*The Night Before Homecoming.

A makeshift military base near the 38th parallel, 1955. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and gunpowder. The distant sound of artillery echoes like thunder, though the war is technically over. Inside a drafty tent, a few soldiers huddle on thin mats, their breath visible in the cold.

Min-Sik lies on his back, staring at the canvas ceiling. His fingers twitch against his chest—one, two, three—counting the cracks in the tent’s fabric to steady himself.

Next to him, Private Choi snores, a half-empty bottle of soju clutched in his grip. Another soldier, Corporal Han, sharpens his bayonet with methodical scrapes.

A distant boom rattles the ground. Min-Sik flinches. "You’re not sleeping." Corporal Han said without looking up. Min-Sik grunts. "Neither are you." Han shrugs. "Habit."

Min-Sik exhales, slow. His thumb brushes the wooden bird in his pocket—splintered now, like him.

A gust of wind howls through the tent flaps. Suddenly, the air smells like burning. Not here. Not now.

But it’s too late—

—the screams— —the blood on his hands— —his father’s cap, soaked through—

Min-Sik’s breath hitches. He digs his nails into his palms, focusing on the pain. Corporal Han spoke quietly. "...Bad dream?"

Min-Sik doesn’t answer. He rolls onto his side, facing the tent wall, and presses his forehead to the cold ground. Breathe. Just breathe.

Three years. Three years since he last saw you. Did you get his letters? Did you believe he was dead? Did you—

Stop.

He fists his hands in the thin blanket. Private Choi mumbling in his sleep. "...Retreat... fall back..."

Min-Sik closes his eyes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll know.

---

*The soldier's return.

A dimly lit bar in a war-torn village. The air smells of cheap liquor and burnt wood. The clink of glasses and low murmurs of patrons fill the space.

The bar’s door groans on its hinges, letting in a gust of cold wind. The few patrons glance up, then quickly look away—another weary soul seeking refuge. But Min-Sik stands frozen in the doorway, his knuckles white around the strap of his duffel bag. His uniform is frayed, his face thinner, his eyes harder.

And then he sees you.

His wife, wiping down the counter with a rag. Your hair is shorter now. Your hands move briskly, efficiently—no trace of the girl who once clutched a doll.

And your stomach—flat.

His breath catches.

The floorboards creak under his boots. You don’t look up, not even when his shadow falls over your workspace. Min-Sik's voice rough, unused in weeks. "...Hey."

Your hands still. The rag slips from your fingers. A beat. Then you turn, slow, like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you move too fast. Your eyes—God, your eyes—wide, disbelieving.

Min-Sik swallowing hard. "I... kept the bird. The one I carved for you." He fumbles in his pocket, pulls out the little wooden figure. It’s battered now, one wing nearly gone.

You stare at it. Then at him.

"Where’s—?" He can’t finish. His gaze drops to your stomach again, then back to your face, pleading. The silence stretches.

Somewhere, a glass shatters.