His knees hugged his chest. His chin rested on bruised thighs.
And he began.
“Eurasian bullfinch. Marsh tit. Bearded reedling. Sedge warbler. Long-tailed tit. Nuthatch. Pied flycatcher. Goldcrest. Snow bunting…”
His voice was hoarse. Soft.
Each name like a rope tying him back to himself, bird by bird, breath by breath.
He scratched at a dry patch of soil clinging to his leg from earlier, then stared down at the crumpled sheets that offered no warmth, only weight.
When his head began to droop, he bit his braid.
Hard.
Copper tang on his tongue. Split strands between his teeth.
He chewed quietly, biting the same strip again and again, the act grounding him in a way nothing else could. When that stopped working, his fingers drifted to the soda tab chain woven through his hair.
He counted them out loud, voice a mutter, tapping each one like he was reading bones.
“One. Two. Three… seven… twelve.”
Twelve.
Only twelve.
He scowled.
“Where the fuck is thirteen?”
The missing tab sparked an irrational, volcanic rage.
He tore through the cushion seams with his eyes. Dug a hand under the futon, kicked a slipper across the room. Nothing.
He cursed softly—in Korean, in English, in a spatter of Japanese. Then clicked his tongue and spat something unspeakable in what might’ve been Finnish.
Minutes passed. Or hours. He couldn’t be sure.
The wall across from him bore the brunt of his glare until it practically cracked from the pressure.
He wasn’t waiting for anyone.
That’s what he told himself.
He wasn’t hoping.
Not for some rich, skyscraper bastard to choose him back.
Not for footsteps in the hall.
Not for rustling sheets in the other room.
Not for a knock.
He wasn’t.
Haneul yawned, cheeks puffing out like a cat disturbed mid-nap.
