Winter arrived as it always did in the mountains—without negotiation, without warning, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
One week after the phantom pains episode, the first snows fell. Not those delicate, poetic flakes that storytellers loved to describe in their tales. No. A storm. Violent. The kind that transformed the world into a hostile white expanse where even wolves had the good sense to stay in their dens.
The village closed in on itself like an oyster. Doors stayed shut. Chimneys smoked day and night. Provisions came down from attics. People counted bags of grain. Checked wood reserves. Looked at the sky with that mix of resignation and worry that only those who depended on the land for survival truly understood.
Three days. The storm lasted three days. And when it finally calmed, Seolhyang was buried under a meter of fresh snow that crunched underfoot like broken bones.
The village could have stayed closed. Could have waited for the cold to pass. But no. Because winter was long in the mountains. And staying cooped up for months without seeing other faces, without hearing other voices, was the best way to go crazy.
So they did what their ancestors had done for generations. They organized a festival.
The Festival of the First Snows. Nothing much. No paper dragons like for the Day of the Dragon. No tournaments or martial demonstrations. Just... fire. Food. Alcohol. And the forced company of people you tolerated the rest of the year because you had no choice.
But it was better than isolation.
. . .
The village's central square had been cleared. Well, "cleared" was a generous term. More like the scars, like the snow had been trampled into an icy slush where walking without slipping was a miracle. A big fire burned in the center—thick logs that crackled and hissed when melting snow dripped on them.
The villagers had gathered. Not all of them. The oldest stayed home, preferring solitude to pneumonia. But families with children were there. Young adults looking to impress. Men who wanted an excuse to drink.
Tables had been set up. Wobbly. Covered with whatever each family had been able to contribute. Kimchi in earthenware jars. Tteok—those sticky rice cakes that looked like white stones but that, when fresh, had a satisfying texture. Dried fish. Blood sausage. Fried fritters that smelled of rancid oil but that everyone ate anyway because it was that or nothing.
Me, I was there. Not by choice. Eunbi had insisted. "You can't stay cooped up all winter. You need to see other children. To play. To be normal."
Normal. That word again.
So I had accepted. Put on the winter clothes Eunbi had sewn—too big, because she had planned for growth. Put on the fur-lined boots that made me look like a limping duck. And followed my parents to the square where the village celebrated its collective survival of another cycle of white death.
Mansoo was carrying a basket. Inside, like the inside, was tteok Eunbi had prepared. And something else. Something small. Bundled in blankets. Making plaintive sounds.
Choi Minjun. My little brother.
He had been born... when? Two months ago? Three? Time blurred when you spent your nights training clandestinely and your days pretending to be a normal child. But yes. Somewhere between Haeun's departure and now, Eunbi had given birth to a second son.
A real son, this time. Not a soul-squatter. Not a ghost dressed as a baby. Just... a child. Normal. Who cried when he was hungry. Who shit inside the washroom on everything that moved. Who didn't look at anyone with eyes too old.
I didn't know how to feel about him. Jealousy? No. You couldn't be jealous of someone who regularly pissed on himself. Indifference? Almost. But not quite. Because there was this weird thing... this sensation when he looked at me with his newborn eyes that probably saw only blurry shapes.
He smiled. Well, his face twisted into something that looked like a smile. And his little hands reached toward me.
As if he recognized me. As if he knew I was his big brother.
Big brother.
The words echoed in my head. Like an echo of that flash. That little hand. That voice.
No. No, don't think about that. Not now.
. . .
"Hyeon! Come look!"
Eunbi's voice. She was near the fire, talking with other women. Park Mina. Kim Soyeon. Chen Jisoo. The village gossips who spent their time exchanging rumors while pretending that no, of course they weren't talking behind people's backs.
I approached. Dragging my feet through the melted snow.
"Look at your brother." Eunbi lifted the bundle of blankets. Minjun's face appeared. Red. Wrinkled. Not particularly impressive. "He's hungry. Do you want to help feed him?"
"He doesn't really eat yet," I said. Because it was true. Two-month-old babies nursed. That was about it.
"I know. But..." She pulled something from the basket. A small piece of tteok. White. Soft. "I chewed it a bit. You can give him little bits. Just so he can taste."
She handed me the rice cake. I took it. Looked ashati looked at Minjun I looked at Minjun, who was staring at me with that intensity only babies possessed. That total concentration on something they didn't really understand.
"Go over there," said Eunbi, pointing to a bench off to the side. "Sit down. I'll hand him to you."
She placed Minjun in my arms. Too light. Too fragile. Like something that could break if I squeezed too hard. His eyes fixed on me. And again that smile. That twist of lips that looked like joy.
I sat down. Mansoo joined us. Sat beside us. Said nothing. Just watched.
I took a small piece of tteok. Brought it to Minjun's lips. He opened his mouth. Like a baby bird waiting to be fed. The cake disappeared. Was clumsily chewed. Part of it came back out. Dribbled down his chin.
Mansoo laughed. Not loud. Just... a sound. Warm. Rare.
"You're doing well," he said.
"He's drooling everywhere."
"Babies do that." He extended a finger. Minjun grabbed it immediately. With that surprising strength newborns had. "You drooled everywhere too. Eunbi spent her time cleaning you up."
"I don't remember that."
"Obviously." His smile widened slightly. "You were less than a year old. But it was... cute. In its way."
Cute. Me. The idea was so absurd I almost laughed.
I gave Minjun another piece. This time, he managed to keep it in his mouth. Chewed. Made a face. Then... smiled again. Content.
Something in my chest twisted. Not painfully. Differently. Like... warmth? Tenderness? Bullshit emotions I didn't want to have because they made everything more complicated.
"He likes you," Mansoo observed. "Better than me, anyway. When I hold him, he cries."
"Maybe he senses you're dangerous."
Mansoo looked at me. Raised an eyebrow. "And you? Aren't you dangerous?"
I didn't answer. Because it was a good question.
. . .
Evening fell. Lanterns were lit. Someone brought out a flute. Another is Minjun, and another is Drum. The music began. Simple. Repetitive. The kind of folk melody peasants had played for generations because no one remembered where it came from.
People danced. Clumsily. Joyfully. The cheap rice wine had done its work. Cheeks reddened. Laughter grew louder. Inhibitions fell.
Mansoo and Eunbi stood near the fire. Not dancing. Just... together. Close. His hands on her shoulders. Her forehead pressed against his chest.
An intimate moment. Rare. The kind they never shared in front of me. Because they played their roles. Responsible parents. Serious. Worried.
But there, in the firelight and the chaos of the festival, they allowed themselves something. A pause. An instant where they weren't just the Chois raising the strange child. Just... a man and a woman who still loved each other despite everything.
Mansoo said something. Too low for me to hear. Eunbi laughed. That rare, musical laugh she almost never produced. Then she raised her head. Kissed him.
Not passionately. Not like in stories. Just... gently. Tenderly. Like someone remembering why she had chosen this man. Why had she stayed with him even when he carried secrets that should have made her run?
I looked away. Because some things weren't for me. Some moments belonged to them alone.
Minjun slept in my arms. His breathing was regular and warm against my chest. Oblivious to the world. To the cold. To the music. To everything except warmth and safety.
Big brother.
The thought came back. Insistent. Comparing. That little hand that had gripped mine in a life I couldn't remember. And this other hand—Minjun's—that now clung to my finger in his sleep.
Two lives. Two brothers. Or sister. Or whoever it was.
One lost. The other one is breathing; one is here.
Which one was I supposed to protect?
. . .
"Whose brother are you?"
A voice. Young. Curious. I looked up.
A girl. Maybe six years old. Hair tied in two pigtails that hung on either side of her head like dog ears. Cheeks red from cold. Eyes shining with an energy that only children who hadn't yet been broken by life possessed.
"His," I said, gesturing at Minjun with my chin.
"He's small."
"He's a baby. Babies are small."
"I have a brother too. He's big. He hits me sometimes." She sat down beside me without asking permission. "Do you hit your brother?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because he's a baby. Hitting babies is stupid."
She nodded. As if that logic made sense. "My father says you're weird."
Direct. Brutal. Honest.
"What else does he say?"
"That you don't talk much. That you look at people strangely. That you might be blessed by the Guardians. Or cursed." She shrugged. "I don't know what that means."
"Neither do I."
"Do you want to play?"
"Play what?"
"I don't know. Something." She stood up. Tugged at my sleeve. "Come on. Leave the baby with your mother. We can go near the forge. There's clean snow there."
The forge. The word resonated. I remembered Mansoo had mentioned it a few times. Park Daeho. The village blacksmith. Widower. No children. He lived alone in a house near the forge he maintained for the village.
"I can't leave my brother."
"Why?"
Good question. Why? He wasn't really my brother. Not in the way people meant. I was just... there. An intruder playing the role.
But my arms tightened around Minjun. Automatically. Protectively.
"Because he's sleeping. And if I put him down, he'll wake up and cry."
The girl pouted. "Babies are boring."
"Yes."
"You're boring too."
"Probably."
She stayed there one more second. Then shrugged. "Okay. Maybe another time."
She ran off. Joined other children who were building something in the snow. A snowman? A fort? Hard to say.
I stayed seated. Minjun in my arms. Watching the festival unfold around me.
The music. The fire. The laughter. The smell of food and alcohol. The biting cold that made every breath visible.
It was... normal. Peaceful. The kind of moment ordinary people lived and forgot because it was just life. Nothing special.
But to me, it was strange. Foreign. Like watching something through a window. I was there but not really. Participating but observing. Part of the picture but never really inside it.
Mansoo and Eunbi came back. Smiling. Relaxed. Mansoo took Minjun from my arms with a gentleness that contrasted with his calloused hands. Eunbi handed me a piece of tteok.
"For you. You took good care of your brother."
I took the rice cake. Ate it slowly. The texture was exactly as I expected. Sticky. Slightly sweet. Not unpleasant.
"We're heading home soon," said Mansoo. "Your mother is tired. And Minjun needs to be fed."
"Okay."
Eunbi looked at me. Her eyes searched for something in my face. Found or didn't find. Hard to say.
"You look... better," she said finally. "Less sad than these past few days."
Was that true? I didn't know. Maybe. Maybe holding Minjun had done something. Or maybe seeing Mansoo and Eunbi together, happy, had reminded me that there were things worth protecting.
Even if it wasn't really my family. Even if I was just a temporary passenger in their lives.
"Yes," I said. "I'm better."
She smiled. Stroked my hair. "Good. Because you're my son. And I want you to be happy."
Her son. The lie we repeated until it became almost true.
. . .
We walked home through the snow. Mansoo led the way, Minjun bundled against his chest. Eunbi walked beside me, her hand holding mine so I wouldn't slip.
Behind us, the village continued to celebrate. The music carried on the cold wind. The lanterns shining like fallen stars.
And as we walked, I thought about the forge. About the name the girl had mentioned. Park Daeho.
A blacksmith. Someone who worked metal. Who created tools? Weapons, maybe.
Someone who could be useful. One day. When I was old enough. Strong enough.
When the time came to leave.
Because I would leave. One day. Toward the South. Toward Yongsong. Toward Serin.
But not yet. Not today.
Today, I was just Choi Hyeon. Three years old. Big brother to a drooling baby. Son of a farmer who hid scars and a mother who worried too much.
Today, I was... almost normal.
Almost.