Chapter 6

March 4, 2029

Refugee Camp 38, Korea

The woman who registered me called over the boy behind the crates and asked him to take me to my assigned tent. He nodded and gave me a polite smile, then motioned for me to follow. As we walked, I noticed just how big the camp was. The gravel paths twisted between rows of white and red tents, along with modular shelters. Some newer, some already weather-worn. Tarps flapped in the breeze. Laundry lines stretched between tent poles like makeshift fences, the clothes dancing lightly in the wind. I could hear conversations in so many languages, Japanese, Korean, Mandarin, and others I didn't recognise. It was a strange kind of music. The camp had a rhythm. People moved with a quiet purpose. Children peeked out from tents, elders sat in folding chairs under umbrellas, and mothers stirred pots on portable stoves.

On one end of the camp, closer to the main gates, everything seemed more structured. There were proper wash stations, medical tents, and even a small market where volunteers handed out packaged food and clothes. The tents were tightly packed but clean, almost orderly. Some people had started planting some flowers in empty cans and old buckets. A few kids kicked a ball between water jugs, their laughter spilling all over the fences. But as we moved farther, the tone shifted. The other end of the camp felt quieter, more uncertain. The white tents faded away until there were only red tents. There were fewer supplies and fewer volunteers. The gravel paths gave way to patches of uneven dirt. Tents sagged under their weight, and some had no proper flooring. Just tents on bare earth. This side, the boy explained, had been set up more recently, after the influx of refugees from the north and farther inland. "This area's still being built out," he said softly, as if apologising. "Most of the new arrivals from the north are placed here." It makes sense. Even though Korea had reunited two years ago, the scars of nearly eight decades of separation ran deep. The infrastructure, the economy, and the people had been divided for so long. Here, on the edge of the camp, which they called the "Red End," you could feel the weight of that history. The people looked the same, they were still happy, but the air felt different. Heavier. The boy told me I wasn't allowed in the Red End since that spot is only for northern refugees, but we plan to expand it very shortly. I nodded.

We went back to the southern end and stopped in front of a spacious white tent labelled "C-17." He held the flap open for me. Inside, it was spacious enough to put my belongings. It had a bed, a light hanging from a battery pack, a small desk, and a plastic bin in the corner with a few supplies. I thanked him, and he gave a small bow before slipping away. I went over to the little desk, placed my bag on it, and sat on the edge of my bed. The camp outside buzzed with life and silence all at once. I let the flap fall closed, leaned back, and listened.