𝟎𝟒; Light in the Wave’s Crevice

In the fishing village, winter arrived more slowly than in the city. But when the sea wind began to blow, the cold seeped through every layer of clothing, pierced the skin, and seemed to vibrate through the bones. Oil lamps along the alleys cast faint, wavering light that spilled onto the sand like falling stars fragile, yet stubborn. The night waves continued their steady rhythm, as if the sea were singing a silent lullaby.

Minho had grown used to wandering after work, used to the sight of Newt sitting on the wooden pier, as unchanging as a quiet ritual, as if the village itself had marked this habit in stone. Yet tonight, as he stepped out, the familiar pier was empty. The wind whistled through the gaps of the rotting boards, the waves murmured softly, and only one presence was missing. He frowned and slowed his steps, feeling a hollow emptiness that spread with the salty gust.

He searched, winding through narrow paths around the docks, following the cobblestone streets glimmering under the dim lamps. The smell of the sea, of seaweed, mixed with the mustiness of wet wood and sand, sending an unfamiliar ache to his chest. Finally, near an abandoned dock, he found Newt. The boy sat on a splintered wooden step, holding a small oil lamp. Its trembling yellow light fell across his face, rendering it both delicate and unreachable. His hair whipped in the wind, separating him from the vast darkness of the sea.

“Running away from the waves again?” Minho said gently, careful not to shatter the fragile silence.

Newt looked up and offered a faint smile. His eyes caught the lamp’s glow, reflecting like tiny lights dancing on water. “Not running. I just… wanted the waves to find me somewhere else tonight.”

Minho sat down beside him. The chill of the boards seeped through his clothes. They remained quiet, listening only to the lamp flicker, the waves murmur, and the wind sigh through the cracks. The soft, intermittent pops of the flame reminded him of a heartbeat of a creature just waking amid the night sea.

After a long pause, Newt whispered, “Sometimes I feel like this lamp. Flickering, fragile… one stronger gust, and I’d go out.” His voice was low, yet it filled the surrounding space, making Minho cautious with every movement.

“But it’s still shining,” Minho replied, eyes fixed on the small flame, as if trying to illuminate Newt’s spirit through its fragile flicker. “Can’t you see? The waves know someone is here.”

Newt tilted his head, eyes wavering, looking at him in a way hard to describe. He didn’t answer, but slowly drew the lamp closer between them, sharing its light, creating a private space just big enough for their shadows and the tiny ripples from the night sea.

The next day, while Minho was tying ropes at the harbor, an old fisherman, skin wrinkled from sun, wind, and salt, called out from afar:

“You there, the one who often sits alone on the pier-keep an eye on him. He’s like a rudderless boat. Just one change in the wind, and he’ll drift away.”

Minho only nodded silently. Those words lingered in his mind throughout the day. He thought of Newt, of those unblinking eyes, of nights spent tapping rhythms on rotting boards. And a thought struck him: if Newt was a rudderless boat, then he could at least be the small sail, the tiny mast, to prevent him from drifting into the vast sea.

That night, Minho brought a paper lantern he had bought from a street vendor in the nearby town. Finding Newt on the pier, he placed the lantern down. Its light stretched across the water, casting long shadows of their figures. The night’s water was calm, reflecting the warm yellow glow like a fragmented mirror where their images quietly merged.

“A lantern?” Newt asked, surprised, glancing at the small object between them.

“Yeah. You said the wind could blow out the oil lamp. Let’s see if this one lasts longer.” Minho spoke half-jokingly, half-seriously, as if creating a small haven for him.

Newt smiled faintly, a rare and genuine smile. “What if the wind carries it away?”

“Then I’ll bring another one,” Minho replied firmly. “As long as you’re still here to see it.”

In that moment, Newt remained silent, his hand brushing the paper frame of the lantern as if seeking support, as if wanting to feel the light pass through his fingers. The warm, fragile glow touched their faces, and Minho sensed a quiet harmony, an unspoken promise.

They sat together, the lantern drifting between them like a small flame resisting the dark ocean. The waves no longer sounded like loneliness; they were the subtle music accompanying their shared silence.

“You’re strange, Minho,” Newt murmured, his voice careful not to shatter the calm. “Most people just leave. But you… bring light.”

“Maybe I’m used to the dark,” Minho said with a faint shrug, a faint smile. “So I want someone to see a little something else with me.”

Newt tilted his head, seeming to ask more, but let it pass. He only smiled softly, like a passing breeze. Minho understood then that silence could be gratitude too, an acknowledgment of each other’s existence in a vast world.

As they stood, Newt carefully held the lantern, keeping its flame alive. Their footsteps ran parallel on the sand, the lantern’s light trailing them like an invisible tether. Each step was slow, deliberate, as if afraid to break something precious they had just discovered.

At the narrow alley to their lodging, Newt paused, eyes gentle. He handed the lantern to Minho:

“Keep it. So if I forget, forget that I still have light, you can remind me.”

Minho squeezed his hand gently, looking into the part-hidden world in Newt’s eyes. “I’ll remind you. As many times as it takes.”

Newt didn’t speak again, only nodded, then walked away. But his steps were lighter than usual, as if a piece of the wind in his heart had eased, and the night sea no longer weighed completely upon him.

That night, Minho saw Newt finally asleep on the pier. The paper lantern still flickered, reflecting on a face at peace, rare as it was. Minho realized: the sea’s eyes never closed, but at least one human gaze could rest in tranquility, even if just for a moment.

He sat nearby, guarding, so the waves wouldn’t startle him, so the wind wouldn’t snuff the fragile light. And in that vast stillness, Minho smiled-the first smile since arriving in the cove-carrying a promise: to be the steadfast shore, the light that wouldn’t go out, until Newt no longer had to face darkness alone.

The waves still broke, but now their sound was not a painful reminder; it was the heartbeat of a new peace, quietly growing between the sea and two lost souls. And in that moment, Minho understood: sometimes, to help someone find themselves, you don’t need words-just sit with them, share a small light, and listen to the waves. That alone can be a miracle.

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