A year passed.
Minho returned to the village on the winter solstice. The path was overgrown, soft with fallen needles and moss. The mist was thicker than before, curling like smoke around ancient stones. The trees stood quiet and reverent, as if they had been waiting. Every step forward brought with it a pulse of memory — the scent of pine, the feel of wet earth beneath his boots, the way the wind curled around his wrists like an old friend.
His suitcase was smaller this time. Lighter. He wore layers, a thick scarf around his neck, the same one Jiho had given him that first walk up the trail. The wool had frayed slightly at the ends, but it still smelled faintly of mugwort and cedar. The cold clung to his cheeks, pinking his skin, but he did not rush. There was no need. Each step was part of the return.
The trees were bare now, their branches stripped clean by the wind. Red ribbons had been tied to some of them, fluttering faintly in the low breeze. Talisman charms hung in a few places, stitched from white cloth and rice paper, a few faded by weather but still clinging. The forest felt alive, but not watching. More like listening.
At the old cairn by the mountain trail, a note waited beneath a smooth stone, warmed faintly by his touch.
I waited in the mist. I still am.
His breath caught, a sharp intake followed by a slow, quiet exhale. He folded the note with trembling fingers and placed it in his coat pocket, near his heart.
He followed the path down to the stream. The water whispered against the stones, thin from the season but clear and steady. The familiar scent of damp earth and pine needles filled his lungs like a forgotten language. The fog curled around the edges of the water, blurring it, softening its shape. And there, sitting with quiet intent, was Jiho.
He was kneeling beside the stream, feeding rice to the birds, his hands moving with the same careful grace that Minho remembered. His coat was worn but clean, the sleeves slightly too long as they slipped over his wrists. A strand of hair had come loose from the knot at the base of his neck, dancing lightly in the air.
Jiho did not turn at first. He did not need to. The space shifted. The silence changed its shape.
Minho approached slowly, his feet brushing against leaves and stone. Jiho looked up then. Their eyes met.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
The quiet between them was a language all its own, filled with the soft pulse of returning home. It rose between them like steam from warm tea, like mist meeting skin. A warmth settled into Minho's chest, quiet but steady.
Jiho offered a handful of rice in his open palm, and Minho knelt beside him, their shoulders brushing lightly. Together, they tossed the grains to the birds, who fluttered and dipped, their feathers gleaming wet in the pale light. It was an offering not just to the birds, but to the land, the water, the stillness that had always held them both.
The fog grew thicker as evening approached. The village beyond the stream began to dim, rooftops softened and obscured. Lanterns flickered to life in the distance, their golden glow pressing against the gray. Somewhere, a bell rang slowly, marking the hour. The sound moved like breath through the trees.
Later, they returned to the garden house. It stood just as Minho remembered it, though the gate creaked slightly more and the garden had surrendered itself to winter. The mugwort plants had wilted but not died, and the Korean mint had gone to seed, its dry stalks rattling softly in the wind. Jiho opened the door and stepped aside, and Minho entered as though crossing a threshold in a dream.
The room smelled of woodsmoke and dried herbs. Calligraphy scrolls still hung from the walls, their ink faded slightly, but their presence steady. A new set of brushes had been laid out, clean and unused. The air was warm with the familiar scent of barley tea, brewed over the wood stove in the corner.
Minho sat on the floor beside the low table. Jiho placed a cup in front of him and then sat across from him, mirroring his posture. The tea was hot, earthy, grounding. It tasted like quiet mornings and rain on paper.
They spoke little that night. But their eyes carried the conversation, unbroken and soft. Jiho listened with his whole body, with the way he leaned forward slightly, the way he held his breath when Minho's voice grew faint, the way he placed a hand on the floor between them as if to steady them both.
Minho told him about Seoul. About the noise. The confusion. The moments of clarity that felt like lanterns in a deep cave. He spoke of the bathroom at the community center, the tiles, the tears. He told him about writing his name and not knowing what it meant, and still writing it anyway.
Jiho listened, and when Minho had no more words, he simply said, "You came back. That's enough."
That spring, they built a new garden house near the edge of the forest. A space not to hide, but to grow. They repaired old wooden beams and laid fresh straw under the floorboards. They painted the door with warm ochre and soft gray, colors that felt like comfort.
They planted mugwort and mint, brewed barley tea, and painted calligraphy on pine bark, the ink dark and alive beneath their fingers. Some days they worked in silence, some days to music hummed under breath. They ate warm bowls of rice porridge on cold mornings, seasoned with sesame oil and scallions, the steam curling between them like a third presence.
Villagers still whispered, some with confusion, others with curiosity. Occasionally someone would ask them directly.
"Are you lovers?" one older woman asked as she handed them a jar of fermented plum syrup.
"We are the weather," Jiho replied gently. "Sometimes we are the mountain. Sometimes we are the cloud."
Their words hung in the air, as elusive and real as the mist.
Minho began using they and he when writing. Jiho started calling himself a nonbinary man. Not because it explained everything. But because it felt like a resting point on a long trail, a place to exhale.
They did not always agree on everything. There were days when the silence felt too heavy, when memories pressed hard against the chest, when Minho woke with old panic trembling through his ribs. But Jiho always lit a candle in the window, always placed warm tea into his hands, always waited without asking.
And Minho learned to stay. To breathe through it. To let the mist hold them both.