It began with a cough. Nothing alarming. Just once or twice in the evenings. His mother would turn her head slightly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as she stirred thin porridge over the fire. "I'm fine," she would say before anyone asked. His father didn't look up. Work had been heavy that season. The quarry demanded longer hours. Stone dust clung to clothes, to hair, to lungs. Coughing was common in poor villages. No one feared it at first.
Days passed. The cough did not leave. It deepened. Less like irritation. More like something scraping from inside her chest. At night, when she thought they were asleep, he heard it. A quiet, contained sound. As if she were trying not to wake them. He lay on his mat, eyes open in the dark. Listening. Counting the pauses between each cough. Measuring something he did not understand.
She grew thinner. Her wrists sharper. Her steps slower. Once, while lifting a bucket from the well, she had to stop midway. Just for a breath. But he saw it. The tremor. He stepped forward immediately. "I can carry it," he said. She smiled. "You're still small." "I'm not." She hesitated. Then let him take the bucket. It was heavier than he expected. Water sloshed over his feet. But he did not spill it again.
That night, the cough lasted longer. His father finally noticed when she dropped a bowl. The sound of clay shattering felt louder than it should have. She stood there, staring at the pieces as if confused. Blood dotted the cloth she pressed to her lips. Too red. Too bright. His father's jaw tightened.
The next day, he left earlier than usual. He returned later. Empty-handed. "The healer says herbs," he said flatly. "They cost silver." There was no silver.
Winter approached quietly. Cold crept into the hut through cracks in the walls. Her cough grew harsher in the cold air. Sometimes she couldn't finish a sentence without stopping to breathe.
He began waking before dawn. Gathering dry sticks. Fetching water before the other children arrived. He stopped playing near the well. Stopped watching the games. When Jun waved at him, he only nodded. His world shrank to the hut. To the sound of breathing at night. Sometimes shallow. Sometimes uneven. He counted. Always counting.
One evening, he returned with a bundle of wild herbs he had seen older villagers collect before. "I found these," he said. His father looked at them. Silence. "They might help." His father nodded slowly. They boiled them anyway. The hut filled with bitter steam. She drank it without complaint. She always drank it.
That night, her coughing fit did not stop for a long time. He sat upright in the dark. His small hands clenched in the blanket. He wanted to do something. Anything. But there was nothing to strike. No bully to confront. No choice to step into. Just weakness. Powerless. The word echoed in a place he did not know existed inside him. He pressed his forehead to the cold wall.
And for the first time in this life, he whispered into the dark, "Please." He did not know who he was speaking to. The rain did not answer.
The healer spoke of a root that grew near the northern ridge. Rare. Warm in nature. "Good for the lungs," he had said. Expensive. His father did not ask the price again.
That night, after the coughing grew worse, he made his decision without announcing it. Before dawn, he was already dressed. The sky was pale gray. The air bit at the skin. "I'll go to the ridge," he said simply. His mother tried to sit up. "You don't know the path." "I'll find it." There was no argument. Because when poverty cornered a man, pride became irrelevant. Hope became currency.
He took a rope. A small knife. A sack. And left.
The snow had begun in the night. Not heavy. Just enough to hide old footprints. The boy stood outside the hut long after his father disappeared into white. The cold crept into his sleeves. He did not move. Something inside him felt unsettled. Not fear. Not yet. Just a tightening.
The day passed slowly. The mother slept more than usual. Her breathing shallow. The cough quieter. Too quiet. By sunset, he had not returned. The villagers said nothing at first. Men sometimes stayed late in the mountains. Snow made paths slow.
Night fell. The oil lamp burned low. The boy sat near the door. Listening. The wind howled once. Then silence. He did not sleep.
They found him at dawn. Two men from the village had gone looking when he failed to return. The northern ridge was steep. The snow was deeper there. He was sitting against a rock. Back straight. Head slightly bowed. As if resting. The sack was clutched tightly in his arms. Inside, the root. Intact. His fingers were frozen around it. He had found it. He had not made it back.
The villagers carried him down carefully. Snow still clung to his clothes. Ice to his lashes. The boy watched from the doorway as they approached. He knew. Before anyone spoke.
The world felt hollow.
They laid his father inside the hut. The mother tried to rise. She could not. When she saw him, there was no scream. Only a sound too small to describe.
The boy stood still.
His father's hands were still wrapped around the sack. Even in death. Protecting it. As if hope must not be dropped.
The boy knelt slowly. He touched the frozen fingers. They were harder than stone. Something inside his chest shifted. Not breaking. Not yet. Just moving.
He did not cry. He did not speak. Outside, the snow continued to fall. Indifferent.
They boiled the root that evening. Carefully. As if precision could bargain with fate. The hut smelled earthy and bitter. Steam rose in thin curls, fading before reaching the ceiling.
He held the bowl with both hands and brought it to her. She was lighter now. Even lifting her head seemed like effort stolen from somewhere else. "For you," he said.
She tried to smile. "Your father…" Her voice broke before the sentence finished. He did not let his face move. "He found it," he said quietly. "He did." She understood what that meant.
Her fingers trembled as she drank. Every swallow was slow. Deliberate. As if she were tasting not medicine, but sacrifice.
Night deepened. The wind outside softened. The coughing did not return as violently as before. For a moment, hope dared to breathe.
He stayed beside her mat. Watching. Counting. Always counting.
Her breathing grew steady. Then shallow. Then uneven. He leaned closer. "Mother?"
Her eyes opened slightly. Clouded. But aware. "You've grown," she whispered.
He shook his head. "I'm still small."
A faint smile touched her lips. "No… you're not."
Silence lingered between them. Not heavy. Just fragile.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
The words confused him. "For what?"
"For leaving you alone."
Something inside him trembled. "You're not leaving." It wasn't denial. It was a command.
She looked at him for a long time. As if memorizing him. "You must be kind," she said softly. "No matter what the world does."
The sentence carved itself somewhere deep.
Her fingers searched weakly. He took her hand. It was warm. Too warm.
Then the warmth began to fade.
Her breathing paused. Returned. Paused longer.
He leaned closer. Counting.
One. Two. Three. Four—
It did not come again.
He waited. Because sometimes there were long pauses. He had counted them before.
Five. Six. Seven.
The wind outside moved against the walls. The oil lamp flickered.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
The pause became permanent.
He did not understand at first. Because death had always been loud in stories. This was quiet. Almost polite.
He kept holding her hand. Waiting for it to tighten. It never did.
The hut felt larger suddenly. Empty in a way space should not be.
He did not cry. Not because he was strong, but because something inside him had gone still. Completely still.
Outside, the snow stopped falling. The sky cleared. Cold stars watched from a distance.
He sat there until the oil lamp died. In darkness. Alone.
The villagers buried them side by side. The ground was hard. It took longer than it should have. Men avoided looking at the boy. Women whispered softly. Someone placed a rough wooden marker at each mound. No names carved. Names cost money.
He stood without moving. Snow reflected too much light. The world felt brighter than it had any right to be.
When he returned to the hut alone, the silence was different. Before, silence meant listening. Now it meant absence.
The mat where his father once slept lay rolled in the corner. His mother's bowl still sat near the hearth. There was a faint crack along its edge from the night she dropped it. He stared at it for a long time.
Then he sat down.
No tears. No scream. Just breathing.
In. Out.
The air felt heavier without three sets of lungs sharing it.
Anger came quietly. Not a roar. A question.
Why?
He had done nothing wrong. He had tried to be good. He had endured beatings. He had worked. He had prayed. His father had sacrificed. His mother had been kind.
So why?
The question burned hotter than grief.
His hands clenched slowly. Nails pressing into skin.
If there was something watching, if there was some order, it was cruel.
The thought formed fully. Clear. Dangerous.
The hut seemed to shrink. The air thickened. His heartbeat quickened.
For a brief moment, he wanted to hate. Hate the cold. Hate the healer. Hate the sky. Hate whatever force decided which child lost everything.
It would be easy.
Hatred is warm. It fills empty spaces quickly.
He could let it grow. He could promise himself never to care again. Never to be soft. Never to be kind.
The world did not reward kindness. It buried it.
His breathing grew uneven.
Something inside him trembled. Not breaking. But choosing.
He remembered her voice.
You must be kind.
No matter what the world does.
The sentence returned like a quiet hand on his shoulder.
His anger did not disappear. But it stopped expanding.
He unclenched his fists slowly. Blood dotted his palm where his nails had pierced the skin. He looked at it. Pain. Real. Immediate. Understandable.
He exhaled. Long. Controlled.
"I don't understand," he whispered into the empty hut. "And I may never understand."
The wind outside did not answer. The sky did not explain.
He sat there until dusk. The anger remained. But it did not become hatred.
That was the choice.
No one saw it. No cosmic voice acknowledged it.
But somewhere, a thread thinned again.
And for the first time since his rebirth, he felt something subtle beneath the grief.
Not hope. Not strength. But direction.
He stood.
The hut was empty.
But he was still alive.