Minseok dipped his hand into the basin and felt ice shoot up his arms from the water curling around his wrist. It darkened instantly, swirling grey and then murky brown as he sloshed his hands in the water to shake off the dirt under his fingernails.

When he was done, he stared at his reflection, at the round-faced boy staring back at him, his eyes empty, almost lonely. A year had morphed to ten, and then twelve, but Minseok counted them only half-heartedly, measuring them through summers and winters and autumns and falls, through the progressive broadening of his frame and his lengthening limbs.

He still had those cheeks (he remembered distantly that his father used to dub them as ‘dumpling cheeks’), those large, slanted eyes, now outlined by two thick brows that settled heavily over his forehead. But much of their childish impishness was gone, driven away by weighty fatigue and the grief of loss. The years had matured him far beyond his age, and Minseok didn’t think his body took to a graceful transition. 

His rifle pressed against his shoulder blades as he shifted his arms, trying to get the kinks out of his back. He felt something pop, but it only bloomed a new ache –an ache that could only be soothed by a warm dinner, a soft mattress and a dreamless sleep. Minseok tugged at the strap around his shoulder, pulling the rifle so that it rested on his left shoulder, and then hefted the heavy sack onto his right.

The walk to the village didn’t take long. He lived in the outskirts, on the border between human habitation and trees, but it was a small village and everything was accessible through short walks and enduring patience. Minseok let his feet take him where he wanted to go as he let his thoughts run free.

His hunt today was okay. Nothing extraordinary, but he still had plenty to show for it, enough to get him coins to buy milk and flour. Minseok didn’t mind though; he’d lived on ordinary, owning very few luxuries.

His right shoulder burned from the weight of the sack. Minseok shifted it to his left.

It was almost dusk, the sun low on the horizon, casting light over the small road, but also calling the shadows to life under his feet. Soon, the road began branching out, and Minseok’s quiet ponderings were invaded by loud, insistent voices pounding its way into his head. He held his breath, hitched the sack up higher, and stepped into the heart of the village’s small town.

He was always aware of the shifty gazes on him; he had been aware of them ever since his story had been broadcasted throughout the whole village. Those eyes had dogged him wherever he went, and as a child, he’d been afraid, anxious of what they thought. Now, after being subjected to years of such treatment, he’d learned to ignore them. After all, nasty looks were just trifling worries compared to other things he’d seen in the forest.

He ducked his head, pulling the brim of his hat lower, until his eyes saw only half the world. The sack and rifle were still pressing onto his back, obtrusive, but familiar, his tether to reality. His only business today was with the butcher (he’d managed to find no herbs for the apothecary, or anything of use to sell to the weavers) so he took the shortest route he knew, one that kept him away from the prying eyes.

The metallic scent of blood assaulted his senses the minute he set a boot onto the threshold, thick and heavy. Minseok breathed it in; his dealings had taken him here much too often for the scent to bother him anymore. In fact, like the rifle and the sack it boded a sense of familiarity, of life moving on with him stuck in the middle, forced to earn and trade and hunt just to keep from getting left behind.

The butcher set down his cleaver the minute he saw Minseok. The sound of metal skewering a wooden slab was muted, but disturbing. 

“Ah, the town’s favourite huntsman. What have you to trade today?” His leer showed rows and rows of yellowed teeth, which Minseok regarded detachedly, unfazed.

“Rabbits,” he replied, setting the sack onto the counter and emptying it all over the butcher’s workspace, except one. “Six. All in good shape, good health when I found them.”

The butcher inspected the game critically, turning ears between scarred fingers, poking stomachs and perusing dead eyes. Minseok stared over his shoulder while he worked; he wasn’t keen on staring into any dead animal’s eyes, not when he saw life itself leave from them.

“Clean shots,” the butcher remarked, and for a minute or so was consumed by a fit of coughs. Minseok kept a straight face; it was a known fact that the butcher wasn’t in the pink of health. He tried to forget his illness by being as malicious as possible to any soul who asked.

“Six golds. One for each rabbit,” he finally said, leaning heavily against the counter.

“Eight,” Minseok bargained. “Those rabbits are healthy and fat, and I know you old man,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You plan to sell their meat for double, and their hide and fur for more.”

The butcher growled at him, but conceded. Minseok knew he had to. The rabbits were good and their meat was of excellent quality. He couldn’t reject such a bargain.

Minseok caught the gold the butcher threw at him, all the while impervious his grumbles and obvious expressions of discontent. He didn’t say goodbye when he turned to leave, but the butcher stopped him at the door for a final word.

“So tell me, huntsman,” he said, eyes gleaming with malice, “did you find any cottages in the forest today?”

Minseok regarded him coldly. “No. But I found a shop in the village that belonged to an ungrateful crook.”

He trudged down the small footpath, eyes trained on the ground before him as he concentrated on the dark grey stones beneath his feet. A fleeting memory of him running his hands over the rock to look for pebbles skittered across his eyes and he squelched it, burying it deep, if possible, deeper, into the dark recesses of his mind.

His cottage loomed, dark and dilapidated, withered away by age and neglect.

Minseok set his sack on the hook a little ways from the door, readjusted his rifle and twisted the knob. The creak sounded eerie echoing against the walls, but he knew that the house wasn’t empty. She was always home; she had never left ever since his father died.

The process of divesting himself of his hunting gear was long and unbearably tiring. Minseok undid the laces of his boots slowly, feeling an accumulation of the day’s fatigue settling on his shoulders as he bent to untie a stubborn knot. His rifle he stored carefully into its box; it had been the only possession of his father’s passed down to him, and even though Minseok wasn’t particularly fond of it, he felt obliged to keep it, caring for it as a family heirloom of sorts.

He combed his fingers through his hair with a sigh when he was done, and gazed around the empty room. He called her once, received no answer and then tried again. He didn’t know what he was expecting; she never answered him anymore when he called. Perhaps that little spark of hope still lingered; perhaps, at the back of his mind, he hoped to hear her soft voice from the kitchen, whipping up a meal to welcome his return.

But he heard nothing, and was forced to accept it as a wish made far too long ago.

He trudged down the hall, up the short staircase that led to the rooms. He stopped short at her door, his fist hovering over the wooden panel, wondering if today would be different, if for once, the door would open to let him in.

“Mother?” he called after steeling his resolve. “I’ve caught rabbits. Come out and look at one, will you?”

He received no reply. Like the foolish child he once was, he tried again. Minseok was used to rejection, but that didn’t mean he had come to terms with it yet; it didn’t mean he was going to give up trying.

After five minutes of knocking, he was forced to accept defeat. He trudged back down the stairs, retrieved his sack, and set about skinning and gutting the rabbit, draining its blood and hacking apart the bones. He found a pot and cooked it as well as he could. The chore ended up being his when he realised his stepmother was resolute in her mourning, and Minseok had accepted it without complaint, knowing that if he let her be, she’d die of starvation.

Six years ago, after his father’s death, the task of caring for their house and family fell upon his shoulders. He cooked, cleaned and took care of everything that needed human attention. He took on his father’s role as huntsman, just so they had food on the table and coins in their wallets. His stepmother did nothing but stay in her room, brooding over the loved ones she lost.

He ate alone. The clinks of his spoon and fork sounded hollow against the chipped plate, and the food he cooked was bland of any taste despite all the seasoning he’d lathered onto the meat. Minseok never really did have his stepmother’s touch when it came to flavouring a meal.

When he was done, he took the extra plate he had prepared and trudged up the steps, his footfalls heavy against the weathered wood. Balancing the tray to his chest, he knocked on her door again, pressing his ear intently against it in hopes of some response. He heard fabric swish and took it as a good sign.

“Mother, open up. I’ve brought dinner. Please come out and eat.”

Perhaps Minseok had gotten his hopes up too high, too early; the door still remained shut.

Minseok sighed. His breath felt hot against his lips. “I’m opening the door, Mother, whether you like it or not.”

The key was hidden under the vase in the hall and Minseok set his tray down to retrieve it. The lock slipped open with a turn and a click, and the door swung open to reveal a room swathed almost entirely in gloom, save for that small bit of light hovering at the edge, illuminating the pallid features of the woman slumped in an armchair. Her eyes followed Minseok as he entered, setting the tray on the small table by her bed.

“You should eat, Mother,” he said gently, eyeing the thinness of her frame and the deathly pallor of her skin.

“Don’t call me that,” she said, just as softly. “I am not your mother.”

Minseok in a deep breath and steeled himself for a conversation had one time too many. “My birthmother died when I was born. For a year my father mourned her and then took you in as his new wife. You’ve cared for me as though I was your own. As far as I’m concerned, you are my mother.”

“You cost me my son,” she said. Her cheekbones looked too sharp, jutted out too far in her angular face, and her hands were a skeleton’s hands: too much bone and no flesh.

“You know that I grieve for him as much as you.”

“If you hadn’t brought him to that wretched forest I would still have my son! My Jongin.” Her voice cracked, and Minseok could only watch, helpless, as she crumpled over her armchair, body folding like silk tears as leaked out of her bloodshot eyes. “My poor Jongin.”

Minseok bowed his head, biting his own lip to keep his tears from falling. With his heart still aching, he bid her a quiet farewell and left, closing the door to her agonised weeping.

Oh, how Minseok wished he could turn back time.