EXT. FOREST SLOPE · MORNING AFTER RAIN
Morning light slants through the damp woods. The ground glistens, silver and soft.Na-mi and Yo-an sit by a flat stone slab, etched with dense carvings—symbols and words they've left behind.
Yo-an crouches, gently scraping today's mark with a shard of stone.Just a single line. A quiet "one."
Na-mi sits beside him, eyes lingering on the carvings, lost in thought.
In the top corner of the slab, the first marks began—six years ago.Line after line, day after night.Over two thousand lines, a record of time passed.
EXT. WOODLAND HUT · DUSK
Na-mi, as always, writes inside the small hut she and Yo-an built from planks and vines.She's made many wooden boards.Each evening, she carves her thoughts of the day onto one.
Her fingers brush the surface, slow and tender.Her gaze drifts to Yo-an nearby—he's gathering dry firewood, his broad shoulders and back stretched long in the fading light.
Na-mi lowers her head, turns slightly, and presses the board gently to her chest.A memory flickers. Two years ago.
That night, she bled.
At first, she thought she was wounded.She tried to wrap it.But the blood wouldn't stop.She sat on the stone bench, panicked hands fumbling, eyes wide with fear, fixed on Yo-an.
Yo-an didn't flinch.He knelt beside her, quiet under the moonlight.He handed her a soft cloth to sit on.Lit the fire.Let her warm her hands.
He had once found a diagram in the ruins of the Old Tower—A fetus, a body growing into form.He understood, vaguely, what it meant.He was calmer than Na-mi.
He told her:"This is Moon-speak. Our difference.Like how my voice grew rough, and your Moon-speak began."
Na-mi nodded, half-understanding.
Yo-an looked at her, gently.Didn't speak again, just added another log to the fire.
Na-mi picked up her wooden board.Scratched a thin line onto it—for today.
Then paused.
She added a tiny crescent moon next to it.
That's how she felt now—No longer confused.This is who I am.