Page 89 of Marked By Him

She walks toward the back door and pushes it open, where she stares out at the water. The sea is even angrier, churning with white caps, making the winds blow harder. She almost seems mesmerized by the sight, like she finds it oddly therapeutic.

I set down the bag and unpack the things we have. Just about the only belongings we have left.

Out of the tense, loud silence between us, she speaks.

“It’s beautiful.”

I stop to look up at her. She’s padded toward me, arms folded across her chest, curls a little damp from the humidityand drizzle. Her expression’s vaguer than usual, though her inflection isn’t antagonizing or sarcastic.

She means what she says.

She glances around the large, empty room again. “Is it yours?”

“Yes.”

“But… how?”

“It’s the only thing I have that belonged to my family. Our family home.”

Her mouth opens, then she thinks better of whatever question she was going to ask. Nodding, she turns and wanders toward the back door again. The moment isn’t much, but as I turn back to the bag of supplies, I sense the rough patch between us is healing.

Our future may still be uncertain, but we’re both aware of where we stand. We’re in this together.

Later, as the sun makes its descent for the day, we sit at the low table and do our best to enjoy dinner. Legs folded and backs aching from how uneven the floor feels, we dine over braised mackerel in soy sauce.

The taste is salty and the mackerel itself is cold, but with no heat, no utensils, and no appliances, it’s the best we can do.

Monroe fumbles with the edge of her foil pouch. Her bandaged hand slips against the slick packaging. She doesn’t ask for help, but I can tell how it pains her to do even simple tasks like this.

I lean across and take it from her fingers, tearing the foil open for her. Its sharp, briny smell hits us at once. I pass it backto her and watch her expression as she examines the contents. Her nose wrinkles slightly, though she doesn’t complain.

Mine is gone in a few shoveled bites. It’s not good by any means. Simply food for sustenance.

“How do you like it?” I ask, and then add, “You can be honest.”

She finishes chewing, swallowing her mouthful. “It’s not my favorite,” she admits. “But I’ll eat it. Food’s food.”

My chest tightens at the fact that she’s so understanding. My rabbit is so pure and warm she can’t even bring herself to complain.

I reach for the bag of things I bought at the store earlier and dig out a pack of dried squid. One of her favorite snacks since she moved to South Korea. A piece of info I first learned back when I surveilled her.

“Here,” I say. “Have this instead. You’ll like it better than the mackerel.”

“Jin, it’s fine. We don’t have much right now?—”

“Eat it,” I say sternly. “I want you satisfied with what you eat. I’ll find a moment to get us more food.”

She doesn’t bother arguing, sensing it isn’t up for debate. She takes the pack with her good hand and starts nibbling on the dried squid like I knew she would.

The sky’s darkened by the time we finish dinner. The last light fades behind thick clouds, leaving the world dipped in ink and sea spray.

I extend my hand to her. “Let’s go for a walk.”

We leave our shoes by the back door and venture barefoot onto the sand. The air is damp and briny. The beach is a narrow strip with dark stones and broken shells and waves lapping at the shoreline.

For a while, we walk in silence.

Her hand rests in mine, soft and warm, almost soothing. But my mind keeps drifting to the Bulgeomhoe and what may come next. No matter how far we go, the danger coils tighter. Every quiet moment feels borrowed. It feels as if it’s leading up to something deadly like yesterday’s fire.

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