They sat together at the edge of the wooden floor, watching the sun sink.Sunlight cooled slowly as it slid along the ridges of the rice paddies.The heavy heads of grain bowed, swaying gently in the wind.
Park Seong-jin reached out and pressed his palm lightly against a sack of grain.It was firm.A weight that was not hollow.
Heavier than a sword, more real than a shield.In the mountains, his breath had grown light.Back home, the world had weight again—something he could hold.
Could he carry this weight and return to the mountain?Or was it because of this weight that he had to descend?
His mother spoke."Eat before you go."
She had not said it aloud, but she already knew he would leave.He could not answer.Neither I will go nor I will stay would come out of his mouth yet.
But he understood one thing.Each sack of grain was a name calling him back.A son returned from war.The holder of a soldier's allotment.And a man whose story was not yet finished.
When the sun disappeared completely, a lamp was lit inside the house.Seong-jin looked at the glow and steadied his breath once more.This time, not the breath of the mountain—but the breath that passes between people.
*
"I was on Mount Guwol.They called me to deploy."
As the words fell, the air in the room paused."So you leave the moment we meet again."
His mother's voice was low.Its echo lingered.
Seong-jin bowed his head without speaking.His chest tightened.Heat rose from the middle of his throat.
"I'm sorry, Mother."
She answered calmly."There's nothing to apologize for.If a man has chosen a path, he should walk it to the end."
Old worry pooled inside her words.The sense that this road might be the last.A fear never spoken aloud.
Seong-jin knew it.He knew how easily all resolve could crumble.And yet, his mother always said the same thing.Do your best.Go as far as you can.
Not because the end was known—but because it was not.
His eyes fell on the sacks of grain.There were many.Far more than twice last year's amount.
His mother said,"There's too much."
Seong-jin said nothing.He could guess how this grain had arrived here.It was not reward—it was the weight of tears someone else had shed in his place.
The realization pressed against his chest.His breath caught.His emotions finally gave way.
He embraced his mother tightly.Her clothes carried the scent of his childhood.The weight of years clung to her as well.
After a while, he called the elder who had carried the grain.The old man bowed deeply.
"Thank you.I'm heading out again.Please look after things while I'm gone."
The man pressed his palms together."This grain was given to one who fights for the nation.It won't be wasted.If you have the chance, come visit the fields—our home as well."
"I went once when I was young.I know the way."
The old man smiled faintly.A soldier who speaks like that is still young.
"Please come.""When this campaign ends, I will."
Seong-jin went to the storage room and wrapped the ginger he'd received from the last expedition."Please share this."
"How could I accept something so precious—"
But Seong-jin placed it in his hands without a word.
As he left, his mother said,"Take care of your body.May the mountain keep you alive, and the heavens watch over you."
Seong-jin bowed deeply.
Mounting his horse, he looked back once more from the edge of the yard.His mother was still standing on the porch.Chaff clung to her fingertips.
When he set out, an early spring wind swept across the distant fields.He stopped by Wang Pil-sun's trading house to pay his respects, but the man was away.Leaving word behind, he gathered supplies for the campaign.Nothing unnecessary.
Biting cold.Hunger that food could not fully answer.Damp earth-energy.Clothes and gear soaked by snow and rain.No matter how much one prepares, something is always missing.
His body already knew.The boundary between what was needed and what was not.
A wooden handle carved at home.Fur-lined boots sewn by hand.The bamboo tube Yi-wol-gun had left behind.
He bought one more heavy cloak.Two extra scarves.Flint and a waterproof pouch.Dried rations tightly bound and loaded onto the saddle.Leather wraps and a straw raincoat layered over them.
A short knife.A small axe.
The load grew quickly.Carry too much, and movement slows.The equipment issued by the state was always barely sufficient.
Because the lists were written by hands that had never seen the field.
Seong-jin urged his horse forward.Below the road, mist was slowly lifting.The mountain wind followed behind him.
Within that wind,Yi-wol-gun's final words remained, clear and steady.
"Flow. Do not stop."