No one came looking for the body.
Not that night.
Not the next morning.
The forest swallowed the dead like it always had — quietly, without protest.
But Tae-Jun didn't forget.
And Yul didn't speak.
---
They didn't rebuild the fire. They didn't move from the bunker.
They just sat. Closer now.
A single lantern glowed faintly between them — dim, flickering orange. Its flame was barely alive, like them.
It cast shadows that danced over their faces, both too tired to care what the darkness revealed.
Yul was cleaning his rifle. His fingers were slow, methodical. Not out of duty, but to keep his mind from collapsing into the weight of what he'd done.
Tae-Jun watched.
Then asked — quietly, carefully:
> "Was he your friend?"
Yul didn't answer.
He didn't even look up.
But he blinked.
Slow. Long. Like it hurt to close his eyes.
---
Tae-Jun pulled out his notebook.
> Entry Ten.
He won't speak tonight. Not even his name.
I don't blame him.
There's a sound silence makes after a gunshot. A stillness so thick it feels like drowning.
That's what we're in now.
But maybe that's okay. Maybe you don't always need words to stay human.
---
The lantern died sometime before midnight.
But neither of them moved.
They stayed there — shoulder to shoulder, breaths slow, alive.
---
When the rain came again, neither flinched.
Because in that moment, even the silence felt like something they shared.