The sun was cruel that morning.
Too bright. Too exposed.
Tae-Jun sat with his back against the wall, breathing slowly. His fever hadn't left. But his mind was clear enough to know one thing:
He was still alive.
---
The boy was drawing something in the dirt with a stick. Circles. Lines. Then he'd stop, stare at it, and erase it with his boot.
Tae-Jun watched.
Maybe he was trying to map the terrain.
Or maybe he was just bored.
The silence wasn't heavy today. It was… waiting. Like the wind before a storm.
Tae-Jun opened his notebook again.
He didn't plan to write much.
Just a few words.
Something simple.
But when his pen touched the page, it poured out.
---
> Entry Five.
When I was ten, I used to lie under the bed during storms. Not because I was afraid of thunder. I liked the idea that the world was ending outside… but I was still safe somewhere small.
War feels the same. Except now, there's no bed. No roof. Just the storm.
And this boy. This stranger.
I think he's scared too. Or maybe I'm just projecting. Maybe I want someone else to be afraid, so I don't feel alone.
---
He didn't notice the boy standing until a shadow fell over the page.
Tae-Jun looked up, startled.
The boy crouched.
Pointed to the notebook.
Then to himself.
Tae-Jun hesitated.
Then, slowly, he tore out one page — not the one he had just written, but a previous one.
The one that began:
> Dear Jae-min…
He handed it over.
The boy took it gently. Sat down. And began to read.
His lips moved silently, tracing each line.
He read slowly.
Carefully.
Until the end.
Then… he folded the page and gave it back.
No words. No reaction.
But he didn't walk away.
He sat there.
Beside him.
Closer than ever before.
Twenty steps now. Maybe less.
---
That night, for the first time, Tae-Jun slept without his rifle in his hands.