The Captain and the Wind

The Name She Was Given

The first light of dawn was a pale, hesitant grey, bleeding into the darkness of the cabin. Yuna awoke not to the hum of Seoul’s traffic, but to the deep, resonant silence of the mountains, broken only by the crackle of dying embers in the hearth and the soft, rhythmic sound of a whetstone on steel.

Jun sat at the small table, his back to her, methodically sharpening his field knife. Each stroke was precise, controlled, a meditation in discipline. In the quiet, he seemed less like a soldier and more like a part of the landscape itself—enduring, immutable, and carved by a harsh environment. She watched the play of muscle in his shoulders beneath his uniform shirt, the focused intensity that seemed to be his default state.

“I know you’re awake,” he said without turning, his voice a low rumble that fit the morning. “Your breathing changed.”

A faint shiver, not of fear but of something else entirely, traced its way down her spine. “Is there anything you don’t notice, Captain?”

He paused his sharpening. “It’s my job to notice. It’s what keeps people alive.” Finally, he turned, his dark eyes finding hers in the dim light. They were unreadable, yet she felt seen in a way she never had under the glare of a thousand camera flashes. “Today, we begin. No more Yuna Seo.”

The finality in his tone was a cold splash of reality. Yuna Seo, CEO, heiress, celebrity—she was a ghost here. The woman in this cabin was someone else entirely.

Lieutenant Kim Hana entered without knocking, her presence as crisp as the morning air. She carried a small bundle of rough-spun clothing and a wooden bowl of steaming porridge. Her sharp eyes flicked from Jun to Yuna, missing nothing.

“She’ll need to lose that Seoul softness,” Hana stated, setting the bowl down. “Her hands are too smooth. Her posture is too… open.”

“She’ll learn,” Jun replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. He gestured to the bundle. “Those are for you. Put them on.”

When Hana left, Yuna unfolded the clothes: a faded navy jeogori top and a patched, dark grey chima skirt, made of a coarse, sturdy fabric. They were a world away from the silk and cashmere of her former life. She changed behind a makeshift screen of a hung blanket, the rough cloth feeling alien against her skin. When she emerged, Jun was standing, holding a small, worn case.

He opened it to reveal an ink pot, a pen, and a stack of official-looking forms stamped with the insignia of the People’s Army.

“Sit,” he instructed, his voice all business.

She sat beside him at the table, their knees briefly brushing beneath it. A jolt, small but electric, passed between them. He didn’t react, but she saw the subtle tightening of his jaw.

“Your name is Kim Haneul,” he began, unfolding one of the forms. “You are twenty-seven years old. A seamstress from Hyesan, orphaned during the famines, now seeking work in this sector. You are a distant cousin on my mother’s side, which is why I have vouched for you.”

“Kim Haneul,” Yuna repeated, testing the name on her tongue. It felt foreign, yet there was a poetry to it. “It means ‘sky’.”

He met her gaze, and for a fleeting second, the soldier’s mask slipped, revealing a glimpse of the man who had named her. “Fitting, for someone who fell from it.”

Her breath caught. In that simple statement, she felt the weight of their shared secret, the unspoken bond that had begun the moment he cut her from that tree. “And you? What will you be in this story?”

He looked away, focusing on the form. “The man responsible for you. The one who will answer if you fail.”

They worked for hours. He taught her to mimic the blocky, functional handwriting, to memorize the details of her fabricated life—the name of her fictional street, the state-owned factory where she supposedly worked. Her soft Seoul accent was her greatest betrayer.

“Not ‘hwe-san’,” he corrected, his voice low and close to her ear as he leaned in to point at a character. “It’s ‘hye-san.’ The sound is flat. Hard. There is no music in it.”

His proximity was overwhelming. She could smell the faint scent of pine and soap on his skin, see the individual lashes framing his intense eyes. She froze, hyper-aware of the scant inches between them.

Jun seemed to realize it too. He straightened abruptly, putting professional distance back between them. “Again.”

“Hye-san,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.

He gave a curt nod, but his hand lingered on the paper near hers a moment too long.

Hana entered later with tea, her gaze sweeping over the scene—the scattered papers, the charged, quiet space between them. She set the cups down with a definitive clink. “You should be careful,” she said, her voice devoid of its usual sharpness, which made the warning more potent.

“We are practicing,” Jun said, his tone defensive.

“The walls are thin,” Hana replied, her eyes locking with Yuna’s. “And curiosity is a disease that spreads quickly here. Keep your practice… academic.” With that, she left.

The silence she left behind was heavy. Jun sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She’s not wrong. If anyone suspects—”

“I know,” Yuna interrupted, a flare of defiance in her chest. “I won’t be a burden.”

“It’s not the burden I’m worried about,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to the fake identification papers. “It’s the price.”

Later, he took her to the edge of the forest where the snow-dusted path led toward the village. The air was biting, but clean. In the distance, they could see the small, smoke-plumed houses, hear the faint sounds of life—a barking dog, a child’s shout, the chop of an axe.

“From today, you are Kim Haneul,” he said, handing her a worn woolen cap. “You work with Hana, mending uniforms. You speak only when spoken to. You keep your eyes down. You are invisible.”

Yuna pulled the cap on, tucking her distinctive hair away. “And if someone asks about my life? My family?”

“Say they’re gone,” he said, his voice flat. “Most people’s are.”

The stark truth of it silenced her. He lived in a world where such a statement was a simple, unadorned fact.

As they walked back toward the cabin, their boots crunching in sync, a strange sense of peace settled over her. It was the rhythm of their steps, the shared silence, the fragile trust growing between them. When they reached the door, she turned to him.

“Captain… Jun. Why are you really doing this? You could have handed me over that first day and been a hero.”

He stopped, his figure framed by the darkening pine forest. He looked at her, and for the first time, he didn’t hide the conflict in his eyes. “Maybe I was tired of following orders that made me feel less than human. Maybe you falling from the sky was the first real thing that has happened to me in a long time.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs. “And if they find out?”

“Then it was worth it,” he said, and the raw honesty in his voice stole her breath.

That night, as a cold moon rose, Yuna sat by the window. She whispered the name he had given her. Kim Haneul. The sky. It was no longer a prison sentence, but a secret identity, a story they were writing together. She could hear Jun’s steady breathing from the other side of the wall, and for the first time since the crash, the feeling that enveloped her wasn’t fear.

It was hope.

But outside, huddled by a small fire near the barracks, Corporal Dae-ho nudged Private Min-jae. “You ever hear him?” Dae-ho whispered, his eyes wide. “Talking to her late at night. His voice… it’s different.”

Min-jae frowned, poking the fire. “Don’t listen to things you shouldn’t, Dae-ho.”

“I can’t help it,” Dae-ho insisted,

lowering his voice further. “I think… I think the Captain has a ghost in his house.”