The world stilled, as if holding its breath in mourning, dust particles hanging in the air like suspended memories of what had been lost. Si-Woo froze, his chest heaving with sobs, his body trembling under the weight of grief. Then, a flicker of movement caught his eye—a hand, small and trembling, emerged from the wreckage of the school. His breath hitched.

  “Ye-Jun!” he choked out, his voice breaking as he stumbled forward, desperation pulling him like a tether.

  The hand grew more frantic, searching for purchase amidst the ruins. A renewed surge of strength coursed through him, and he staggered toward the collapsed structure, dust billowing around him like a cloud of sorrow. His tear-filled gaze never left the hand—a fragile beacon of hope in a sea of despair.

  Suddenly, the air shifted. A charge rippled through it, raising the hairs on his arms. The ground beneath his feet began to vibrate, gently at first, then building into a rhythmic pulse. Si-Woo's steps faltered as he watched, horrified, while a wrinkle in space produced bluish light that enveloped the hand. It spread quickly, pulling Ye-Jun’s distorted, bloodied body out from under the rubble.

  “No!” Si-Woo screamed, his voice raw and echoing through the stillness. He broke into a sprint, his legs pumping with every ounce of strength he had left, his tears blurring his vision. Yet he couldn’t look away. The light grew brighter, washing over the ruins with an otherworldly glow—the same light from the earthquake. The same light that had torn their lives apart.

  “Si-Woo...” Ye-Jun’s voice was faint, muffled, but unmistakable.

  “Ye-Jun!” Si-Woo reached out, his hand trembling as if it could bridge the distance. The bluish glow consumed Ye-Jun entirely, inch by agonizing inch, until he disappeared into the ether. The pulsing ceased, leaving the earth in an oppressive silence. It was as if the world itself had ended a second time.

  Si-Woo collapsed to his knees at the edge of the wreckage. The ruins were eerily undisturbed, as though Ye-Jun had never been there. His chest heaved, his sobs tearing through the stillness, raw and broken. “No... no... no,” he chanted, the words barely audible through his hoarse cries. His trembling fingers reached for the space where his brother had been, now nothing but air.

  Staggering to his feet, Si-Woo began the slow, agonizing walk home. His mask dangled uselessly around his neck, his body feeling detached and numb. The streets of Yohen were silent, haunted by the metallic scent of fear and death. Rubble from the earthquake stretched endlessly before him, broken by the occasional, distant wail of a survivor.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  He reached the convenience store he’d passed a hundred times before, now reduced to twisted metal and shattered glass. The familiar shelves, which once held snacks and drinks, were nothing more than jagged remnants. Si-Woo’s hands trembled as he sifted through the debris, searching for anything to protect him from the acrid air that clung to the ruins. His fingers brushed against cold cans, shards of glass—and then something soft. He jerked back with a start, realizing he had touched the lifeless hand of the store owner, Mr. Tsun. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he recoiled.

  Blinking back tears, his gaze landed on a discarded mask tangled in the rubble. He grabbed it and put it on, though it did little to block the choking fumes. He trudged onward through the desolate streets. Yohen was a ghost town, its former life obliterated. The sight of his home—what was left of it—stopped him cold. The gate, once sturdy and welcoming, was now a mangled ruin. The house stood like a skeletal shadow of its former self, its walls gutted and crumbling.

  Biting his nails—a nervous habit he hadn’t indulged since he was a child—he stepped over the shattered threshold. Dust rose to greet him, swirling like a malevolent specter. Inside, the sight that awaited him crushed what remained of his heart. His mother’s lifeless body lay motionless on the floor, blood congealed around her in a grotesque tableau.

  He sank to his knees beside her, time losing all meaning. His hand reached out, trembling, to touch her cheek—cold and pale. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible. His chest burned with the urge to rip off his mask, to scream, to breathe freely, but the mask stayed. It was a fragile shield against the horrors outside, and now, the horrors within.

  Finally, he forced himself to stand. His legs wobbled beneath him as he found an old shovel in the wreckage of their shed. Hours passed as he worked under the dim light of the setting sun, digging her grave beside the house. When he finished, he placed a small, hand-carved cross at its head, whispering a prayer he wasn’t sure he believed.

  He left the house, his footsteps heavy as he wandered aimlessly through the ruins. The air grew colder, and the streets blurred together into a monotonous haze. Then, a flicker of movement caught his attention. A small figure darted behind a pile of debris.

  Si-Woo stopped, his heart racing. A little girl, no more than six years old, peeked out from her hiding place. Her dark cream hair was matted with dust, her wide, light-gray eyes locked onto his with a mix of fear and curiosity. She tried to stay hidden, but her small frame was conspicuous in the barren wasteland.

  Si-Woo stood frozen, unsure whether to approach or call out. The girl’s presence was a stark contrast to the desolation around him—a fragile spark of life in a broken world.