#orv sys

For this project, I actually collaborated with d0gtoothjones to edit the pattern. When I input any given image into the program I use (stitch fiddle), it can take me anywhere between 30 mins and 6 hours to edit the pattern.

(Earlier draft of pattern for comparison)

Tried to take more update pics as I went for this project but I can’t include all of them

Waterboard the baby

Kim Dokja hasn’t moved in years.

The hospital room is warm and quiet, with soft light filtering through the window. The machines hum softly. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, as if nothing ever changed.

But the world has. The scenarios ended. The stars went quiet. Peace returned, if peace can ever truly return to people like them.

Shin Yoosung stands by the window, arms crossed, hair tangled from sleep. It brushes her shoulders now, too long– too messy. She never used to care about her hair. She was a beast tamer, a fighter, a survivor. She had other things to worry about.

But lately, she keeps thinking about it.

She sees Yoo Mia one morning, laughing quietly while Yoo Joonghyuk braids her hair. It’s something so small, so domestic. Something from a world that shouldn't belong to them. Something gentle.

She hates how it makes her feel.

So she lets her hair grow.

At first, she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it for him. Kim Dokja. The idiot. Their idiot. The one who used to fumble with his hands and brush her hair back awkwardly when it got in her eyes during battle. Who never said the right thing but always meant it anyway.

She brushes it herself now. She watches it grow in the mirror. She waits.

“If– No, when. When he wakes up,” she thinks, “he can braid it again.”

One day, she visits him, and something breaks.

“You’re still not back,” she whispers, voice shaking. “You said you wouldn’t leave. You said you’d always be watching.”

She cries, forehead against the side of his bed. Her hair spills over her shoulders like a curtain. It tangles in her fingers. The strands brushing against Kim Dokja’s unmoving hand.

Lee Gilyoung stands in the doorway, silent.

“You’re crying again,” he says.

“Shut up,” she spits. “You don’t get it.”

But he does. And she knows.

He doesn’t say anything more. He just leaves.

—

The next day, Lee Gilyoung shows up at Yoo Sangah’s doorstep.

“Teach me how to braid hair,” he mutters, awkward and stiff.

Yoo Sangah looks up from her tea, blinking behind her glasses. “Oh. Is this… for Shin Yoosung?”

He doesn’t answer, but the flush on his face says enough.

She smiles gently and sets her cup down. “Come in. I’ll show you. You know, I used to practice on my cousins’ hair when we were little.”

As she demonstrates, she talks softly. “Yoosung’s changed a lot, hasn’t she? We all have. It’s strange—after everything, we get quiet days like this. I never thought peace would feel so empty.”

Gilyoung doesn’t say anything. His hands are clumsy as he mimics her movements, but she corrects him gently, never laughing, only guiding.

“You’re doing this because you care. You don’t have to say it.” She gives him a knowing look. “He’d be proud, you know. Kim Dokja.”

He doesn’t look up. But his hands pause, just for a second.

“You’re doing this for Shin Yoosung, aren’t you?” she asks gently.

He doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t press.

“I think it’s good,” she says instead. “Doing something kind. You know… Dokja-ssi once told me that small things matter more after the end. A braid. A cup of tea. A warm room.”

She watches him struggle and adjusts his grip. “Peace is made of things like this.”

—

Next, he finds Jung Heewon.

“You want to braid hair?” she repeats, arms crossed.

“Yes.”

“For Yoosung?”

He shrugs. “Not your business.”

“Everything’s my business when it comes to the company’s kids,” she says flatly. “Come on, sit.”

She yanks over a chair and pulls out a hairbrush and a spare wig head.

As she braids, her fingers deft and quick, she says, “You know, after the scenarios ended, I thought I’d go back to being normal. But there’s no ‘normal’ left, is there?”

“No.”

She chuckles. “Yeah. You get it. Anyway, hair’s just like a sword technique. Get the tension right. Don’t hesitate. Be gentle, but firm.”

Gilyoung follows, quietly focused.

“You’ll never say it to her, huh?” she asks after a beat.

“No.”

She grins. “That’s fine. She knows. You both do.”

He tries. The braid is ugly. Lumpy.

“Do you think Dokja would laugh at this?” he asks suddenly.

Heewon shrugs, but there’s a flicker in her eyes. “He’d probably say it’s good. Then try to fix it behind your back and pretend you did it right all along.”

She smirks, wipes sweat from her brow. “He always did stuff like that. Quiet help. Too quiet.”

Gilyoung says, “I don’t want it to be quiet anymore.”

She nods once. “Then make it loud. Make the braid perfect.”

—

Uriel sobs the moment he shows up.

“My precious reader’s child is LEARNING DOMESTIC SKILLS?!”

“Stop crying.”

“TELL ME NOTHING MORE! I ALREADY KNOW! LET ME BLESS YOUR FINGERS!”

“No.”

He lets her do it anyway. She doesn’t teach him much— mostly she cries and raves about how proud Kim Dokja would be, how he surely watches over them still, and how the braid will be a symbol of divine storytelling.

She conjures glowing strands of golden thread, each shining like starlight.

“Each thread represents something sacred. Protection. Care. Hope. You weave them together, and what do you get?”

Gilyoung answers flatly. “A braid.”

“A promise,” she corrects.

He weaves. Slowly. Carefully.

She watches with pride and a surprising solemnity.

“Uriel’s voice softens. “Joonghyuk’s way was quiet love. Dokja’s way was quiet love. But your love? It’s loud enough to shake the stars.”

Gilyoung’s hands still. “Do you think he knew how much we loved him back?”

Uriel looks away.

Somehow, Gilyoung leaves with sparkles on his hands.

He doesn’t question it.

—

Lee Jihye greets him with a wide smirk.

“This is rich. You, trying to braid hair?”

“Shut up.”

“Nah, I love this. Want me to teach you the combat braid?”

“No.”

“What about the intimidation braid? The ‘don’t mess with me or I’ll stab you’ one?”

“…Maybe.”

She gives him a real lesson, surprisingly thorough. She talks while braiding— about Dokja-hyung, about how the silence in the city feels like a hole too big to patch.

“He used to do dumb little things like this, y’know,” she says. “Take care of people when they weren’t looking. You remind me of him, sometimes.”

He pretends he doesn’t hear.

—

Finally, Persephone invites him into a quiet, candlelit room. Her lair is full of old tapestries and flowers that never wilt.

“My darling boy,” she coos, cupping his face. “Learning the ancient art of care…! How beautiful.”

“I’m not your grandson.”

“You are now.”

She teaches him an intricate braid she claims comes from a line of queens who used to crown themselves with woven flowers. He listens, despite himself.

“In ancient times,” she tells him, “a braid was a way to preserve a piece of someone. A prayer in each knot. An oath not to forget.”

He hesitates, voice quiet. “I’m afraid I will.”

She presses a warm hand to his shoulder. “Then tie your memory into every strand. And even if he never wakes, even if she never says thank you, the memory will be in your fingers.”

She has silken wigs of every color, and teaches him delicate lace braids—intricate, precise.

“You must braid with intention,” she says, voice low. “With hope. Otherwise, it’ll fall apart.”

“Hope,” he repeats. “What for?”

“That the world will keep going. That we will keep going.”

She cups his cheek one last time and whispers, “Tell Yoosung he doesn’t need to wake up to be proud of her.”

—

Even with all that, something still feels off. The tension of his fingers. The shape of it.

He grits his teeth and does what he swore he wouldn’t.

The man answers with a frown. “What?”

“I need your help.”

“Unlikely.”

“…With braiding hair.”

Joonghyuk stares.

“You know,” Gilyoung says flatly, “for someone with the emotional depth of a rock, you braid hair pretty well. I know you know how. Yoo Mia said you do it for her.”

A pause.

“Why?”

“Because Kim Dokja can’t. And she’s waiting.”

“…Fine.”

He shows him once. Then twice. Then again, correcting the posture of his fingers, the pull of the strands.

They don’t talk about Dokja.

They don’t have to.

The silence is reverent.

Gilyoung copies. He makes mistakes. Joonghyuk corrects him with a nod, a brush of fingers.

They speak only once.

Joonghyuk says, “He would have liked this.”

Gilyoung just nods once and walks away.

But his hands, this time, don’t shake.

When Lee Gilyoung returns, he finds Yoosung on the roof, hair in a messy ponytail, swatting at mosquitoes.

“I’m cutting it,” she announces.

“No, you’re not,” he cuts her off.

She glares. “Oh, and why not?”

“Because I’m going to braid it.”

She blinks. Then laughs. “You? Seriously?”

“Sit down, or I’m shaving your head.”

She sits.

It’s quiet as he works. His fingers move carefully. She doesn’t squirm.

“This is weird,” she mutters.

“You’re weird.”

He finishes without another word. Ties it off. Stands. Leaves.

She touches her hair, surprised by the neatness. The way it feels like something steady. Something kind.

Later, when she visits Kim Dokja again, she doesn’t say much. Just sits beside him.

The braid rests over her shoulder.

“See?” she murmurs. “You don’t have to worry.”

Outside, the world moves on.

Inside, in this room, something still waits.

And for now, that’s enough.

[ written by: Calypso Reverie🥀 ]

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