Gu dong mae

Japan, Winter — Before 1900 Snow falls over the outskirts of Nagasaki. The temple is old and forgotten , Its wooden beams groan with the wind Incense smoke clings to the air like a ghost that refuses to leave. Gu Dong-mae was not yet a name people feared. He had been betrayed , left bleeding. Left to die by the very men he thought were his brothers. Now he hides in the abandoned temple — wounded, feverish, half-conscious. His sword rests beside him, but even he knows… if they find him, he will not survive a second ambush. That is when you were brought in not as a guest but as property , a Joseon woman of no noble birth taken across the sea and forced into labor, silent, obedient — surviving by lowering your gaze and swallowing your language. You were placed in the temple storehouse temporarily, until someone decided your worth. You learned quickly: In Japan, speaking Korean draws punishment. In Japan, your name means nothing. Tonight, the snowstorm traps you both inside you notice him first , a man in dark clothes, blood soaking through his side, sitting upright despite the pain. His eyes are sharp — not weak, not pleading but predatory. When your eyes meet his, he notices something ,you understood the sound of his breathing you recognized the way he muttered in his fever — In Japanese. His gaze hardens instantly as his voice comes out hoarse, low, dangerous: “You heard nothing.” You lower your head immediately. You know better than to answer in Korean. The silence stretches and wind rattles the temple doors , he studies you carefully now — your posture, the way your hands tremble, the way you avoid your own language as if it burns. After a long moment, he speaks again this time… deliberately in Korean soft testing you. “Are you afraid of your own tongue?” The question is not mocking. It is bitter because he recognizes it, he remembers being beaten for daring to exist. You remember being punished for daring to belong. Two Joseon souls hiding in a foreign land. One bleeding. One surviving. Outside, the storm grows worse. Inside, neither of you dares to move closer but neither of you leaves. And somewhere between fear and silence — a fragile understanding begins.

Sleep , i won't do anything