There were moments, simple yet charged. When Jiho lent Minho his worn sweater on a cold morning, the knit fabric heavy and grounding as it settled around his shoulders. When Minho pressed his palm against the cool surface of a calligraphy brush freshly dipped in ink, and Jiho's hand covered his, steady and warm, guiding without taking over. The intimacy was quiet, unhurried. A dance of presence and trust that neither had experienced before.
The sweater smelled faintly of cypress wood and a trace of sandalwood oil, perhaps from a balm Jiho used on his wrists after long days of writing. When Minho pulled it over his head, it was as if Jiho's body had left behind not only warmth, but memory. His scent settled into the fabric like a whispered message, wrapping Minho in something gentler than touch and more tender than speech.
They never spoke about the sweater. But Minho wore it often, especially on misty mornings when the frost painted delicate patterns on the windowpanes. He would curl his fingers into the long sleeves, sit at the porch with a steaming cup of ginseng tea, and listen to the stillness of the village stirring slowly awake.
The garden began to sleep as the season shifted. Leaves browned and fell, and the wind carried the scent of dry hay and woodsmoke. The mountain loomed more silent than before. It held its breath in the cold. The fog thickened, its movements slow and deliberate, gliding through the trees like a cautious animal.
One morning, Minho rose early to help Jiho sweep the path to the shrine. The broom in his hand felt unfamiliar at first, the straw rigid and uneven. Jiho's hands were red from the cold, but he didn't complain. He worked with a quiet rhythm, pausing now and then to shake frost from the bristles. Minho mimicked his movements, awkward at first, then slowly finding the same cadence. They did not speak, but their breath plumed together in the air like twin ghosts.
When the path was clear, Jiho knelt before the stone altar and lit a bundle of mugwort, letting the smoke curl upward. The smell was sharp and green, cutting through the morning damp. He bowed three times, eyes closed, palms pressed together, lips moving in a silent prayer. Minho watched, standing a few paces back, his heart unexpectedly tight in his chest. There was something so honest in Jiho's devotion, something raw and unadorned.
Later that day, they walked along the ridge, the path softened with fallen needles and dried leaves. Their boots sank gently into the earth. The air was colder now, heavy with the scent of snow that had not yet arrived but was surely on its way.
Jiho pointed out mushrooms clinging to fallen logs, their caps like tiny umbrellas, and moss growing in spirals along tree trunks. He picked up a pinecone and rolled it between his palms.
"The world leaves marks in quiet ways," he said, then placed it in Minho's coat pocket without explaining further.
Minho turned the pinecone over in his hands as they walked. Its scales were hard and dry, but there was something beautiful in the way they curved inward, as though protecting something precious deep inside. He didn't ask what Jiho meant. He just carried it.
That evening, the wind howled louder than usual. They sat close on the floor near the fire, wrapped in blankets, eating roasted chestnuts and sipping hot citron tea. The sweetness of the tea lingered on Minho's lips, and he licked it away slowly, tasting the citrus peel, the honey, the hint of bitterness underneath.
Jiho was reading from an old book of poems, his voice soft and steady. Korean syllables rolled through the air like incense smoke, slow and sacred. Minho didn't understand every word, but he followed the rhythm, the rise and fall of Jiho's voice, the hush that followed each stanza. The fire popped gently, and the air smelled of wood and earth and something just slightly floral, like dried chrysanthemums warming in a bowl on the table.
When Jiho finished, he looked up, his eyes glinting in the firelight. He didn't smile. He didn't need to. There was a calm in his gaze that made Minho want to reach out and hold it with both hands.
Then, a letter came.
It was late in the afternoon, the sky gray and heavy with the promise of snow. Minho was helping Jiho rake the garden, the brittle leaves crunching underfoot, when Halmeoni from the herbal shop appeared at the gate. She carried a small envelope with his name written in hasty strokes.
His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it.
His mother was sick. He had to return to Seoul.
The news settled in his chest like wet earth. Heavy. Cold. Necessary.
He didn't say goodbye, only left a note tucked under the tea jar, folded like a secret between old paper and worn wood:
I don't want this to end.
He couldn't bear to see Jiho's face. Not then. Not in that moment when his hands were still stained with leaf ash and his heart still too full of things he did not know how to say.
The bus ride back to the city felt longer than it should have. He watched the landscape change, the mist thinning, the mountains slipping away. Tall buildings appeared like strangers, sharp and indifferent. The lights blinked too brightly. The noise returned in layers, each one louder than the last.
But he kept his fingers inside the sleeve of Jiho's sweater the whole time.