The Last Fallen Star, Graci Kim [books to read in your 20s .TXT] 📗

The scent of a tonic is thick in the air—something warm and sweet and cinnamon-y that reminds me of the hotteok rice pancakes Appa makes on Saturday mornings (hands down my favorite meal). I take a good sniff, and I’m pretty sure it’s the nectar Eomma gets from her Tokki supplier in New York. The infuser supposedly sources it from some old Greek dudes who work out of the Empire State Building, and the stuff really works. Took a sip once after I fell off my bike, and my cuts and bruises healed like they were never there.

“Mong and I will keep the coast clear,” Emmett says, taking a seat at the reception desk in front of the shelves of dried herbs and roots in apothecary jars. Mong, thinking he’s the size of a Chihuahua, promptly jumps up onto Emmett’s lap, causing my friend to disappear behind an explosion of white fur. “But keep your phones on. I’ll text you if I see anything suspicious out here.”

Hattie and I enter Eomma’s consultation room. A sigh of relief escapes my lips when we crouch down and pull back the black drapery to reveal a discreet wooden box in the corner.

The ancient wood is covered with a tawny lacquer that makes it almost look wet, and shiny brass cutouts of suns and moons decorate its front. The box gives off a slightly mildewed, nutty smell, and as I run my hand along it, coldness seeps into the pads of my fingers.

“Wow,” Hattie breathes. “It’s beautiful up close, isn’t it?”

“You, old wooden box, might just change our lives today,” I say to the safe, and I feel something flutter inside my belly.

I take the tissue out of my pocket and unwrap Eomma’s lock of hair. The clipping is dark and curly and thick. Hattie gingerly passes the vial of tears to me.

“You ready?” I whisper, even though no one can hear us.

Hattie nods. “It’s now or never.”

I dip one end of the hair into the tears and use a matchstick to light the other end on fire. It catches easily, and I drop it into the vial. The flame goes out, but not before my nostrils are filled with a terrible stench.

“Ugh, that’s gross.” Hattie cringes.

I carefully spread the smoke from the vial over the full face of the safe, making sure to get all the edges and corners. Hattie passes me her phone and, looking down at the various passwords we’ve brainstormed, I start chanting them out loud, one by one.

“Gom, Gom, Gom.” (Way too obvious, but worth a try.)

“Gimchi jjigae. Gimchi jjigae. Gimchi jjigae.” (Eomma’s favorite food.)

“Mong. Mong. Mong.” (Eomma’s third child.)

“Jeju Island. Jeju Island. Jeju Island.” (Where Eomma was born.)

“Stairway to Heaven. Stairway to Heaven. Stairway to Heaven.” (Eomma’s favorite K-drama.)

I continue to chant the possible passwords—we even try our names—but my shoulders get tenser and my voice gets shakier with each unsuccessful attempt. Eventually, we run out of words and the safe remains closed.

“The smoke’s almost gone.” Hattie frowns. “What else could it be?”

“Hmm…” I feel frustration bubbling up my throat, but before I give in to it, I close my eyes and put myself in Eomma’s shoes. What would she consider strong and important enough to protect her safe? “What if it isn’t a word or name?” I think out loud. “What if it’s a saying? Like one of those motivational quotes people post on Insta?” It suddenly comes to me. “Wait, that’s it! The clan motto. It has to be.” It’s the phrase she lives by. “Okay, here goes nothing. Service and Sacrifice. Service and Sacrifice. Service and Sacrifice.”

There’s a wooden pop! from the safe, and suddenly, the intricate brass cutouts start to move as if they are doing a choreographed dance. We both gasp as the suns and moons twist and turn and rearrange themselves on the wooden face until, finally, all but four of the cutouts remain. They lock into vertical formation—moon, sun, sun, moon—completing the symbol of the gifted. Then the whole front side of the safe swings open like a door.

“Rye, we did it!” Hattie hugs me tight and grins. Or at least I’m pretty sure she grins. I can’t be certain, because tears have welled in my eyes, making everything blurry. And yes, happy tears are a thing.

Squatting on shaky knees, I peek inside. The interior is smaller than I expected—about the size of our microwave. But sure enough, next to Hattie’s Gi is the spellbook containing all our family’s healing spells, perfected and collected over generations.

My hand gravitates toward the precious volume like a moth to light, and I pull it out. I stroke its soft brown leather cover as Eomma’s words echo in my ears. Our family spellbook isn’t just a book, girls. It’s a private conversation with the divine, connecting us right back to our ancestor, the Cave Bear Goddess. It is a privilege.

I hesitate, my hand hovering over the book like an ominous storm cloud. What would Eomma say if she could see me right now…?

“Go on,” Hattie whispers. “Open it.”

That’s all the encouragement I need. I eagerly turn the front cover, anticipation sparking in my fingers. If we’re right, the magic-sharing spell is hiding somewhere within these pages.

My eyes gaze hungrily down at the first page.

Blank.

I turn another page.

Blank.

“What the…?” I flip more pages, only to find more emptiness. “I don’t…I can’t…” My throat starts to feel tight, and I pick up the spellbook with both hands, flipping the pages back and forth with greater urgency. But no matter what I do, they remain empty.

“Maybe we need to activate it somehow,” Hattie says. “Here, let me have a look.”

I place it in her hands, and immediately the spellbook starts making a soft murmuring sound. Slowly but surely, cursive Korean letters appear on the pages. First, they’re just smudges, appearing in little smears like Nutella stains. But then they spread and grow, until each of the empty pages is filled to the brim with words and symbols.

Hattie looks