𝟎𝟓; When the Wind Has No Way Back

Winter crept into the seaside village, not with violent storms, but with a thin cold that felt like a knife brushing the skin. Fires were lit everywhere- inside kitchens, on streets, even on moored boats. Yet all flames trembled, except for the waves, which never knew fear.

Minho worked longer hours at the harbor, his hands roughened by ropes and timber. And in that exhaustion, he found a quiet kind of peace. Every afternoon, he knew someone would be waiting for him on the wooden pier or at the abandoned dock. Not to speak much, but just to sit together, breathing in the same salty air.

Newt wrote fewer wind letters these days. He still carried a stack, but often left them blank. When Minho asked, Newt replied softly:

“Some days, the wind only blows inside. I’m not sure I have the courage to put it into words.”

Minho understood. Not every emptiness needed filling. Sometimes, the empty space itself was enough to hold back the tide inside.

One evening, Minho brought two pastries from the market street. He handed one to Newt.

“Sweet pastry?” Newt asked, surprised.

“Yeah. I heard it helps insomniacs sleep a little.” Minho didn’t look him in the eye.

Newt took a bite, chewing quietly. After a moment, he whispered: “Maybe you want me to dream sweetly, even if I can’t sleep.”

Minho only smiled. The waves laughed with them.

Time passed, and the silences between them grew longer but no heavier. Silence became warmth, like a blanket draped over them against the sea wind.

One night, as Minho was about to leave, Newt suddenly called:

“Minho.”

He paused.

“Have you ever thought… what if one day I disappear?” Newt’s voice was soft, as if afraid the waves might hear.

Minho turned, meeting eyes that gleamed in the dark. Slowly, he stepped closer, sitting across from him so those eyes no longer had to look at the sea, but could look straight at him.

“I think…” Minho breathed deeply, “…I would find you. No matter where. Because the wind doesn’t vanish for no reason. It only changes direction.”

Newt looked at him, lips trembling, and said nothing. For a moment, it felt as if the waves had retreated, leaving only bare sand where their breaths mingled.

The next day, clouds hung low. Minho returned early and stopped by Newt’s small room. The door was ajar. He knocked, no answer. Stepping inside, he found Newt curled on the bed, letters scattered across the floor.

He picked them up. One page read, scrawled:

“Some nights, the sea’s eyes open not to see, but to cry.”

Minho’s chest tightened. He set the letters down, pulled up a chair, and sat beside him. Newt opened his eyes, weary, and gave a faint, tired smile.

“You’ve read it, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Minho didn’t look away. “You can cry. But don’t turn into the sea. The sea swallows everything, and I want to keep you here.”

Newt closed his eyes, surrendering. For the first time, Minho saw a tear slip silently down his cheek, as quiet as the waves.

That night, they didn’t go to the pier. Minho stayed with Newt, the flickering oil lamp casting gentle shadows around them. He didn’t speak much, only let Newt rest on his shoulder when exhaustion came. The shoulder trembled, but he left it. And in that long silence, Minho realized he had become the support Newt never intended to seek but could not let go.

Newt slept restlessly, head on Minho’s shoulder. The lamp cast two trembling shadows on the wall. Minho stayed still, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter this fragile sleep.

He stayed until he heard Newt whisper in his dream: “Don’t go…”

A faint plea, yet enough to tighten Minho’s chest. He wanted to respond, but only held Newt’s hand gently.

In the following days, something changed between them. They still sat together in silence, but it was no longer distance it was a bond. Newt began holding Minho’s gaze longer, though often still looked away when their eyes met.

One evening, they brought a paper lantern to the sea. The wind blew stronger than usual, and the flame flickered violently.

“Maybe it won’t last.” Newt whispered.

“I’ll shield it.” Minho cupped the flame, the light catching on his sun-browned skin.

Newt watched him, then whispered, almost accusingly: “Aren’t you afraid of getting burned? Why risk it for such a tiny flame?”

Minho met his gaze, steady: “Because this flame is like you. I can’t let it go out.”

The world seemed to pause. Only the waves echoed, bouncing inside both of them.

Newt pressed his lips together, face tightening as if holding back. Then he turned, whispering: “You don’t know… how tired I am. I’m afraid I’ll drag you under with me.”

“Then drag me.” Minho replied instantly, without hesitation. “I know how to swim.”

At that moment, Newt laughed. A short, shattered laugh, sweet and salty. Tears followed, streaming down his cheeks.

Minho stayed silent. He didn’t wipe them, only let them fall, whispering: “You don’t need to be the sea. The sea is endless, but you… just be Newt. That’s enough for me to stay.”

Newt lowered his gaze, fists clutching the edge of his shirt. Then, in a brave, fleeting choice, he placed his hand over Minho’s, shielding the flame together.

The fire remained. The wind still blew. But from that moment, both knew: there was no turning back.

They stayed until the lantern went out. Darkness fell, yet neither feared it.

On the way home, Newt whispered: “Minho, if one day I really disappear, remember… at least I once had light.”

Minho stopped, looking straight at him. “You won’t disappear. I won’t allow it. And if you ever forget your light, I’ll bring a new lantern every day.”

Newt shivered slightly, didn’t reply, only inhaling deeply as if keeping those words in his chest.

That night, for the first time, Newt didn’t write a wind letter. He simply sat with Minho, letting silence write itself. And for the first time, Minho truly felt: the sea’s eyes didn’t close, yet someone dared to shut theirs, resting on his shoulder and sleep.

Outside, the wind changed direction. But this time, it carried not away but warmth, lingering between two hands unwilling to part.

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