dropped to a whisper. "He had us build this the summer before he died. Said every baker needed a 'rainy day fund.'"
Grandfather's cane tapped against the concrete floor as he stepped inside, his breath fogging in the suddenly cold air. His fingers traced the nearest sack like it was made of glass.
"Open it," he said.
Han Bakes Kitchen – 3:17 AM
The flour moved.
So-young stared as the aged barley powder swirled in its mixing bowl, tendrils of steam rising despite the cold water she'd added. Across the table, Li Na's knife hovered over a lump of dough that pulsed faintly.
"That's not normal," Dae-ho whispered.
Grandfather ignored them, his gnarled hands working the mixture with eerie precision. "Seong-ho used wild yeast from the apricot tree. It goes dormant in storage." He pressed two fingers to the dough's surface. "Still alive."
The kitchen lights flickered.
So-young's notebook lay open to Seong-ho's final entry:
"When the grain remembers, the bread will too."
She measured out a cup of the strange flour—then froze. Tiny black flecks dotted the white powder. Not mold. Seeds. Ancient barley kernels that had somehow survived decades in the dark.
Li Na grabbed her wrist. "We're baking with what exactly?"
A crash came from the walk-in. Dae-ho emerged pale-faced, holding a bubbling jar of starter. "Guys? I think it's singing."
The sound was faint but unmistakable—a low, harmonic hum vibrating through the glass. Grandfather's eyes widened.
"Proof it," he ordered.
Moon & Son Test Kitchen – 6:45 AM
Kim Sang-chul's spit hit the dough with a wet slap.
"Again," he snarled.
The cowering technician adjusted the industrial mixer, sending another batch of "heritage" bread dough spinning. The Moon & Son lab smelled of synthetic vanilla and desperation, every surface gleaming with sterile steel.
Kim snatched the latest failure—a dense, gray lump—and hurled it against the wall. "Where are they getting this flour?"
A junior executive scrolled through security footage. "Our drones show no deliveries to Han Bakes. Just... farmers coming and going with sacks."
The screen zoomed in on Old Man Park's grandson loading burlap bundles into a truck. Kim froze.
"That's not this year's harvest." He stabbed a finger at the screen. "Those sacks are vintage. Find out where—"
His phone rang. The caller ID made him go very still.
Chairman Han Joon-ho.
Han Family Cemetery – 9:03 AM
The apricot tree over Seong-ho's grave had split in two.
So-young stared at the fissure running down the trunk, the exposed heartwood gleaming unnaturally gold. Fallen blossoms littered the ground like snow, their scent overpowering.
Grandfather knelt without ceremony, his dress pants soaking up dew as he pressed his palm to the broken bark. "You stubborn bastard," he murmured. "You planned this."
Li Na kicked at the roots. "Explain."
"Not roots. Runners." Grandfather dug his fingers into the soil, revealing thick white tendrils that snaked toward the warehouse. "This tree's been feeding the silo for fifty years."
Dae-ho's phone buzzed. He paled. "Moon & Son just filed an injunction. They're claiming we stole 'their' grain."
A wind stirred the branches. Something fluttered down—a single notebook page, preserved like parchment, lodged in the tree's cleft.
So-young unfolded it carefully.
"Joon-ho—if you're reading this, the flour worked. Don't let them bury it again."
Grandfather made a sound like a drowning man breaking surface.
Han Bakes Storefront – Noon
The line stretched around the block.
So-young watched through flour-dusted windows as customers pressed their noses to the glass, drawn by the scent drifting from the ovens—something between honey and thunderstorms. The first batch of "Legacy Loaf" had sold out before it cooled.
Dae-ho whooped as their POS system crashed from overload. "We're trending! Hashtag GhostGrain!"
Li Na smeared flour across her forehead like war paint. "Double the batches. Triple the salt."
Grandfather stood apart, staring at the last remaining sack of Seong-ho's flour. His thumb rubbed the apricot blossom stamp absently.
The bell jingled. Kim Sang-chul stood in the doorway, his tailored suit at odds with the flour-clouded air.
"Joon-ho," he said stiffly. "We need to talk."
Grandfather didn't look up. "We're closed."
Kim's jaw tightened. He slid an envelope across the counter. So-young caught the letterhead—National Agricultural Registry.
"Your brother never owned that land," Kim hissed. "That silo belongs to us."
Grandfather finally met his gaze. "Try taking it."
Outside, a news van screeched to a halt. Old Man Park stood on the sidewalk with a megaphone and a dozen farmers, their signs reading:
"HAN BAKES USES OUR GRAIN"
Kim's face went very still. Then—
Click.
A camera flashed. The headline wrote itself:
"Corporate Giant Tries to Steal Farmers' Heritage"