The cabin already smelled of goodbyes.
An open window. A cold wind drifting through the crack. Leftover lunch on the wooden table.
A comfortable silence.
Salin chewed slowly, but his eyes were far away. Jun-ho noticed on the third time.
— You're going to burn a hole in that wall if you keep staring like that.
Salin blinked, returning to the present.
— Hm?
Jun-ho tilted his chin slightly toward the wall opposite the table. The swords.
Four of them hung side by side, crossed over dark mounts. Polished metal. One matte black. One red. One traditional and curved. And the third—white, with gold details on the hilt and guard, almost too elegant to look like a weapon.
Salin wiped his fingers on the napkin, no longer hiding it.
— I just… I thought they were beautiful. Are they real?
Jun-ho let out a short breath through his nose.
— They are.
— Like… do they actually cut?
— Like "don't test it on your own finger."
Salin laughed softly. Jun-ho leaned his elbows on the table.
