Chapter 11

May 4, 2029

New Light Refuge

Seoul, Korea

They gave us identification cards that morning—plastic cards on cords that hung around our necks like school IDs. It had my name, my city of origin, my age and a small Japanese flag in the top right corner. A young Korean volunteer handed them out with a smile and a warning: "You can explore the market, a few blocks down the river. Be back by sunset, or you'll have to answer to the night guard." We both nodded like we'd been waiting for this all our lives. They gave us some funds too, not much, but enough for food and maybe something small. A token of trust, they said.

We walked through the camp gates and into Seoul like strangers in a dream. Everything felt too bright, too wide. The air smelled different here—like hot concrete, frying batter, and a trace of cherry blossoms riding in the early spring wind. The market was only a fifteen-minute walk. Haoyan kept looking up at the high-rises and billboards, like he couldn't believe they were real. I stayed close to his side, our hands brushing until he finally just took mine. Stalls lined the narrow streets—vendors selling grilled fish caked on sticks, cheap phone charms, secondhand coats, and rows of golden tangerines that looked like they had their own light. I bought a paper bag of them, warm from the sun, and we ate them one by one as we walked.

That's when someone tapped Haoyan's shoulder. We both turned, startled, but the man just smiled—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharp officer's uniform that caught the light like armour. "Didn't expect to see you two here," he said in rusty Japanese, but understandable. Haoyan stood up quickly, respectfully. "Major Park. Sir." I blinked. Haoyan had mentioned helping coordinate deliveries and inspections, but I hadn't realised it brought him into contact with anyone so high-ranking. Major Park looked between us and nodded thoughtfully. "You've been doing good work. Heard about your unsuspected departure. It's quieter here. Better." "Yes, sir," Haoyan said, then glanced at me. "This is Yuki." The officer gave a small bow. "Pleasure. You've got a good one," he added, half-smiling at Haoyan. "We're grateful to be here," I said carefully. He nodded. "Just keep your heads low and be smart. People like you—who've seen war and chose peace—we need more of you." Then he walked away, as quickly as he'd arrived, disappearing into the crowd with a cup of street coffee in hand. Haoyan sat back down, stunned. "I didn't know he remembered me." "He did," I said. "He saw you."

Later, we sat by the river and watched a joyful man fly a kite in long, slow arcs. Haoyan leaned back on his elbows, eyes half-closed in the sunlight. "I forgot what peace felt like," he said. I didn't answer. I just leaned over and kissed his cheek. We walked back as the sky began to turn gold. It was a quiet walk, not out of fear, but something softer. Reverence. As if the day had been a gift, and we didn't want to break it by speaking too loudly. We returned to our tent just as the guard was doing his rounds. The canvas flaps felt like the front door to a home. We crawled into bed without speaking, our shoes at the foot of our bed, and for once, the silence between us wasn't full of worry. It was full of peace.