The meadow ended one day. Not with a road, nor a river, but with a small village half-buried in snow.
At first, Joon thought the houses abandoned — crooked roofs sagging under frost, windows glazed to blindness. But then a door opened, and figures stepped out into the pale light.
People.
At least, they looked like people.
Their faces were too smooth, their movements slightly off, as if each gesture had been learned and rehearsed. Yet they smiled as Hana led him closer, raising hands in greeting.
"More of us live here," she said softly, almost apologetically. "I didn't want to overwhelm you before."
A boy with hair the color of soot darted forward, laughing as he dragged Hana into a snowball fight. A woman with wide, glassy eyes beckoned Joon toward a firepit that burned without smoke, its flames steady and unnatural against the endless snow.
The warmth licked his skin, but something in him recoiled. It felt too neat, too staged, as though the fire burned because someone had told it to.
He turned to Hana, but she was laughing with the soot-haired boy, her joy spilling too easily. The sound caught in Joon's chest. Beautiful. Yet hollow.
Later, when the others drifted back into their homes, one remained behind. A man older than the rest, his skin marked by faint cracks running along his jaw. He sat beside Joon at the fire, staring into the flames.
"They call me Min," the man said without looking up. His voice was low, as though it had been worn thin by silence.
Joon nodded politely, unsure what else to offer.
Min's cracked mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Don't you wonder?"
"Wonder what?"
"What we are." His gaze shifted finally, sharp and unsettling. "Some of us… were never finished."
The words lodged in Joon's chest like ice. "I don't understand."
Min tilted his head, and for an instant, the firelight carved his features into something broken. "Of course you don't. Not yet."
Then he rose and walked away, leaving footprints that the snow devoured instantly.
That night, as Joon and Hana lay in their small hut, his gaze lingered on her as she slept. A strand of hair had slipped aside, revealing the delicate curve of her neck.
And there, faint but undeniable, was a mark.
A thin scar, running horizontal like a seam, just above her collarbone.
Joon's breath caught. He reached out, fingers trembling, and brushed the edge of it.
Hana stirred, her eyes opening slowly. She saw where his hand lingered — and for a moment, her face flickered with something like fear.
Then she caught his hand and pressed it to her lips, smiling. "Don't question it," she whispered, voice softer than snow.
Joon wanted to ask, wanted to push. But the way her eyes pleaded — not with anger, but with sorrow — silenced him.
He kissed her hair instead. And tried, desperately, to believe in the warmth of her body pressed against his.
Yet as he drifted to sleep, he could not shake the image of Min's cracked face.
Some of us were never finished.