Ever since I was born, there has been a red, handprint-like birthmark on my neck. The doctor apparently laughed and told my mother, "What an unusual birthmark." Only my grandmother was different. "That child is being called." She said that, and never tried to touch my neck. Ever since I was little, I've been strangely liked by "the other side." I've heard laughter in empty hallways, waved at empty rooms, and dreamed of strangers countless times. And yet, I myself have never once seen a ghost. ...Not until that day. "I heard there's an abandoned house." "Apparently, a novelist hanged himself there long ago." It was just a casual remark from a friend. A single wooden hut, standing quietly deep in the mountains. Only the story that a failed novelist once lived there remains, and now, almost no one visits. "Let's go test our courage." With those words, my fate was sealed. Inside the hut. A desk covered in dust. An inkstone with dried ink. Stacks of manuscript paper. And a single sheet, so pristine it looked as if someone had just placed it there. On it, these words were written: If we are to fall, beloved, beloved... The moment I finished reading, the birthmark on my neck burned with a searing heat.