The crisp, organized life they were building was sometimes pierced by shards of the past. They were not dramatic intrusions, but subtle, haunting echoes. A car backfiring on the street would freeze Jun in his tracks, his body tensing for a threat that was no longer there. The smell of a particular brand of cheap disinfectant in a public restroom could send him into a silent, thousand-yard stare, transporting him back to the camp’s medical clinic.
Yuna learned to recognize the signs. She never made a big deal of it. She would simply place a hand on his arm, or say his name softly, anchoring him back in the present. It was a fragile archaeology, carefully brushing the dust off a buried memory without triggering a collapse.
One such echo arrived in the form of a man. Yuna’s assistant buzzed
