The second day passed without a single word.
But silence didn't mean peace — it never had.
The boy, the enemy, remained close — but not too close. Always in Tae-Jun's line of sight. Never behind him.
He moved quietly, stepping over corpses like they were forgotten bags of sand. His face didn't flinch at the smell, the blood, the flies.
Tae-Jun wondered how many he had killed.
---
His own body had stopped shaking, but the fever lingered beneath his skin like fire without flame. His leg throbbed, wrapped poorly in strips of uniform. He couldn't walk far — only crawl, sit, lean.
The boy gave him water twice.
Once in the morning.
Once at dusk.
Always the same routine: place it, step back, wait.
Like feeding a wounded animal.
---
That night, they lit no fire. The smoke would've made them targets.
Instead, they sat apart in the ruins of a concrete outpost — walls cracked, bullet holes like stars. The boy had cleared a spot with his boot and now sat cross-legged on the cold ground, watching the sky as if waiting for something to fall.
Tae-Jun studied him from the shadows.
So young.
Maybe seventeen. Maybe less.
The rifle looked too big in his hands.
He wanted to ask his name.
But what would be the point?
Names were for people.
They weren't people here.
Just uniforms. Enemies.
---
He opened the notebook again.
> Entry Three.
I still don't know why he hasn't shot me.
Maybe he's afraid. Maybe he's waiting.
Or maybe... maybe he's just like me. Tired of following orders that don't make sense.
We don't speak. But we understand something.
We both want this war to be over.
And we both know… that no one is coming.
---
Later that night, the boy stood.
Walked away into the trees.
Tae-Jun's hand slid toward his rifle.
But he didn't aim.
He just watched.
And waited.
Listening to the branches crack.
He didn't know if the boy would return.