An eye closed. Inhale. Fingers tightened against the fletching. Arm pulled back, bent at the elbow. Exhale. Release.

The arrow broke through the air, cutting it with its fine tip before it embedded itself on a wooden plank. She hissed. She missed. Again.

She held out her bow, strung it once. Her fingers grazed against the thin string, pulling it backwards before releasing. She frowned. She lifted her right hand. Cuts were evident. A sigh escaped her lips.

No. She needed practice. She needed to vent this out.

“How many hours have you stood there?” A voice broke her line of thoughts.

She turned, eyes glaring at the newcomer.

“I don’t know. I was here right after I finished my schedules.” She replied.

“And you haven’t landed a single arrow on the mark?” The figure approached with an eyebrow raised at the barren target situated before the large wooden plank.

She grunted. “No. Not since I got here, unnie.”

She heard the older one chuckle. She felt vexed at the response. Her eyes stared at the figure’s back, which stood before her taller form.

“Give me your bow and hand me an arrow.” 

And she did as told. She stepped back to watch the older girl mount the arrow on the bow. She intently observed her unnie bend her elbow as she pulled on the fletching, stretching the string of the bow as she aimed at the bull’s eye. The younger one held her breath as her unnie released the arrow.

Time s