BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Bield✿ (Kim Taehyung/V)

Y/n

When your great-aunt died, she left you a house.

No one had lived in it for years—not since she disappeared. Not passed away. Disappeared. The lawyers called it abandoned property, but her will said otherwise: To my niece, I leave the house on Beech Street. It has only one room. Do not be afraid.

It was the kind of thing you expected from her. A little odd, a little poetic, a little like her love for jasmine tea and antique mirrors. So you went.

The house was old but intact. Two stories. Blue shutters. A porch swing that creaked like it had stories to tell.

You stepped inside with your heart in your throat.

It was exactly as she said. No matter which door you opened—bedroom, kitchen, closet—there was only one room. The same room. Every door led back to it.

A sitting room, to be exact. One armchair, one standing lamp, one window with sheer white curtains. Wood floors, worn rug, a fireplace. Simple, timeless.

You ran in circles trying to make sense of it. But the math didn’t work. The house was larger from the outside. You should’ve been able to walk into five rooms.

You didn’t leave that first night. You couldn’t. You were too curious. You slept on the floor of the only room, the lamp flickering gently.

When you woke up, the room had changed.

---

It was still the same room. But…

The wallpaper had turned soft green. The armchair was now velvet, wine-colored. The rug had changed patterns—delicate birds and vines. And in the fireplace sat a small crackling fire.

You blinked hard. Touched things. Real. Warm.

You thought, Maybe I’m dreaming.

But it kept happening.

Each night, you slept. Each morning, the room was different. Sometimes subtle changes—a new painting, a radio playing a song you hadn’t heard in years. Sometimes wild—a storm outside, with flashes of lightning dancing against the window, or the smell of cinnamon and pine like it was Christmas morning.

You began writing it all down.

You called it: The Room Log.

---

Day 5: The room has books today. Hundreds. I recognize none of them, but they’re in my handwriting.

Day 9: There’s a mirror above the fireplace. I see myself—but older? My reflection is smiling.

Day 13: The room smells like rain and oranges. There’s a jazz record spinning. No record player in sight.

Day 18: There’s a man sitting in the armchair.

---

He had soft brown hair. Sleep-rumpled. A loose shirt, collar open. Bare feet.

He blinked at you, then rubbed his eyes. "You're not a dream?"

You laughed nervously. "I was about to ask the same."

"I was in my studio," he said. "I fell asleep on the couch. Now I’m here."

He stood. Tall. Gentle. Not scared—just confused. His voice had a quiet music to it.

"Taehyung," he said, offering a hand.

You took it. Told him your name. His fingers were warm.

You both looked around the room.

"It changes," you said.

"I know," he whispered. "I’ve been dreaming of this place since I was a kid. I thought it was imaginary."

---

You stayed in the room together that day. Talking. Comparing dreams. His stories matched yours.

"The rug turned into a field once," he said. "I could feel the wind in the grass."

You told him about the books. The mirror. The songs that vanished.

That night, you both stayed. There was only one blanket. He let you have it.

"I’ll take the floor," he said. "But I might talk in my sleep."

You smiled. "Just don’t snore."

---

The next morning, he was gone.

The room was empty again.

Your heart clenched in your chest. Had you imagined him?

But then you saw it—on the fireplace mantle. A napkin.

If I can find my way back, I will. —T

---

You waited. Days passed. The room changed. But no Taehyung.

Then, on the seventh morning, he was there.

Sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, humming.

"I found you again," he said.

You threw a pillow at him.

"Took you long enough."

He grinned.

And from then on, the house began to change.

---

It stopped being just a mystery. It became a rhythm.

You. Him. The room. The variations. The days you woke up together, and the days you had to wait. You started leaving notes for each other. Sharing poems. Telling secrets.

He told you about the time he almost gave up painting.

You told him about the time you almost stopped believing in anything.

He looked at you like a revelation.

You looked at him like a promise.

---

One day, you found a second door.

It hadn’t been there before. It was made of dark wood, with a brass handle shaped like a bird.

"Should we open it?" he asked.

You both stood there, hand in hand.

"What if it ends everything?" you whispered.

"What if it starts something?" he said.

You looked at him. At the boy who had appeared like a dream, and stayed like a sunrise.

"Then we’ll walk through it," you said.

Together.

And you did.

The room didn’t vanish. It expanded. Into hallways and kitchens and balconies and gardens. Into memories and laughter and arguments over who gets the last cookie. Into love.

Into home.

Because the truth was never about the room.

It was about who found you inside it.

A/n: Hi🙂