𝟎𝟏; The Wind Across the Little Bay;

The wind swept across the little bay.

The dirt road twisted along the shore, quiet as a faint scar etched in the earth. Back then, people still called this place simply: “the southern fishing village.” The air smelled of salt and smoke from old corrugated roofs. Time seemed slower here, and the sea breeze preserved everything even sorrow.

Minho stepped down from the silver coach, dust clinging to his clothes. He had travelled far, yet few places had ever made him pause like this. The wind carried the sound of the waves, whispering something familiar he couldn’t name.

Before him, the bay opened like a gentle crack between sea and sky. Wooden boats bobbed in the water, their sails tattered yet stubbornly fluttering. On the pier, someone sat quietly, legs dangling above the waves. From a distance, Minho recognized the slender figure, still and faint as twilight light.

Newt turned at the sound of footsteps. His eyes were bright, yet there was a subtle weariness, like a winter that had not yet thawed.

“You’re new here?”

Minho nodded, hiding a hint of nervousness.

“Yes. I came looking for work at the dock. Heard you’re short-handed.”

Newt smiled faintly, a smile incomplete yet enough to light the bay for a moment.

“We’re short of more than people,” he said softly.

They fell silent. The wind tugged at Newt’s pale blond hair. Minho realized it was this quiet that made him truly hear the waves, the cry of seagulls, and the irregular beat of his own heart.

He sat down beside Newt. The wooden pier creaked beneath them, groaning with age.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough that I can’t remember who or what I’ve been waiting for,” Newt said, eyes on the horizon. “Some days, when the wind blows across the bay, I think… maybe someone will arrive.”

Minho smiled softly, struck by something unseen. He didn’t know if he had come for work, or for some meeting the wind had quietly arranged.

The next day, Minho started at the dock. The labour was hard, the smell of fresh fish and oil thick in the air, the shouts of men hauling nets echoing all around. Yet amid the noise, he kept glancing toward the familiar figure on the pier. Newt rarely spoke to anyone unless approached. He was part of the bay itself, silent, yet impossible to ignore.

Once, after finishing his shift, Minho found Newt holding a stack of old letters. Yellowed paper, handwriting curling like waves breaking on the shore.

“What are you writing?” Minho asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

Newt looked up, a rare spark in his eyes.

“Letters from the wind.”

“Letters from… the wind?” Minho raised an eyebrow.

Newt nodded, serious as if stating an undeniable truth.

“The wind is different every day. Sometimes from the north, bringing the forest’s chill. Sometimes from the south, salty and mixed with drying fish. If I don’t write it down, I’m afraid I’ll forget. And if I forget… I won’t know what remains of me.”

Minho stayed quiet. In this tiny village, where people lived to haul nets, Newt kept a strange job: remembering the wind.

“Maybe you’re like the wind,” Minho said suddenly.

Newt looked at him, eyes flickering with surprise.

“Impossible to hold, but remembered by everyone,” Minho added, realizing he had said something true.

In the days that followed, they met more often. Sometimes Minho brought Newt fresh bread from the shop. Sometimes Newt handed him a scrap of paper, a few hurried words: “Today the south wind blew, salty as tears.”

One afternoon, they sailed on a small boat. The waves rocked them, the wind whipped around, and the sky stretched wide, making them feel like tiny dots on a boundless blue canvas.

“Aren’t you afraid?” Newt asked, voice louder than the waves.

“No,” Minho replied, steady. “As long as someone sits beside me.”

Newt laughed, a rare, genuine smile.

“That’s good. I never wanted to sail alone anyway.”

In that moment, Minho realized that amidst all uncertainty, he had found one certainty: he wouldn’t leave this little bay anytime soon.

That night, the wind howled. The window rattled, moonlight fractured across the sea. Minho tossed and turned, recalling every word, every glance of Newt. The wind outside seemed to knock at the door, asking if he had come only to work, or to hold something fragile but truer than anything.

In Newt’s journal that night might have been written:

“Wind from the east roars, wild and vast. Yet in it, I hear a heartbeat that is not mine.”

And so the wind swept across the little bay, carrying two people who had never planned to meet, yet now sat together as if they had always belonged there.

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