Sehun has been waiting too long for this day.

Three years after the war and all chaos has finally died down—like the flickering light of the oil lamp that fails to brighten the path across his residence. But his home looks less like a house, rather a mere rooftop that shelters his small head; protects the bodies of his parents that he had buried in his backyard long ago.

“Is this the Oh residence?” The man peers inside the house, his face scanning past the strings of clothes that hang from one side of the wall to another. His eyes wide with curiosity—or maybe, shock. He notices the faint handprints that smear themselves across the room, effectively staining the cement to a dull bloody red.

“Yes.”

“Are your parents around? May I speak to them?”

Sehun notices how every syllable that falls from this man’s tongue is articulated with immense effort. And the words cut off with a precise edge—too precise. As if the man was speaking in another language. He eyes the person before him with steel glares.

And the man smiles all too knowingly. “I'm from the South Korea Division, Class B. I’m here to pass your brother’s things,” the man tries; his sentences hanging like a question he is expecting Sehun to answer.

But when the younger fails to move his lips, the man starts again. “May I see your parents, please?”

Sehun is too busy staring at the man to process his words. He looks too young for the army—his brown hair falls to his eyes in a messy fringe; specks of snow, which had melted during his journey, leave his locks in wet clumps. His eyes are a bright hazelnut brown that light up as he smiles ever so innocently.

“Hello?” the man prods.

“My parents aren’t here. They—” Sehun shakes his head and clears his throat before continuing, “—died, during the war.”

Sehun sees the man’s lips fall for a moment, but they quickly carve out a bigger, more sympathetic smile.

“Oh, but the papers didn’t mention any other deaths—”

“Theirs was a harsh and sudden death that no one should ever deserve.” Sehun interrupts.

The man apologises, though Sehun has registered the fact that he doesn’t really mean it.

“So do I pass his things to you?” the man dusts off the snow that has caught onto the fabric of his thick shirt.

“That would be great, yes.”

The man swings his haversack over to his front and digs into it, to find a small cardboard box of valuables. He hands it over to Sehun who grasps it with his frozen fingers.

“I guess I’ll be going now. It was—” the man pauses to find the correct word, “—nice to meet you.”

And Sehun knows he is lying. Yet, he doesn’t have the heart to let this man go.

This man, this man who stands before him in thick bundles of scarves and jackets—he could be the answer to his brother’s death; he could be the only connection Sehun has with his brother.

“Wait,” Sehun calls just as the man turns to leave. “Were you and Kai in the same company?”

“Kai?” the man’s eyebrows furrow.

“Jongin, I mean,” Sehun cringes as the name leaves his lips and reverberates across his chest. He had sworn never to speak that name again—but here he was, carelessly letting it leave as mist from his mouth and dissolve into the cold air.

The man’s face scrunches in fear and his lips quiver like nervous attacks. He scratches the nape of his neck as he looks to the snowy ground.

Sehun repeats himself, anxious and acute of the other’s reactions now, “did you know my brother, Jongin?” He speaks slowly and firmly, his chapped lips settled into a hard line.

“No, not personally,” the man sighs, “but I have met him, only once. He seemed like a charming, young fellow.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

The elder is uncomfortable, for he shifts his weight between his feet before looking up to face Sehun, “it was during the Battle of Inchon.”

“So you fought alongside him, then? Was he a good fighter? He told me that he’d fight until—”

“Yes, yes. He was a good fighter. But not good enough.”

Sehun can tell that it troubles the man to speak of the incident. His fingers are trembling now, and Sehun can almost see blood peeking from the skin of the man's lips—he is gnawing on them subconsciously.

A long stretch of mist separates the two from coming nose to nose with each other. And the man lets out a harsh breath that smells like cinnamon—with a vague trace of cigarette and fire.

“You see, I wasn’t fighting along with him. I was fighting against him.”

Sehun’s nails dig deep into the flesh of his hands. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you just say you were from the—”

“South Korean Division?” the man finishes for him, “yes, that’s where they took me to, once they had found me.”

“F-found you?”

“After the battle, I was wounded—”

Sehun opens his mouth to interrupt, but the other starts first.

“—Your brother jabbed me in the gut with his rifle before he fell. Quite strong, he was,” the other smiles bitterly from his memory. “I laid there until nightfall when your brother’s company found me; arrested me and took me to their campsite. I joined their company in exchange for freedom. Though I don’t see any freedom coming my way—I’m not even allowed to return to my country.”

The man's words blend together in a single crack across the surface of snow. Sehun is no longer paying attention to the man before him. His thoughts have trailed to a dark corner. But soon, realisation hits him hard across the cheek. And he speaks before he can stop himself, “you….you said that he stabbed you before he fell? You mean to say, you actually saw him when he died?”

“Yes, I saw him when he died," the man’s arms fall to his side painfully, and his fringe shades the guilt in his orbs, "....because I was the one who had shot him.”

The man watches as Sehun’s face contorts with what seems like confusion, before it scrunches in terror.

The younger takes in a sharp and sudden breath, almost choking on the frozen air. He takes a step back and the horror that glazes his eyes leaves the tiny hairs on his arm standing in gruesome disgust. “You’re…. Luhan?”

The man’s eyes widen, “how do you know my name?”

“The soldiers came when they had found my brother’s body,” Sehun flinches as the cruel truth echoes across his surroundings. He feels the anger rush through the palpitations of his heart. “They told me you were dead! They said that you had got what you deserved!”

Luhan gives his best effort to reply calmly. “Yes, and they told me that your parents were still alive.” He bends down slightly to meet the other’s height and places one hand on his shoulder, “many truths are lost during a war—taken far away and mixed up with others. I’m sorry, but the soldiers told you wrong.”

Sehun’s lips quaver in the winter, his eyes watering. A few incoherent words leave his lips in a barely-audible mutter. But they gradually grow louder and Luhan is shocked when the younger finally yells, “YOU DID THIS! YOU RUINED MY FAMILY!” and slams the door in his face.

Luhan's blank stare burns its way through the worn-out door. Sure, he could leave this way. But something about the boy's harsh screams felt terribly wrong.

He taps the door and leans his forehead against the wooden surface that seems to be peeling away from its base, “Listen, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“What good does your apology do? You can’t bring my brother back! You don't know anything! You don't know what it feels like to live on your own!”

And Sehun's strong front falters for half a second, when Luhan swears he heard a small sob coming from behind the door. “I think I know exactly how you feel. I don’t even know if my family is still alive…” the elder trails.

Sehun doesn’t answer.

Luhan knocks the door again, before he whispers. “Sehun, I know you might never forgive me for what I had done. But just—” Luhan lets out a long breath, “—just let me help you.”

Sehun leans against the door, as his sobs slowly escalate to ceaseless wailing. The tears stain his dusty cheeks with an austere gathering of grey dirt. Luhan’s words haunt his entire being, and Sehun doesn’t find the courage in himself to talk to this man again.

But maybe, just maybe, the elder is right. Maybe Sehun does need some help—comforting, that is.

He collects himself and scrapes away his dried tears with the edges of his nails. And one harsh turn of the doorknob is all it takes for Sehun to stand in front of the man who had killed Jongin.

Luhan looks up with his large eyes, hopeful and guilty. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

But Sehun doesn’t reply.

Rather, he finds himself crying into this stranger’s arms—through the remains of darkness and stars and planets that have been lost since the war's ignorance of pride.

The oil lamp near Sehun's pathway dies out completely, and all the younger can feel is his heartbeat and the soft of his hair. And he thinks:

Jongin is the mystery of death.
Luhan is the evidence of murder.