Life at the safe house began to settle into a new, fragile rhythm. Jun’s physical strength returned day by day, the hollows in his cheeks filling out, the shadows under his eyes lightening. But the deeper healing was a more complex journey, one that unfolded in the quiet spaces between words.
He started helping with chores, finding a strange solace in the mindless, productive tasks. Chopping wood, his muscles burning with a clean, honest fatigue. Weeding the small vegetable patch Yuna had started, his fingers sinking into the rich, dark soil. These were acts of creation, of nurturing, a direct counterpoint to the destruction that had defined his life for so long.
One afternoon, he was fixing a leaky faucet in the kitchen, his brow furrowed in concentration. Yuna watched him from the door
