The next day, when Arin stepped out of the house, the sky was heavy and gray. Clouds pressed together, choking the sunlight, as if the heavens themselves wished to remain unseen.
The village was busy as always: the calls of vendors, the steps of farmers, scattered voices drifting through the air. Yet behind all that noise, there was a hidden silence—
the silence of eyes fixed on him.
Some watched with curiosity, others with quiet mockery. It was no surprise. Everyone knew he had been in a coma for a full month after Jim—the chief's son—struck him down. And everyone had seen him return last night, crying.
As he passed the vegetable seller, he caught the words of two women:
— "Did you hear? The government delegation is coming soon."
— "Yes… my son will excel this year. Perhaps he'll be admitted to the Academy."
Arin did not slow his pace. Their words passed him like a cold breeze. Min-Su's memories told him what the "Academy" meant, but it stirred nothing inside him. His mind was consumed by one person—
the woman he called "mother."
He trudged on through the muddy paths until he spotted Jim and his friends. Loud laughter, mocking gestures. But when they saw him, the laughter sank into sly smiles.
Jim paused, as though expecting a reaction.
But Arin only met him with a cold stare—the kind of look a man gives when he knows he could crush you, but chooses not to… not yet.
The child within him wanted to tear them apart. But the man inside whispered: Not now.
He left them behind and made his way to the cemetery. And there she was.
Sitting beside the gray stone, her back hunched, her loose hair falling across her face. Her eyes were red, though no tears fell. She gazed at the grave as if it might answer her.
He stopped, watching. For a moment he trembled—his strange bond with Min-Su reminding him that his body was still his own, at least for now.
He stepped closer.
— "My son…"
Her voice was hoarse as she lifted her head.
He drew a deep breath and replied:
— "Mother."
She smiled the instant she heard the word. But his face remained stone.
— "This will be the last time I call you that. You must understand… this bond is wrong. I am not your son. Even if you adopted me, I will never truly be your son."
She did not collapse into tears as he expected. Instead, a sorrowful smile broke through, blurred by unshed tears.
— "You've grown… faster than I ever imagined. You know what you want now, and you choose your words yourself."
He said nothing. He knew the true reason for this "maturity," but she did not.
She turned her gaze back to the grave and spoke softly:
— "We wanted to take this truth with us to the grave… but it seems I failed."
He turned toward her, unspoken questions burning in his mind. Yet before he could voice them, she continued, as if reading his thoughts:
— "Max told me… if you ever asked, we must answer. And since he is gone… it falls to me."
Her eyes met his, unwavering, her words clear:
— "Arin, you are not our child."
He had known. And yet hearing it from her lips weighed heavy on his chest.
She went on:
— "We know nothing of your real parents. We found you in the forest, abandoned and alone… your face small, fragile. We took you in because we had no child of our own. We wanted you to be our son."
She rose to her feet, straightened her dress, and with one last look said:
— "To me, you will always be my son. The son I never bore… and I am proud of you."
She passed by him with quiet steps and left the place.
He stood frozen, his eyes on the grave, his ears straining against the silence that seemed to swallow the entire village.
That night, he did not return home.
He sat beneath the open sky, staring into the darkness.
But the sky did not answer.
The heavens always held their secrets… but never their mercy.