Days passed.
Then more days passed.
And Saō Hyun… stopped counting them.
At first, he woke every morning waiting for something bad.
A sound. A scream. Blood.
But the small cabin did not scream.
It only… breathed.
Three months had passed since he first opened his eyes to a small fire and a girl sitting beside it. Three months without the sound of a sword. Without the word "kill." Without his name being called so he could run.
In the first days, he did not speak.
He sat by the wall, his back pressed against the wood, his eyes following every movement. Even when Ara laughed, his body tensed. He thought laughter always came before pain.
But the pain… did not come.
Jon left at dawn. He carried a simple spear and a worn leather pouch. He was not tall, nor broad-shouldered, but there was steadiness in his steps — the steadiness of a man who knows the forest. He spoke little and did much.
In the first week, Saō Hyun followed him without being asked.
He did not say, "I will help."
He did not say anything at all.
He simply followed.
Jon looked at him, then at the foot that still dragged a little. He said, "Stay close."
That was the first sentence Saō Hyun ever heard from him.
Hunting was not heroism. It was not combat. It was long waiting, cold, and silence. And Saō Hyun was good at silence.
He carried the wood. Cleaned the prey. Dragged what was heavier than his small body.
And when he hurt, he did not speak.
Jon noticed. But he did not ask.
And inside Saō Hyun, a strange feeling was born: to help without being tested.
Ara was different.
She cleaned the cabin every morning. Wiped the floor. Patched the holes in the walls. Rearranged the few things as if they were many.
At first, she did not let him touch anything. She was afraid it would break. Or that he would disappear.
But one day, she handed him a piece of cloth and said, "If you spill the water… wipe it."
That was his first task.
With time, he wiped. Then swept. Then helped her fix the roof when the rain leaked in.
She did not speak much. But she looked at him when he succeeded. And when he failed… she tried again with him.
Saō Hyun did not understand why. He thought people screamed when you made mistakes.
One night, he asked her in a soft voice, "Why don't you get angry?"
She looked at him for a long time. Then she said, "Because you are trying."
He did not understand the sentence. But it stayed in his chest.
In the second month, he began to laugh.
Not a full laugh. Just a longer breath than usual. Or a small smile that did not quite find its way to his face.
Once, when Jon slipped into the mud while hunting, a sound escaped Saō Hyun.
A short, startled laugh.
He froze.
He raised his hands to his mouth. Looked at Jon, afraid of punishment.
But Jon… laughed too.
He laughed loudly and said, "You should have been more careful."
That night, Saō Hyun did not sleep easily. His heart hurt — but not from fear.
From something else.
By the third month, the cabin was no longer a temporary place.
He knew the sound of the wind inside it. The sound of the fire when it faded. The sound of Ara's steps when she woke at night.
He knew when Jon would return from hunting. When he would be tired. When he should be left with silence.
One evening, the three of them sat by the fire.
Ara cooking. Jon repairing his spear. And Saō Hyun… watching.
He thought: If I stay here… will the past disappear?
Then he thought: If it disappears… will I still be me?
He said nothing.
But by the fire, he felt something he had not felt in a very long time.
It was not complete safety. Nor peace.
It was simply: the absence of screaming.
And three months without screaming were enough for Saō Hyun to know:
That wounds do not heal.
But sometimes… they stop bleeding.