Chapter Text
Jimin held tightly onto his father's hand, his small fingers barely wrapping around the larger, rough ones. His dark brown eyes wandered over the familiar path, yet everything seemed different today. The fields stretched out like a patchwork quilt of green and gold, leading slowly toward the dark, whispering edge of the forest that bordered his grandfather's village. On the far side, he could just glimpse the glimmer of the sea, its waves crashing softly against the shore. His dark brown hair, tousled by the morning breeze, brushed against his forehead.
"Are we there yet?" he asked, his voice small, almost swallowed by the soft rustle of the wind through the trees.
His father chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made Jimin feel safe, even though the forest ahead seemed vast and mysterious. "Almost, little one. Just a little further."
Jimin squinted at the forest and the distant blue of the sea. He remembered coming here before, though only in fragments—his grandmother laughing as she shook flour from her hands, the smell of bread baking in the small stone oven, the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth. But those memories were like clouds: soft, fleeting, impossible to hold onto. He could barely picture her face, could barely hear her voice.
Now, the forest seemed quieter, older, heavier somehow. The trees leaned toward the path, their trunks rough and gnarled, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts in the wind. He shivered just a little, feeling the coolness brush his bare arms. And beyond the trees, the smell of the sea—salt and seaweed, wet wood and sand—made him curious. He imagined his grandfather, old and weathered, pulling nets from the water, the smell of fish clinging to his hands.
He liked these trips. They were rare, moments stolen from ordinary days in the village, moments when he could walk beside his father and feel like he was part of something bigger. A story, maybe. One where his grandfather waited, sitting in the quiet house at the edge of the forest, surrounded by memories of people Jimin barely remembered.
"Do you think Grandpa will be happy to see me?" he asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice.
His father squeezed his hand gently. "Of course he will. You're his grandson, Jimin. He's been waiting for you."
Jimin nodded, a little smile curling on his lips. Still, a fluttering feeling lingered in his stomach—the one that always came whenever he entered somewhere new, somewhere bigger than he had imagined. He looked up at the sky, watching clouds drift lazily like soft boats, and wondered if the house at the end of this path would feel the same as before.
The further they walked, the closer the forest seemed to grow, the shadows stretching longer, thicker, as if the trees themselves were watching. And the sound of the sea, distant but steady, whispered against the wind, mingling with the earthy smell of moss and wet leaves. Jimin imagined the wind telling stories, secrets that only children could understand. He remembered a faint memory of running through the garden with his grandmother, her voice soft and laughing. That memory made him wish, just for a moment, that she were still there.
But it was just him now, and his father, and the path that led through fields, forests, and toward the edge of the sea, to a house that had always felt a little like magic. Jimin's small hand tightened around his father's again. Maybe he didn't remember everything, but he remembered enough. Enough to feel the pull of the forest, the pull of the sea, the pull of the old house, and the pull of the stories waiting quietly inside.
The path narrowed as they entered the forest, the tall trees leaning toward each other like old friends sharing secrets. Jimin's small feet crunched over fallen leaves and twigs, sending tiny echoes through the quiet woods. Every now and then, a bird flitted from branch to branch, startling him, and he squeaked softly before his father chuckled. The air smelled of wet earth, moss, and pine, with a faint, salty tang from the sea somewhere beyond the trees. Jimin lifted his face to the sunlight that peeked through the leaves, letting it warm his cheeks, and he felt a little thrill run through him.
"Look!" he whispered, pointing at the sunlight spilling in thin golden stripes across the path. "They look like dancing people."
His father smiled down at him. "They are just shadows, little one. But maybe they are dancing just for you."
Jimin giggled, pressing his small hand tighter into his father's. The forest didn't seem as scary now. He noticed the way the wind made the leaves sway and whisper, almost like they were talking to him. He imagined the trees bending closer to hear, their branches creaking softly in the breeze. Somewhere ahead, beyond the thick trees, he could hear the steady, soothing sound of the waves brushing against the shore. The forest felt alive, and he felt alive too—more awake than he ever felt in his own village.
As they walked, the trees began to thin, and the distant glimmer of the sea caught his eye. The blue stretched beyond the forest, endless and bright, with waves breaking quietly along the shore. The scent of salt and seaweed grew stronger, mixing with the earthy smell of the forest. Jimin imagined his grandfather standing by the edge of the water, pulling in nets heavy with fish, the smell of the sea clinging to him like a cloak. He remembered—just a little—the sound of his grandfather's laugh, deep and rough, carrying over the waves.
Finally, the forest opened to reveal the village. Jimin's heart fluttered. There it was—the old house, small and made of grayish stone, the roof patched with dark wood. Smoke rose lazily from the chimney, curling into the pale morning sky. The garden stretched before the house, quiet and empty now, the flowers bowing under the weight of time. He remembered running through this garden once, though only in flashes, chasing butterflies and feeling the warmth of his grandmother's voice calling after him.
"Almost there," his father said, squeezing his hand gently.
Jimin's stomach twisted in anticipation. He could see the small wooden boat leaning against the shed, the piles of nets his grandfather had used, the rocking chair by the window where someone had once sat. Everything felt bigger, quieter, and heavier than he remembered. He pressed closer to his father, unsure if he was nervous, excited, or a little bit of both.
The door creaked open before they could knock, and the old man appeared. His hair was silver now, and the deep lines on his face told stories of years spent working and waiting. But his eyes lit up as he saw his son and grandson.
"Jimin," he said, his voice warm but rough, like the sea against the rocks. "You've grown."
Jimin felt a strange mixture of relief and shyness. He wanted to run to him, but he also felt like he had to measure the moment carefully. His father stepped back, giving them a quiet moment alone. Jimin took a deep breath, the smells of the forest, the sea, and the old house filling his lungs. He knew, somehow, that this visit would feel different from the ones he barely remembered. Quieter. Full of space and memory. And maybe, just maybe, it would be the start of a story he was only beginning to understand.
The old man's eyes softened, and before Jimin could even step closer, his grandfather opened his arms wide.
"Come here!" he said warmly, scooping the boy into his strong, familiar embrace. The roughness of his hands pressed gently against Jimin's back, and the warmth of his grandfather's body made the boy feel small, safe, and home all at once. He hugged him back instinctively, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his ear, a rhythm both strange and comforting.
When Jimin pulled back slightly, his grandfather's gaze shifted to his father. "And you," he said, his voice catching just a little, "my son. It's been too long." Without hesitation, he pulled his own child into a firm embrace, holding him for a long moment as if trying to make up for lost years. Jimin watched the two of them, a strange mix of pride and tenderness filling his chest.
"Come, come inside," the old man said finally, letting go of both of them. "You must be tired from the walk."
Hand in hand with his father, Jimin stepped over the threshold. The familiar smell of smoke, salt, and old wood greeted him, mingling with the faint sweetness of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The floorboards creaked under his small feet, and he noticed the stacks of books, the jars of spices and seeds, and the tiny seashells his grandfather had collected over the years. A rocking chair by the window swayed slightly, as though it remembered the gentle rocking of days long gone.
Jimin wandered slowly, eyes wide, taking in every detail. On the kitchen counter, small bowls and cups were neatly arranged. In the corner, bundles of fishing nets lay coiled and stiff, reminders of years spent by the sea. Jimin ran a small hand over the rough wood of an old carved boat, imagining the waves crashing against it, the gulls screaming overhead, and his grandfather standing at the edge of the water, pulling nets heavy with fish.
Jimin felt warmth spread through his chest. He could almost see his grandmother's hands dusted with flour, hear her soft laugh, smell the bread baking in the oven. The memories were fleeting, but they were alive enough to make him smile and ache at the same time.
He walked deeper into the house, curiosity pulling him forward. In a small side room, faint light spilled through a narrow window. Jimin paused at the doorway, and his eyes widened. There, on the narrow bed, lay a child—almost his own age—curled beneath a thin blanket. His dark hair was tousled, and at first, Jimin thought he was just sleeping peacefully.
But as he stepped closer, his heart began to pound. The child's face and arms were covered in dark bruises and strange, fading cuts. Purple and red marks mottled his skin, swollen and tender-looking, like someone had beaten him and left him to rest in silence. Jimin's small hand flew to his mouth. His mind spun with fear, confusion, and a terrible curiosity.
"Daddy..." His voice was barely a whisper, trembling.
Jimin's small hand trembled as he stared at the boy lying on the narrow bed, his dark brown eyes wide, tracing the tangled dark hair, the pale face, the bruises and cuts that painted the child's skin like cruel shadows.
Then his father stepped closer, his own dark eyes widening at the sight. His hand clenched for a moment, then relaxed as he whispered, "What... what happened here?"
Jimin flinched. He had never seen his father look so startled, so uncertain.
"Father," his father asked, voice low but urgent, "who is this boy? And... what happened to him?"
The old man's gaze remained calm, steady, and a little sad. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke slowly. "A few days ago, I was out fishing near the cliffs. I saw him... in the water. At first, I thought he was dead. But then... I realized he was alive, though barely. He couldn't move, barely breathing. So I brought him here and have been taking care of him ever since."
Jimin's father swallowed hard, a flicker of suspicion passing through his dark eyes. "You... don't know who he is?"
The grandfather shook his head gently. "No. I don't. He never woke up ever since I found him. I don't know where he came from. Nothing about him gives me a clue."
His father's gaze lingered on the boy, sharp and searching. His mind seemed to churn, suspicion tugging at the edges, but when he looked down at Jimin, clutching his hand and staring wide-eyed, his gaze softened. He gave a slow exhale, as if letting go of the thought for now. "Alright," he said quietly, keeping his tone calm. "We'll leave it for another time. For now... let's not worry the boy."
Jimin's dark brown eyes stayed fixed on the child. He took a cautious step closer, curiosity pulling him forward despite the knot of unease in his stomach. He studied every detail.
The boy's hair was dark and wet in places, sticking to his bruised forehead. His lips were pale and slightly cracked. Tiny scratches lined his cheeks, faintly scabbed over, and there were dark rings under his closed eyes. Jimin noticed the delicate shape of his hands, pale and thin, the way the small fingers twitched occasionally in sleep. His arms were bruised and mottled, but he moved slightly with each shallow breath, fragile yet alive.
Jimin's gaze lingered on the boy's chest, rising and falling slowly, and then drifted to the way the blanket covered his thin body, the folds pressed unevenly, as if the child had been thrown into this world without care. There was something in the stillness of him, something quiet and heavy, that made Jimin's small chest ache.
He studied the boy's face again, noting the subtle arch of his eyebrows, the small nose, the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose that only appeared when the sun caught them through the window. Even in his unconscious state, the boy seemed... different. Strange, mysterious, and utterly alone.
Jimin's mind raced with questions he didn't know how to ask, and yet he couldn't tear his eyes away. He felt a strange pull toward this child, a mix of fear, pity, and something he couldn't name—a curiosity that would not leave him, even as the room remained quiet and heavy around them.
Jimin's small feet shuffled closer to the bed, his dark brown eyes fixed on the boy. The child was still, silent, the faint rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. Jimin's heart thumped painfully in his chest. His small hand hovered above the boy, unsure, trembling. He wanted to touch him—to make sure he was real—but fear wrapped around him like a heavy blanket.
After a long, quiet moment, he slowly lowered his hand, fingertips brushing the boy's cheek. The boy's skin felt hot, burning under Jimin's small touch. His eyes widened in alarm. "Hot..." he whispered to himself, quickly pulling his hand back, his small fingers shaking. A shiver ran down his spine. He hadn't expected that. The child's warmth—too much, too intense—made him gasp softly.
Jimin blinked, staring at the boy again, noticing more details now in the faint light. His small eyes traced the cuts along the arms, the dark bruises, the pale cheeks, and the lips slightly parted as he breathed. And then... something else caught his attention.
Next to the bed, on the small wooden nightstand, lay a tiny black dagger. It was short, narrow, and unlike anything else in the house. The metal was dark, almost absorbing the light, and it seemed to hum quietly in the corner of Jimin's mind. He felt a strange, cold chill brush over him. This wasn't just a tool or a toy—it was something else. Something dangerous. Something that belonged to the boy who was lying in bed.
Jimin's small brow furrowed. Somehow, in the deep, unformed logic of his childhood, he knew: this dagger was the boy's. Somehow, it belonged to him. And though he didn't understand why, a tiny knot of unease twisted in his stomach.
He turned back to the boy again. The child's chest rose and fell slowly, still unconscious, still mysterious. Jimin's gaze lingered, curious and cautious, heart racing as he imagined the boy waking up with that strange black dagger in his hand.
Finally, he carefully reached down with both small hands, adjusting the blanket around the boy. His dark brown eyes traced the boy one last time, taking in the bruises, the cuts, the pale skin, the tangled hair—and that small, impossible dagger.
Satisfied that the boy was at least somewhat comfortable, Jimin stepped back. He pressed his lips together, swallowed the knot of fear and confusion in his chest, and slowly turned toward the door. Quietly, he tiptoed out, leaving the boy to rest.
Outside the room, the comforting smell of smoke and salt welcomed him again. His grandfather was sitting in the rocking chair by the window, the sea light falling across his silver hair. Jimin's small shoulders relaxed a little. He walked over and climbed onto his grandfather's lap, curling up as he often did when he wanted warmth and stories.
"Grandpa," he said softly, resting his head against the older man's chest, "he's... he's hurt."
The old man smiled faintly, stroking Jimin's hair. "I know, little one. But he'll rest now. That's all he can do for now."
Jimin nodded, still thinking of the child, the dagger, the heat of his skin. But for now, he let himself be distracted by his grandfather's calm presence. He talked quietly, asking about fishing, the sea, the nets stacked in the corner, and the small carved boat. He listened to the stories, his imagination painting vivid pictures of waves, gulls, and old nets glinting in the sun.
Even as he laughed softly at one of his grandfather's tales, the image of the boy on the bed lingered in the back of his mind. He didn't understand it all, not yet. But a tiny, unshakable seed of curiosity had taken root in his mind.
.
.
Night had fallen, soft and quiet, over the small village by the sea. The sky was a deep, velvet blue, dotted with faint stars that twinkled like distant lanterns. Jimin's small body felt heavy with exhaustion. He had spent the whole day running, laughing, and listening to his grandfather's stories—his dark brown eyes still sparkling with energy, his hair tousled and sticky from the warm sun.
Finally, his grandfather called from the kitchen, his voice gentle but firm. "Dinner, little one."
Jimin yawned widely, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The stories, the games, the rocking chairs and the smell of the sea—all of it made him feel sleepy in a way that made his eyelids droop. He trudged to the kitchen, following the familiar smell of stew and bread. The warmth of the house wrapped around him, comforting and steady, and for a moment, he almost forgot about the boy in the other room.
But just for a moment.
His grandfather was quietly fussing in the other room as well, carrying a small bowl and a spoon. Jimin followed, curious despite his tiredness. He peeked around the doorway and saw the boy still lying on the bed, pale and motionless. His small eyes flickered to the bruises, the cuts, the tangled hair—and then to the bowl in his grandfather's hand.
"Shh..." his grandfather whispered, brushing a hand over the boy's hair as if to calm him. "Eat a little. It will help you grow stronger."
Jimin watched silently, heart thudding softly. His grandfather gently tried to bring the spoon closer to the boy's lips. The unconscious child did not stir, did not respond. His chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep, but there was no bite, no reaction.
Jimin shifted his weight, his small hand brushing the doorframe. A knot of worry twisted in his stomach. He knew his grandfather was trying, knew the food might help—but the boy seemed so fragile, so far away, as if he belonged to another world entirely.
He noticed the faint way his grandfather's hands shook ever so slightly, the quiet patience in his voice as he coaxed the spoon closer again. "It's okay," the old man murmured. "Just a little... that's enough for now."
Jimin pressed his lips together and tiptoed closer, eyes wide. He wanted to help, to do something, anything—but he was too small, too tired, and unsure of what to do. Instead, he watched. He saw the faint twitch of the boy's fingers as the spoon hovered near his face, the pale lips parting ever so slightly, the faint rise of the chest under the thin blanket.
The dagger lay on the nightstand, glinting dimly in the faint candlelight, a silent, dark presence in the quiet room. Jimin's eyes flicked to it automatically, his small body shivering just a little. Even in the soft, warm glow of the house, it seemed... out of place, dangerous, alive in a way that made him uneasy.
His grandfather sighed softly, setting the bowl down for a moment. "He needs rest first," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Food can wait until he's ready."
Jimin nodded, understanding in his own small, childlike way. He stepped back, rubbing his tired eyes. Even though he was sleepy, he couldn't stop staring at the boy.
Finally, Jimin yawned and backed toward the door. He glanced once more at the boy, his dark brown eyes lingering on the dagger, on the pale face, on the small, fragile hands. Then, reluctantly, he turned and made his way back to the kitchen, where his father was waiting, the warmth of the room a soft counterpoint to the tension in the other room.
The night was quiet, filled only with the soft crackle of the fire, the faint rustle of the trees outside, and the slow, steady rise and fall of the boy's chest in the other room. Jimin's small mind was heavy with questions he didn't yet know how to ask, and as he curled into the chair next to his grandfather, he realized that the boy's presence—silent, mysterious, and wounded—was already leaving a mark on him.
Jimin's eyelids drooped, heavy and slow, His small body relaxed against the older man's steady warmth, the firelight flickering across his tousled dark brown hair. The room smelled of stew, salt, and old wood, comforting and familiar—but the quiet, dimly lit bedroom across the hall whispered to him, reminding him of the pale, bruised boy on the bed.
"Grandpa..." Jimin murmured, his voice barely audible over the soft crackle of the fire. "Will he... be okay?"
The old man's hand stroked his hair, rough but gentle. "He will rest tonight, little one. That's all he needs right now. Rest, and care, and time."
Jimin nodded, though his dark brown eyes drifted to the faint light spilling from the other room, where the boy lay. Even unconscious, he seemed so fragile, so... impossible. And yet, he was alive. That was enough for tonight.
"Now," his grandfather said softly, "let me tell you a story. A story about the sea, and the fishermen, and the little things we find when we are patient enough to look."
Jimin pressed his small hands together, trying to focus, and allowed the warmth of the chair and the low rhythm of his grandfather's voice to carry him.
"Once," the old man began, "there was a boy who loved the sea more than anything else. He would run along the shore at sunrise, chasing the waves, laughing when the gulls flew overhead. The fishermen—like me—would watch him from their boats, smiling at his energy. One day, the boy found something floating in the water, something small and dark. At first, he was scared. But then, he realized it was a wounded bird, and he brought it home, hidden and fragile, hoping to care for it until it could stand on its own..."
Jimin's eyes grew heavier with each word, the story painting pictures in his mind of waves breaking softly on the shore, gulls screeching overhead, and the boy, small and trembling, holding onto something unknown. He imagined the fragile thing resting in a bed somewhere, silent, still, and alive.
His breathing slowed, his dark brown eyes fluttered, and a yawn escaped him. The chair felt warmer, softer, and the gentle rise and fall of his grandfather's chest became a lullaby.
Even as he drifted toward sleep, the image of the boy on the bed lingered in the edges of his mind—the pale face, the bruises, the tangled hair, the small black dagger resting nearby. He didn't understand it yet, couldn't name it, but a quiet unease settled in his chest, mingled with curiosity.
"Sleep now, little one," his grandfather murmured, brushing his hair back. "Tomorrow, we will see what the sea has brought us. For tonight... just sleep."
Jimin's small body finally relaxed completely, the firelight flickering across his face, his dark brown hair falling into his eyes. And in the other room, the boy remained silent, unconscious, the dagger glinting faintly in the dim candlelight. The house was quiet, heavy with mystery, and the night stretched on, soft, secretive, and full of things yet to be revealed.
.
.
Morning light crept softly through the window, spilling over the wooden floorboards and the small chair where Jimin had fallen asleep. The room smelled faintly of salt, wood, and the lingering aroma of the stew from the night before. Jimin stirred, dark brown eyes blinking against the pale light, his small body stretching and yawning.
He glanced toward the other room, his curiosity stirring even before he fully woke. The boy was still there, lying under the thin blanket, quiet and pale—but now, something was different.
Jimin's small hand moved to the doorframe as he stepped closer. He noticed a faint twitch of the boy's fingers, almost imperceptible. Then, the rise and fall of the chest seemed steadier, deeper, more deliberate than last night. His dark brown eyes widened slightly. The boy was moving... slowly, gently, as if testing the world again after being lost in sleep.
Jimin's heartbeat quickened. He tiptoed closer, careful not to make a sound. The boy's eyelids fluttered, and a shallow breath escaped his lips, just enough for Jimin to hear. A soft, almost imperceptible groan followed, and he shifted his head slightly, turning toward the wall.
"Grandpa said he'd be okay..." Jimin whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. "He's... waking up."
He stood there for a long moment, simply watching. Every small movement—the twitch of a finger, the subtle lift of an arm, the shallow breath—made Jimin feel a strange mix of relief and awe. The boy was alive. He was really alive.
The quiet of the morning was punctuated by sounds from outside. Jimin's father wasn't home yet; he had gone to the village earlier, checking on supplies and errands. From the yard, Jimin could hear the faint creak of the wood as his grandfather moved about. Then, the soft clatter of nets and the muted thump of wooden boxes signaled that the old man was preparing for fishing, just as he always did in the early hours.
Jimin's small chest rose and fell quickly, part excitement, part caution. He didn't want to disturb the boy, but he couldn't help inching closer, eyes taking in every small detail of the movement.
The sunlight shifted across the floor, dust motes floating lazily in the air, and Jimin felt the warmth on his face, grounding him, even as the quiet wonder of the boy on the bed filled his mind. He pressed his small hands together, as if to keep the moment safe, to hold the fragile secret of the waking child just there in the morning stillness.
He watched for a few more moments, then, sensing the day beginning outside—the sounds of the village, the faint calls of fishermen, the soft rustle of wind through the trees—Jimin reluctantly stepped back. The boy was waking, slowly and carefully, and Jimin felt both awe and a quiet protectiveness stir within him.
He turned toward the window, watching the yard where his grandfather moved among the nets and boxes, preparing for the day's fishing. Jimin felt oddly hopeful.
He had been sitting there for what felt like forever, though he couldn't tell the time. The morning sun had moved across the sky, filling the room with golden light that dappled the bed and warmed the wooden floor. He had barely blinked, his small hands folded tightly in his lap, watching every subtle twitch of the boy's body, every rise and fall of his chest.
The child's movements were slow at first, almost imperceptible, as if he were testing the world around him before fully returning to it. Jimin leaned closer, his dark brown eyes wide, breath caught in his small chest. He felt a mixture of hope and fear, the two swirling together like leaves in a sudden wind.
Then it happened. The boy's eyelids flickered. One—two—three times. And finally, impossibly slowly, his eyes opened.
Jimin's heart jumped violently in his chest. He instinctively tried to stand, to run and call his grandfather, to share the news. "Grand—Grandpa! He's awake!" The words almost escaped him in a rush, but something stopped him in his tracks. Something so impossible, so overwhelming, that his tiny body froze in place.
The boy's eyes were not normal.
The right eye was like looking into the sea itself. It shimmered with every shade of blue, bright and alive, with tiny movements curling and crashing like real waves captured in a single, glowing orb. Jimin felt as though he could see the ocean moving inside that eye—the ebb of the tide, the froth of waves, the shimmer of sunlight on the water. The beauty of it struck him silent. He could feel the pull of it, wild and free, and his small chest tightened as though he were trying to hold his breath forever.
But the left eye...
It was a void. A blackness so deep, so impossibly dark, that it seemed to swallow the light in the room. The blue pupil glimmered faintly, but the surrounding "white" of the eye had vanished, replaced by an endless, pitch black darkness that felt alive. It wasn't just black—it was an emptiness that hummed in the silence, cold and infinite, and it pressed against Jimin's senses like the weight of a deep, still ocean trench.
For a moment, Jimin couldn't breathe. His small body froze, every muscle stiff, every thought halted. He wanted to scream, to run, to shake his father, anyone, but no sound came. His tongue seemed to have disappeared. He could only stand there, small hands gripping his clothes so tightly that his knuckles ached, eyes locked on the impossible sight before him.
The contrast between the two eyes—the bright, living sea of the right and the consuming, infinite black of the left—made his head spin. It was mesmerizing and terrifying all at once. His heart pounded in his ears, and a strange trembling ran through him, not quite fear, not quite awe, but a combination of everything he didn't know how to name.
Jimin noticed tiny details he hadn't before. The boy's chest rose and fell more steadily now, the faint color returning to his face. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and he brushed it away with a weak movement of his hand. The skin, still marked with bruises and faint cuts, glimmered slightly in the morning sun. And yet, those two eyes dominated everything else.
Time seemed to stretch, slow, and thicken around him. Each second felt like a long eternity as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. He wanted to look away, to close his eyes and pretend it wasn't real, but he couldn't. He was pinned in place, trapped by the impossible, beautiful, terrifying reality of the child lying in the bed before him.
Jimin's chest ached with conflicting emotions. There was fear, that icy claw of terror curling through him. There was awe, a quiet, heavy admiration that left him breathless. There was a strange, trembling curiosity, an insistent whisper in his mind asking who this boy was and what in the world had made him like this.
And through it all, Jimin realized he couldn't move. He couldn't call out. He couldn't even speak. He simply watched, suspended in the quiet morning light, as the boy blinked slowly again, eyes adjusting, chest rising and falling with fragile, living rhythm, and the two impossible eyes—one like the ocean, one like the void—fixed, in a way, upon him.
Jimin didn't know how long he stood frozen like that, staring into those impossible eyes. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, but eventually the fear loosened enough for him to breathe again. He swallowed hard, wiped his sweaty palms against the sides of his pants, and forced his feet to move. Each step was small and hesitant, as though he feared the floorboards might crack under him, or that the boy might vanish if he approached too quickly.
He stopped his movements, studying the boy's face—pale, bruised, strangely calm despite the turmoil inside his eyes. Jimin lifted his hand slowly, giving himself time to pull back if the boy reacted. He just wanted to check if the fever was still there, to know if the boy was okay, or at least getting better. His fingertips hovered above the boy's cheek for several seconds, trembling with uncertainty.
When he finally gathered the courage to touch him—a light, gentle graze barely strong enough to stir a leaf—the reaction was immediate.
The boy jerked back with startling speed, a reflex born of fear rather than strength. His hand shot up and slapped Jimin's wrist away, the movement sharp and clumsy, driven by pure instinct. The sudden strain sent pain through his weakened body, and a low, pained sound escaped his lips—half-gasp, half-whimper—before he collapsed back against the pillows, breathing unevenly.
Jimin stumbled a step backward, startled but more worried than frightened. "No—wait! I'm sorry! Don't be scared!" he blurted, words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I wasn't doing anything bad, I promise. I just wanted to see if your fever was gone."
His voice trembled, the urgency washing over every syllable.
The boy didn't respond. He was watching Jimin carefully, distrust shimmering in the glowing blue of one eye and settling heavily in the dark void of the other. His breaths were shallow, as though he wasn't sure whether to prepare for danger or exhaustion. He held himself very still, tense in a way that didn't belong to children, tense in a way that spoke of survival rather than fear of strangers.
Trying to seem harmless, Jimin slowly lowered himself until he was sitting beside the bed again. He kept his hands in his lap, fingers curled together, showing he wouldn't try to touch him again. The silence stretched between them like a thin thread, delicate and easy to snap.
After a moment, Jimin glanced up at him, gathering his courage once more.
"My name is Park Jimin," he said, speaking softly so as not to startle him again. "This is my grandfather's house. He found you in the sea a few days ago and brought you here because you were hurt and... and not waking up." He hesitated, not wanting to frighten him further. "You've been asleep for a long time."
The boy's expression didn't change much, but his gaze flickered, a small shift that told Jimin he was listening.
Jimin leaned forward just slightly, hopeful.
"Do you... remember anything? Your name? What happened to you?"
Still nothing. Not a single word. Only that strange stare, the ocean and darkness held together in one fragile body.
Jimin felt his throat tighten. He wasn't sure if the boy was refusing to speak, or simply couldn't. Maybe he didn't trust him. Maybe he didn't understand him. Or maybe his memories were lost somewhere far beyond reach.
Trying not to sound scared, Jimin continued softly, "It's okay if you don't want to talk. I won't force you. I just... I want to help you." His voice cracked a little, but he swallowed it quickly. "You don't have to be afraid here."
The boy blinked, and for the first time, his gaze softened—just enough for Jimin to notice. It wasn't trust, not really, but something a little less sharp, a little less ready to run. He shifted weakly, wincing at some internal pain, and for a moment the morning light fell across his eyes again, making the blue flare like sunlight on a restless sea. Jimin felt his breath catch in awe all over again.
Jimin kept talking because silence felt too heavy, and because the boy's strange, impossible eyes made him feel like he needed to fill the air with something—anything—just to keep himself from trembling. He shifted on the edge of the bed, trying to sound calm even though his heart still felt too loud.
"So... my dad isn't here right now," he began softly. "He went to the village early this morning. We needed a few things, and he said he had to buy better rope for the barn since the goats keep escaping." His lips curved into a small, embarrassed smile as he remembered the chaos of last week. "He's not a fisherman like my grandpa. My dad has a little farm, and he spends most of the day taking care of the animals."
He hesitated, then added, "But we don't live here. Not in this village. Our home is farther away—maybe half a day's walk if the road is clear. We only came because..."
His voice softened, the words coming slower. "My grandma passed away recently. And Grandpa... he was alone. Dad thought being here might help him. Help us too, maybe."
The boy didn't respond, but his eyes—the ocean and the void—followed every word.
Encouraged by the quiet attention, Jimin continued.
"I used to visit a lot when I was younger," he said, rubbing his palms anxiously against his pants. "But I don't remember everything clearly. Just little pieces. Grandma's hands, the warm smell of soup in the evenings, the way Grandpa laughed when she scolded him for staying out too long at the seaside."
He let out a small breath and looked at the floor for a moment before pushing himself to talk again.
"Grandpa's outside now," he said, glancing toward the window. "He's getting ready to go down to the sea. I think it helps him feel less lonely. Fishing always made him happy, and it reminds him of Grandma too."
He didn't want the room to sink into sadness, so he quickly shifted to lighter things— about the noisy chickens behind their house, about the neighbor's bossy dog that barked at shadows, about how the wind here sounded different from back home, less sharp, more like it was trying to talk to the trees.
And then he began babbling—really babbling—because the boy still hadn't spoken, and Jimin didn't know how else to make the air feel less tense.
"And—oh!" Jimin's face brightened slightly, trying to keep the conversation light, "last week at our farm, the goats escaped again. I don't know how they do it every time. I was helping Dad feed them, and one minute they were all in the pen, the next minute they were running everywhere, eating the vegetables in the garden and knocking over buckets. It was a complete mess. Dad said he had to chase them for nearly an hour before he got them all back. I tried to help, but they were too fast, and one even butted me right in the leg!"
He rubbed his shin with a small grimace, as if remembering the pain, then laughed softly.
"It was chaos, really, but kind of funny too. I think the goats just like to see me run around. Dad said I should stop teasing them, but it's impossible! They're so clever, I don't know how he catches them every time. Sometimes I wish we could just leave them alone, but then the vegetables would disappear completely."
And then, breaking the quiet for the first time in the morning, the boy's voice came—hoarse, tired, and almost a whisper: "...a baby chick."
Jimin's words died instantly. His mouth hung open, his thoughts scrambling. He could only blink, staring at the boy, completely dumbfounded.
"Huh?" he finally managed to say, confusion washing over him.
The boy had spoken. He had actually spoken. And in the middle of Jimin's endless rambling about goats, farm chores, and chaos, the boy had chosen those simple words to answer—or maybe just to speak at all. The room seemed to hold its breath along with him.
The boy's voice came again, low and hoarse, shaking slightly as if the effort of speaking drained him. "...like a baby chick... you chirp too much."
Jimin froze mid-breath, unsure how to feel. For a moment, his small chest tightened with surprise, and his eyebrows knitted together. Should he be happy that the boy had finally spoken after minutes of silence, or... should he feel a little offended? The words didn't sound mean exactly, but there was something strange in the way they had been said. Jimin tilted his head, confused, trying to read the boy's expression—if it even carried one.
His mind swirled with uncertainty. Was this an insult, a joke, or some strange kind of praise? He had no idea, and that uncertainty made his stomach flutter. He looked down at the boy, the mix of the ocean in one eye and the void in the other still holding him in place, yet somehow inviting him closer.
Jimin took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous tremor in his hands. He leaned forward just slightly, keeping his voice soft and careful. "I... I'm sorry if I talk too much," he said, choosing his words slowly. "I just... wanted to know more about you. My name is Park Jimin... and I... I want to help. Can you tell me your name? How old you are?"
The boy's gaze shifted just a little, those strange, impossible eyes fixed on him, and Jimin felt the weight of the silence stretch between them. But he didn't back away. He stayed close, careful not to startle him again, and waited, hoping that this time the boy would answer—not with something mysterious, but with the truth.
The boy's hoarse voice came again, quiet but clear this time. "...Min Yoongi... and the last time you told me your name, I understood so I don't need to hear it again."
Jimin blinked, startled, his mouth opening slightly before closing again. He hadn't expected the boy to remember, or even to speak so plainly. For a moment, he simply sat frozen, processing the words, the strange mix of calm authority and exhaustion in the boy's tone.
The room felt heavier somehow, the morning light catching on the bruises and cuts that still marked the boy's face. Yet the sound of his voice—so small, so deliberate—made Jimin's heart pound in a different way. Relief, amazement, and a curious twinge of uncertainty twisted together inside him.
He leaned just a little closer, voice soft, careful, and almost shy. "I... I'm really glad you told me. I just... wanted to know you better. How old are you, Yoongi?"
The boy didn't answer again. He blinked slowly, his eyes still as impossible and strange as ever.
Jimin shifted slightly on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd Yoongi. The morning light spilled through the small window, illuminating the room with soft warmth, but the glow seemed to highlight the boy even more—his bruises, the pale skin, and those impossible eyes, one like a living sea and the other an endless void. Jimin's small hands rested nervously in his lap as he tried to think of what to say, how to reach him without frightening him.
"Do you... want some breakfast?" he asked finally, his voice soft, hesitant, almost like he was testing the air between them. "Grandpa made porridge, and I can bring some to you."
Yoongi's gaze flickered briefly toward the door, then back at Jimin. There was no answer, only that steady, unsettling stare. Jimin swallowed hard, feeling the tension coil in his chest, and then decided to act. He stood slowly and tiptoed to the corner of the kitchen where the small wooden bowl and spoon sat and brought it back to the room. The smell of oats and milk filled the room, comforting and domestic, and he wondered if the boy could even smell it yet.
Returning to the bedside, Jimin crouched down once more, holding the bowl carefully. "It's warm. You don't have to eat it all if you don't want to," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I just... thought you might be hungry."
Yoongi's eyes shifted ever so slightly toward the porridge, the blue of the right eye catching the light. It was a small, fleeting motion, but enough for Jimin to feel a tiny spark of hope. Carefully, he extended the bowl toward him.
Yoongi flinched. His hand shot out hesitantly, brushing against the edge of the bowl. The movement was weak, uncertain, but deliberate. Jimin's heart leapt, and he smiled gently. "That's okay," he murmured. "Take your time. I'll wait."
As Yoongi slowly moved the spoon toward his mouth, Jimin's eyes roamed over him, noticing tiny details that made him both worried and fascinated. The faint tremor in his hands. The slight shimmer on his eyelids when he blinked. And that faint, almost imperceptible pulse of warmth radiating from him—so human, yet strangely otherworldly.
Jimin realized that despite the bruises, despite the mystery and fear that clung to the boy, there was something profoundly alive in him. Something that drew him closer, that made him want to sit there for hours just watching and waiting, learning the rhythm of his breathing, the soft sighs of his chest, the subtle flicker of his eyes.
Yoongi managed to take a few small bites of the porridge, each movement deliberate, careful, as though he were testing the very act of eating. For a brief moment, Jimin's chest felt lighter, a fragile relief warming him. But the moment was fleeting. Without warning, Yoongi began to cough violently, his body jerking forward as if each breath burned him. Panic gripped Jimin, and he immediately lunged toward him, snatching the bowl from Yoongi's trembling hands. "Oh no, no, don't—wait! I'll get you some water!" Jimin stammered, voice high with fear, nearly tripping over the edge of the bed as he rushed toward the kitchen.
Moments later, he returned, glass in hand, arms trembling as he extended it toward Yoongi. "Here... here, just take small sips. Slowly. Don't worry," he urged softly, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, even though his heart was pounding in a frantic rhythm that made it hard to breathe.
Yoongi's fingers reached for the glass, weak and hesitant, brushing against the cold surface. And then it happened. The water, as if obeying some unearthly command, began to shiver. Ripples formed, then spread in impossible patterns, and before Jimin could blink, the liquid solidified, ice creeping from the center outward until the entire glass was frozen solid.
Jimin froze in shock, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. His gaze darted to Yoongi, who blinked once, a small, startled gasp escaping his lips as he realized what had happened. Both of them remained still for a long, suspended moment, fear and disbelief mirrored in their eyes. Yoongi's grip on the frozen glass tightened, fingers pressing into the ice, pale knuckles stark against the sudden frost. Neither moved, neither spoke, caught in a fragile, terrifying silence.
Then a voice rang out from outside the room. "Jimin! Are you in here?" The sound jolted them both. Jimin's father appeared in the doorway, his expression a mixture of surprise and tension, but the moment his gaze fell on Yoongi and the frozen glass, everything changed. A cold dread washed over him, and his body stiffened.
Without warning, he rushed forward, urgency driving every step. "What... what have you done to my son?!" His voice was high, fractured with fear and nervousness. Jimin barely had time to react before his father grabbed his arm, pulling him back forcefully. Jimin stumbled, heart thudding painfully against his chest, as terror and confusion surged through him.
Yoongi shrank instinctively, curling into himself on the bed, small and vulnerable, chest heaving rapidly as if the air itself had turned hostile. The unnatural glow of his eyes seemed to intensify—the right eye shimmering like a turbulent sea, the left deepening into that impossible, endless void. The room, already heavy with morning light, now felt suffocating, charged with the sudden weight of panic and revelation.
Jimin's father's voice grew louder, more frantic, trembling with an intensity that set Jimin's skin crawling. "I know who you are... I know what you are... I've seen those eyes before! You!... You're the one they're looking for! My father... he doesn't know what he's done. I have to warn him before they find us... before they kill us all... You... you'll get us all killed!"
Each word was like a hammer, driving the tension higher, the air around them crackling with fear and disbelief. Jimin felt a lump rise in his throat, tears stinging the corners of his eyes, as the raw panic of the situation settled into the pit of his stomach. Yoongi's small body shivered violently, his breath coming in ragged, rapid bursts. Every movement, every exhalation, spoke of terror so deep it went beyond his injuries—it was the fear of the unknown, of the danger that loomed over him, over all of them.
Jimin's father yanked him away, dragging him toward the door with a grip so tight it left bruises forming under his skin. Jimin stumbled behind him, mind spinning, every instinct screaming that Yoongi was in danger, that he needed to stay, to help—but the force of his father's fear was overwhelming. As they passed the edge of the bed, Jimin threw a terrified glance back. Yoongi's expression had twisted into raw panic, his hands pressed to his face, body curling inwards as if he could disappear completely.
Jimin's chest ached with helplessness. The boy, fragile and mysterious, was utterly terrified, and Jimin felt as though the weight of the world had landed on his small shoulders. The door slammed behind them with a dull, echoing finality, cutting off the scene in the room but leaving a lingering storm of fear, confusion, and urgency in its wake.
Outside the room, in the hallway, Jimin's father's breathing was ragged. His eyes darted back toward the door, haunted, wary, as though the sight of Yoongi and those impossible eyes had left a mark he couldn't erase. Jimin clutched his father's arm, heart pounding, mind screaming for explanations he couldn't give, as the tense silence of the house pressed in around them.
His father continued walking. His grip on Jimin's arm was iron-strong as he dragged him out of the house and into the yard. Jimin stumbled with every step, heart hammering against his chest, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Panic had taken root in his stomach, spreading into his limbs. He barely had time to register the familiar surroundings—the scent of salt and sea, the sharp tang of the ocean carried in the wind—before his attention was pulled to his grandfather, who had just returned from a morning of fishing.
From a distance, the old man waved cheerfully, unaware of the storm that had just erupted inside the house. But the moment his gaze landed on Jimin's father, his smile faded, and a heavy, silent tension replaced it.
Jimin's father finally released Jimin, shoving him gently behind himself, and stormed toward the elder man. His voice cut through the morning air, sharp and unrestrained. "Father! Do you know what you've done? Do you know who the child is that you brought here?"
The old man froze, shock anchoring him in place. The grin that usually played at the corners of his mouth vanished, replaced by furrows of worry etched deeply into his face. "What... what is happening?" he asked, voice quiet, unsure.
Jimin's father's hands trembled, though his tone was harsh, unyielding. "The child you saved... he's the one the soldiers are hunting! The one for whom an entire village was destroyed! You brought him here... Father... he'll get us all killed! He needs to leave this place immediately!"
The words cut through the morning air like a knife, and the weight of them pressed down on everyone present. For a brief moment, there was silence, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Then, as if remembering something urgent, Jimin's father's eyes darkened, and he pivoted sharply on his heels, striding back toward the house in long, decisive steps.
Jimin, trembling and wide-eyed, followed, tears sliding freely down his cheeks. He had never seen his father like this—so furious, so unyielding, so utterly consumed by fear. His small hands clutched at the air as he stumbled to keep up, heart pounding violently against his ribs.
Behind them, Jimin's grandfather hesitated for a heartbeat before fear and instinct pushed him forward. The creak of the floorboards echoed in the house as he followed, steps hurried and uncertain, dread twisting his stomach.
Inside the room, the scene froze Jimin in place. His father had grabbed Yoongi's arm, gripping it with a force that was both terrifying and desperate. Yoongi's body, weakened from days of unconsciousness and injury, sagged under the sudden pull. His legs buckled, and he barely managed to stay upright as he was dragged toward the door. The boy's wide, impossible eyes reflected pure, raw fear.
Yoongi didn't cry, but the tension in his small frame was undeniable. Every muscle in his body tensed as if bracing for an impact, every movement a silent struggle to escape. His fingers twitched helplessly in the air, and he pressed himself as small as he could, instinctively shrinking, trying to avoid the inevitable.
Jimin's heart felt like it was being crushed in his chest. His father's grip on Yoongi was relentless, his face a mask of terror and fury. Jimin wanted to scream, to beg, to stop him, but his own body froze in terror. Every step of his father's, every shuffle of Yoongi's struggling body, made Jimin's stomach turn to ice.
Jimin stood frozen, lungs tight, his heartbeat so loud it almost drowned out the chaos in front of him. His father's fingers were still clamped around Yoongi's thin arm, dragging him across the floorboards like a rag doll—when suddenly a rough, furious shout cut through the tension.
"Enough!"
Jimin's grandfather moved faster than Jimin had ever seen. The old man lunged forward, his weathered hands gripping his son's wrist and yanking it away from the trembling boy. The force of it shocked even Jimin's father, who stumbled a step back.
"What are you doing to a child?" the old man roared, voice shaking with anger and disbelief. "Look at him! He can barely stand!"
Yoongi collapsed the moment he was released, body folding in on itself, one hand braced weakly against the floor. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps. He was pale—too pale—and sweat clung to his skin. He looked as though one more harsh word might break him completely.
Jimin's father spun toward his own father, face flushed with fury and fear. "This child can't stay here!" he shouted back, his voice cracking under the pressure. "He's dangerous, Father! Don't you understand? If they find him here, they'll kill us all!"
"They're not here," the old man snapped. "And he's hurt. He's a child—"
"A child who caused the annihilation of a whole village just by existing!" Jimin's father cut in, his voice trembling. "A child the soldiers are hunting like a beast! You want to protect him? You'll condemn the entire village!"
Their voices clashed like thunder, echoing against the wooden walls. Jimin stood rooted to the floor, tears streaming silently down his cheeks as fear choked him. He didn't know who to listen to—his father, who was shaking with terror, or his grandfather, whose anger burned like a firewall.
In the midst of the shouting, something tugged Jimin's attention. A small movement. A flicker of blue and black. He looked at Yoongi.
The boy was swaying, barely conscious now, but his eyes... they were locked onto something across the room. Unblinking. Fixated.
Jimin followed the stare—slowly, as if drawn by some invisible thread—and his breath caught in his throat.
The dagger.
The black dagger with the strange carvings, lying just where it had fallen on the floor from the nightstand. Its blade glinted faintly in the dim light, cold and wrong in a way Jimin couldn't explain. Something about it felt alive, as if it were watching them.
Yoongi's gaze didn't waver. His pupils trembled, but he didn't blink—not even once.
Before Jimin could say anything, his father reached out again, grabbing Yoongi by the arm with renewed force. "Get up," he snapped. "You're leaving. Now."
Yoongi didn't have the strength to protest. His legs folded beneath him again, and Jimin watched helplessly as the boy was dragged toward the doorway, knees scraping against the floor as though he were weightless.
"Stop it!" the grandfather shouted, chasing after them. "You're hurting him—stop!" But Jimin's father didn't stop. Fear was driving him, blind and ruthless.
They disappeared out the door, the grandfather right behind them, and suddenly the house fell silent. Jimin was alone. The quiet was terrifying. It made the pounding of his heart sound even louder. For a moment he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Then, as if pulled by instinct, he turned toward the dagger.
He approached it slowly, each step heavy. When he crouched and reached out, a shiver ran up his arm the moment his fingers brushed the hilt. It felt cold, unnaturally cold—like ice that burned instead of froze. A strange heaviness settled in his chest, a whisper of danger he didn't understand.
But he remembered Yoongi staring at it. Staring like it meant something. Staring like he needed it. So Jimin swallowed his fear, picked it up, and slipped it under his shirt, pressing it close to his body to hide it. The weight of it felt wrong, unsettling... but he told himself it was for Yoongi. He would give it back to him. He had to.
Outside, voices rose again—shouting, arguing, the sounds of panic and footsteps scuffling across dirt. Jimin's hands began to shake. A moment later, the door burst open.
His father stormed inside, breath ragged, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination. He looked around as if expecting danger to leap from the shadows, then grabbed Jimin by the wrist. "We're leaving," he said, voice low and urgent. "Now. Before it's too late."
"W-what about Grandpa?" Jimin whispered, choking on tears.
His father didn't look back. "If he wants to kill himself by staying, that's his choice. But I won't let anything happen to you."
Before Jimin could speak—before he could understand—his father was pulling him again, dragging him toward the door, toward the path outside, toward whatever desperate escape he believed was still possible. And the last thing Jimin saw as he was pulled out of the house was the empty room behind him...
When Jimin and his father stepped out of the house, the cold air hit them first—and then the sight in the yard. His grandfather was there, crouched beside Yoongi, one arm wrapped firmly around the trembling boy's back as he helped him stand. Yoongi's legs wobbled uselessly beneath him, breath coming in short, broken gasps. His small fingers curled weakly into the old man's sleeve, the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely.
Jimin's father said nothing. His jaw tightened, and he simply pulled Jimin along, marching past them without a single glance. He held his son so tightly it almost hurt.
Jimin's grandfather watched them leave, eyes filled with a grief that weighed heavier than any words. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something—but no sound came. Instead, he looked back at Yoongi, whose gaze was unfocused, distant. The boy wasn't even aware of the world around him anymore. He was sitting on the ground now, hunched over, breath shuddering in and out of his chest as though the air itself weighed too much.
Jimin slowed for a moment—just long enough to look back. His eyes, swollen and red from crying, met his grandfather's. The old man's expression softened even further, like a silent apology, a silent plea. But Jimin had no power here. No strength. No voice.
He turned away with trembling lips, letting his father drag him forward. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks as they crossed the edge of the yard. His father didn't look back even once.
They headed toward the forest they had walked through just yesterday. But now... now it didn't feel like the same place at all.
The forest greeted them not with chirping birds or rustling leaves, but with a heavy, suffocating stillness. The towering trunks loomed over them like silent witnesses. The canopy above, once alive with scattered beams of sunlight, now felt dimmer, shadowed, as though the trees themselves had swallowed the light.
It was as if the forest understood Jimin's grief. The branches hung low, weighted by invisible sorrow. Dew clung to every leaf, shimmering faintly... like tears.
A breeze drifted between the trees, soft and mournful, its whisper almost human. Grief threaded through the air itself. Every step Jimin took felt like sinking further into a place that mourned with him. Even the earth beneath his feet seemed softer, damp, like it too was crying.
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, but new tears replaced the old ones instantly. The forest didn't judge him. It only listened.
They walked for what felt like hours—maybe it was hours. Jimin wasn't sure. His legs burned, his throat ached from holding back sobs, and his father's grip never loosened. He pulled Jimin along faster and faster, as if desperation itself were chasing them.
Then suddenly His father stopped.
Jimin almost collided with him, stumbling forward. Before he could ask anything, his father's hand shot out and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him harshly to the ground behind a thick cluster of bushes.
"Stay down," his father whispered—barely a breath. His voice trembled.
Jimin froze, heart leaping into his throat. His father's gaze was fixed ahead, sharp and alert, as though he had just seen something—someone.
The forest around them held its breath. The wind stilled. And Jimin, pressed against the dirt with his father's arm shielding him, felt his own breath disappear entirely.
Jimin sank lower into the bushes, pressing his back against the damp earth as the forest air thickened around him. At first, he thought the sound was just the wind—just leaves brushing together, the usual whispers of the woods. But then the noise split, sharpened, multiplied.
Not wind. Voices. Dozens of them or maybe more.
They rolled through the forest like a deep, distant growl. Harsh commands snapped through the air. Heavy boots pounded against the soil in synchronized steps. Armor clattered. Metal scraped. Someone barked an order, loud enough to rattle the branches over Jimin's head. His breath froze in his lungs.
He didn't dare move, but fearful, trembling curiosity pulled him forward. Slowly, Jimin lifted his head just enough to see through the leaves.
Shapes moved beyond the trees. Dark, solid shapes. Men. Rows of them. Uniforms gleamed dully in the half-light, their identical shapes forming a line of dark metal and fabric. Long flags rose above their heads—deep red cloth snapping harshly with each gust of wind, the symbol painted on it bold and frightening. Horses stood restlessly near the rear lines, snorting clouds of white vapor into the air.
Everything about them felt heavy.
Jimin's heart thudded painfully against his ribs. He sank back, pressing his small hands against the ground to steady himself. When he whispered, his voice barely made a sound. "Are... are they the soldiers?"
His father didn't look away from the scene. His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking beneath his skin, and when he answered, his voice was low and strained.
"Mm." It wasn't quite a yes—but it wasn't anything else either.
Jimin swallowed, throat tight, his fingers curling into the dirt. "Are they here... to take Yoongi?" he whispered again, softer this time. It felt dangerous to even speak the name.
His father didn't answer immediately. He stayed still like any movement might draw attention. Like even his breath needed permission. Then slowly he turned toward Jimin.
He took the boy by the shoulders and pulled him close, turning him fully so their faces were level. His father's eyes were wide, alive with fear he tried desperately to hide. The forest shadows made the lines on his face look deeper, older, etched by worry.
He stared into Jimin's face for long seconds—memorizing him. Committing every tear-filled detail to memory. And when he spoke, it was a command wrapped inside a plea, "Jimin. Listen to me carefully... daddy has to go back to the village. I have to warn your grandpa before the soldiers reach him." A shaky breath escaped him—he tried to steady it, but it still wavered. "And you... you must stay here. Hidden. No matter what."
Jimin's chest tightened. His eyes burned hot. His father's fingers curled gently but firmly around his arms, grounding him, holding him steady in the middle of all that fear.
"Promise me you'll stay here until I come back." His voice dropped to a near whisper, thick with dread. "I'm going to bring grandpa with me. But I need you to stay hidden. The forest—it will protect you. You'll be safe here. Just stay right here, son."
Jimin shook his head desperately, tears spilling again. "But... why can't I come with you?" he choked out. The thought of being left alone—here, with soldiers marching so close—was unbearable.
His father forced a small, sad smile. The kind meant to reassure a child but failed because his eyes were too full of pain. "If I go alone, I'll be faster," he whispered. "I can reach the village before the soldiers do. I'll be back soon. I swear it."
Jimin looked down, tears blurring the world. It felt like everything inside him was cracking open. "Daddy..." His voice trembled. "Please... please bring Yoongi too... please..." The plea broke him.
His father closed his eyes—as if the request pierced somewhere deep. When he opened them again, something in him had shifted. Softened. He let out a shaky breath. "...Alright." His voice was barely above a breath. "I'll bring the boy."
The promise hung in the air—fragile but real.
"But you must promise me," he added, voice tightening with urgency, "that you'll stay right here until I return. No matter what happens."
Jimin nodded, small and trembling, his breath hitching as more tears fell.
His father leaned down and pressed a long, lingering kiss to his hair—gentle, desperate and full of all the love in the world. Then, with controlled calmness that didn't match the fear in his eyes, he stood up, turned toward the trees, and slipped away, moving quickly but silently.
Jimin watched him go until the forest swallowed his figure whole. Then he curled into himself in the shadow of the bushes, the distant thunder of marching soldiers filling the air, each step echoing like a countdown he could not escape.