The Captain and the Wind

The Ghost in the House

The rumour, once seeded, began to grow in the dark, fertile soil of a soldier’s monotonous life. The Captain’s ghost. It was a tantalizing mystery, a break from the endless cycle of patrols and drills. Whispers trailed Jun as he inspected the troops, subtle glances were exchanged when he gave orders. He heard them, of course—the fragmented sentences that died when he approached, the sudden, too-interesting patch of ground his men would find to study. He was a master of observation; their poorly concealed curiosity was as obvious to him as a shout in the silent forest.

It made his posture straighter, his commands sharper. He clamped down on the unit with rigid discipline, a preemptive strike against any questions. He assigned Dae-ho to extra latrine duty for a minor infraction, a clear message to stop gossiping and focus on his duties.

Inside the cabin, the world was different. A fragile domesticity had taken root. Yuna, now Haneul, learned to mend tears in thick wool uniforms under Hana’s critical eye. Her first stitches were clumsy, too loose, too decorative. Hana would click her tongue, rip them out, and demonstrate again with swift, efficient jabs of the needle.

“You are not making art,” Hana chided, her voice low. “You are making something last. There is a difference.”

Yuna nodded, her fingers growing sore and pricked. She was a quick study, her business acumen translating into a determination to master this new, survival-level skill. As she worked, she listened. She learned the rhythms of the camp—when the shifts changed, which soldiers were lazy, which were sharp. She stored every piece of information, a habit from her boardroom days, now used for a far more dangerous game.

Jun watched her. He couldn’t help it. He saw the fierce concentration on her face, the way she bit her lip in frustration, the small, triumphant smile when she finally completed a seam to Hana’s satisfaction. He saw the heiress fading, replaced by a woman of grit and quiet resilience. It unsettled him more than any enemy incursion.

One evening, after Hana had left, Yuna was struggling with a particularly stubborn patch on a jacket. With a sigh of frustration, she jerked the needle, and it slipped, plunging deep into her thumb.

A sharp gasp escaped her. A bright bead of blood welled up.

In an instant, Jun was there. He didn’t speak. He simply took her hand in his, his grip firm yet gentle. He pulled a clean cloth from his pocket, his movements efficient, and pressed it against the wound.

“You need to be careful,” he murmured, his head bent over her hand.

His touch was warm, his fingers calloused and strong. Yuna could only watch, her breath caught in her throat, as he tended to the tiny wound with the same focused care he would give a battlefield injury. The cabin seemed to shrink, the air growing thick and warm. She could feel the heat of his body, see the dark strands of his hair falling across his forehead.

“It’s just a prick,” she whispered, her voice unsteady.

He looked up, and his eyes were dark pools of something unnameable. “Even small wounds can fester if not cared for.”

Their faces were close. So close she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar above his eyebrow. The world narrowed to this point of contact, his hand holding hers, the sound of their breathing mingling. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he might lean closer. She felt an inexplicable pull, a desire to bridge that final, impossible inch.

The door swung open.

Sergeant Han Dae-ho stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide as they took in the scene: the Captain, holding the seamstress’s hand, their bodies angled toward each other in an unmistakable moment of intimacy.

Jun dropped her hand as if burned, stepping back swiftly, his face hardening into its usual impassive mask. “What is it, Sergeant?” he barked, the authority in his voice like a physical wall.

Dae-ho flinched. “I—I was just… the supply report, sir. It’s ready for your review.” His eyes darted to Yuna, then back to Jun, full of confusion and dawning understanding.

“Leave it on the desk,” Jun commanded, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “And next time, knock.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Dae-ho practically fled, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft, definitive click.

The spell was shattered. The air, once warm, now felt cold and heavy with consequence.

Jun wouldn’t look at her. He strode to the window, his back rigid. “That was a mistake.”

The words were like a slap. Yuna curled her injured hand into a fist, the phantom warmth of his touch still on her skin. “Which part? Helping me? Or almost kissing me?”

He turned, his expression stormy. “All of it. This… proximity. It’s dangerous. For both of us.”

“Dangerous,” she repeated, a bitter taste in her mouth. “Or is it just that you’re afraid to feel something that isn’t duty?”

His eyes flashed. “You know nothing of what I feel. You are a complication. A risk to my command, to my men, to your own life. That is all.”

He was lying. She could see it in the tightness around his mouth, in the way his fists were clenched at his sides. He was pushing her away to protect her, to protect the careful order of his world. But the words still stung.

“I see,” she said, her voice quiet and cold. She stood, gathering her sewing. “Then I will endeavor to be less of a complication, Captain.”

She retreated to the corner of the room, creating a physical and emotional distance. The rest of the evening passed in a thick, suffocating silence.

The next day, the atmosphere in the camp was different. Dae-ho couldn’t meet Jun’s eyes. The whispers were no longer about a ghost; they were about the Captain and the pretty seamstress from Hyesan. The rumour had taken shape, and it was far more dangerous in its specificity.

Jun knew the damage was done. A private moment had become public knowledge, a vulnerability his enemies—both within the army and beyond—could exploit. He doubled down, becoming colder, more distant with Yuna, speaking to her only when necessary in clipped, formal tones.

Yuna played her part, her eyes downcast, her voice meek. But inside, a fire burned. She wouldn’t let him reduce what was happening between them to a mere “complication.” He had saved her, named her, and in the quiet moments, looked at her as if she were the only real thing in his world. That had to mean something.

The test came sooner than expected. A black sedan, sleek and official, pulled into the camp, kicking up a cloud of dust. Out stepped Colonel Park Seojin, his uniform pristine, his eyes like chips of ice as they scanned the compound.

Jun’s entire body went taut. He met the Colonel with a perfect salute. “Sir. This is an unexpected honour.”

Colonel Park’s smile was thin and humourless. “I was in the sector. I thought I would check on my most dedicated Captain. I’ve been hearing… things.”

“What kind of things, sir?” Jun’s voice was neutral, but Yuna, watching from the cabin window, saw the subtle tension in his shoulders.

“Oh, rumours,” the Colonel said, his gaze drifting past Jun, casually sweeping over the cabins. “Talk of a new face. A seamstress, I’m told. Your cousin.” His eyes lingered on Jun’s cabin. “Family is so important, is it not? A comfort. But it can also be a distraction for a man in your position.”

The threat was veiled in polite conversation, but it was palpable.

“She is a hard worker, sir. No distraction,” Jun replied, his tone even.

“I’m sure,” Colonel Park said, his eyes finally settling on Jun. “See that it stays that way, Captain. The state has invested much in you. It would be a shame if… personal matters… compromised your focus.” He paused, letting the silence hang. “I would like to meet her. This cousin of yours.”

Inside the cabin, Yuna’s blood ran cold. This was it. The first real test of her identity, and it was against the most dangerous man she had likely ever encountered.

Jun gave a curt nod. “Of course, sir. I will fetch her.”

As Jun walked toward the cabin, his steps measured and calm, his eyes met Yuna’s through the window. In that brief, unguarded moment, she saw not a soldier, but a man staring into an abyss. And in that moment, she knew. Whatever this was between them, it was worth fighting for. She was no longer just Kim H

aneul, the seamstress.

She was the secret Captain Ryu Jun was willing to fall for.