99
Returning to Chosan — The Road of Spring
Once we left Gaegyeong behind, the air changed.The residue of war, drink, and vigilance washed away together.In its place came a wind carrying the warmth of earth.
Along the roadside, willow branches were sprouting pale green buds.The frozen rice paddies had thawed, water lapping softly, the sky reflected clearly on their surface.It was a cloudless, open sky.
Park Seong-jin loosened the reins and moved forward at an unhurried pace.The tension that had long been lodged in his hands quietly drained away.Until passing through the city gates, it felt as though the smell of armor might follow him—but now only the sound of hooves remained on the road.
People were traveling along the way.Merchants bound for the market, farmers preparing for spring planting, dogs still half-asleep from winter.They watched the passing riders with loose, unburdened gazes.
Only then did he realize it:the world had never stopped.
While he had been gone, it had not once paused.Even as fighting continued, someone had gone to market, cooked meals, given birth, worked the soil.War was only a part of the world.
Crossing a ridgeline, Chosan (草山) appeared in the distance.Unmelted snow lingered in silver patches,and below them the fields were drawing breath again.
That was home.
The path he had run along as a child,the embankment where his mother gathered wild greens in spring,the back hill where his older brother went to cut firewood.Everything stood in its place.
As he entered the village, spring sunlight settled quietly on the tiled roofs.Alleys once thick with dust now seemed unusually narrow.Laughter, the sound of jar lids being set down, the scent of sun-dried greens brushed past his nose.
The scene felt unfamiliar.
At the village entrance, the heavy smell of smoke rose.The scent of a fire kindled in the hearth.The moment he breathed it in, his eyes burned.
Only then did the air of the battlefield finally wash away.
"Seong-jin!"
He stopped before the gate.From beyond the threshold came the sound of a dipper falling, followed by his mother's voice.Time stretched long.
"Mother."
When he pushed the door open, the smell of the house he had been born into surged all at once.Damp wood, ash and smoke, the deep scent of aged soybean paste layered together.
His mother slowly lifted her head.
"Seong-jin…?"
She dropped the dipper she was holding, walked over, stared at him for a long moment,then pulled him into her arms.
"You came back alive, you fool…"
Her voice trembled.
Only then did something deep in his chest finally settle.Her hands traced his face.He dismounted and buried his face against her,and the cold stiffness in his fingers gradually loosened.
No words came.
The crackling of the hearth fire,the crowing of chickens,children running and shouting,his mother's breathing—all of it merged into a single current of sound.
The house was different from before.
The room his brother had used was empty.Only an old brush and sheets of paper remained on the desk.
He sat before it.
Sunlight filtered through the rafters,dust shimmering within the light.Silence filled the room.
That silence lingered in his body for a long time.
From the backyard, his mother's voice called out.
"Come eat."
At those words, his body moved before thought.He rose and crossed the yard.
When the pot lid was lifted, steam surged upward.Salt, soybean paste, familiar scents spread together.
Breathing it in, a laugh slipped out.On the battlefield, the smell of blood had filled his nose;now it was the scent of broth.
He sat at the table with his sisters, awkwardly returned,and lifted a spoonful to his mouth.The heat traveled from his tongue down his throat.
In that flow, reality rose to meet him.
I have come back.
Only then did he remove the inner armor he had worn beneath his clothes—the eomsimgap given to him by Gong Wang Pil-sun.He thought of finding a way to send his regards to the man.Beyond duty, he needed to convey his heart.
When he handed his mother the silver flask he had received from Hwang Hyeon-pil,clear moisture fell from her eyes.
He could guess what it meant—a silver flask received with a child's life as collateral, now returned in another form.Its light lingered briefly on the floor.
Had his father and brother stood in the same place?In the same moment, weighing the hearts of those left behind?
The Absence of an Older Brother
Night deepened.The fire in the yard had gone out, and only breathing remained inside the house.
Unable to sleep, Park Seong-jin turned over.The bedding felt unfamiliar.On the battlefield, it had always been a rough, thin blanket, cold to the touch.
Here, the quilt was light and soft, allowing his body to sink slowly.
He stared up at the ceiling.The rafters blurred together in the darkness.It took time to realize their shape was exactly as it had been in childhood.
His hand moved beneath the pillow.
The space was empty.
His brother had always hidden a small knife without a sheath beneath his pillow.Whether lying down at night or reading before dawn,it was a place his hand could reach without looking.
"Just in case,"his brother would say, smiling.
Park Seong-jin stayed like that for a while.He did not withdraw his hand—caught by the sensation that it might still be there.
Outside, the wind blew.The doors of the wooden hall trembled slightly, then stilled.
In the past, his brother would have risen first.
"Close the door,"he would mutter sleepily, half complaining.
But the room remained silent.
He sat up.Carefully, he opened the door.
The wooden floor was cold,the grain pressing clearly into the soles of his feet.
He stood before his brother's room.The door was half open, as always.
Inside, it was dark.
As his eyes adjusted, objects emerged one by one.The desk.The brush holder.An inkstone left mid-grind.
Everything was in place.
That neatness felt strange.His brother had never been orderly.Books were usually stacked half-read,papers left hanging off the edge of the desk.
Now, nothing lingered at the edges.
Park Seong-jin stepped closer to the desk.He reached out and touched the spine of a book.A thin layer of dust clung to his fingers.
The sensation felt oddly heavy.
He pulled one book out.He expected to see his brother's handwriting first—assumed there would be at least a line of notes.
There was nothing left on the page.
He returned the book to its place, carefully,so it would not make a sound.
He did not know where that carefulness came from—as if worried he might wake someone.
Leaving the room, he avoided stepping on the threshold.He remembered how his brother used to sit there to put on his shoes.
Standing at the edge of the wooden floor, he paused.The inside of his chest slowly cooled.
It was a chill different from the cold of the battlefield.Tears did not well up as they had in war.
Instead, each breath brought the sensation of emptiness—as if walking through a house where the space one person had occupied remained untouched.
He returned to his room and lay down.He pulled the quilt around himself.
When he closed his eyes, his brother's voice brushed past him—yet the room held its silence.
That silence conveyed more than words ever could.
Park Seong-jin lay there, doing nothing,enduring the night of his home for the first time.