The next morning was brighter than it should've been.
Sunlight spilled over the trees like nothing had ever happened.
No blood.
No guilt.
No graves.
But Tae-Jun knew better.
He sat in the entrance of the bunker, legs stretched, notebook on his knees. The pen trembled slightly in his hand — not from cold, but from the strange peace in the air.
Yul was sitting nearby, back against a rusted ammo crate. Quiet. As always.
But something was different in his posture. His rifle lay beside him, untouched.
He wasn't guarding.
He was… thinking.
---
Then, without a word, Yul pulled a small object from around his neck.
A dog tag — bent, darkened by fire, scratched nearly blank.
He held it out.
Tae-Jun took it.
On the back, carved roughly by knife:
> YUL
H.N.S. 3911
HAN SEUL
(in tiny letters: "Brother.")
Tae-Jun looked up.
"Your brother?"
Yul nodded. Just once.
Then he gestured:
> Two fingers walking side-by-side.
One finger stopping.
The other alone.
Tae-Jun's throat tightened.
He gave the tag back gently.
Yul pressed it to his chest, closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he pointed to Tae-Jun's notebook.
Then — to himself.
> "Write."
---
Tae-Jun blinked.
"You want me to… write for you?"
Yul nodded again.
And for the first time, Tae-Jun flipped to a blank page — not to write a letter for himself, but for someone else.
> Entry Eleven.
He had a brother.
He was younger. He died. Maybe here. Maybe far away. It doesn't matter.
What matters is that Yul remembers him.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.
Grief is a language too.
---
Tae-Jun set the pen down.
He didn't look at Yul.
But he felt the weight of his silence — no longer heavy.
Now, it was sacred.