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The old windmill stood tall against the horizon. The wood was streaked in chipping paint and its sails hung from loose threads, billowing in the wind. Broken planks made way for warm rays of dying light to flicker through.
The wheat field beyond existed in its shadow, the golden grains shifting as the air looped between each of the stems. A singular trail wove through the field, tracing the journey of someone lost. Someone desperate.
The sky was smudged in a vibrant array of colours, the reds and oranges and yellows and pinks burning against the world. The fiery sun was halfway set over the far hills. It would be dark soon.
His hands burned. His head spun and his chest felt heavy with a weight he couldn’t quite decipher.
The windmill towered above him, its shadow cold and unyielding. No one travelled to the windmill unless their need was truly great. Unless they had no other choice.
Death had been kinder than he expected. After his pain dissipated, his soul had been lifted from his body. The wind had caught him there, pulling him along, through different times and places and realities.
Time didn’t exist here, he had soon come to realise. At least, it didn’t work in the same way it did while he was alive. Nothing was cause to effect, but rather you existed as if being carried between moments at random.
This place - Windward, as he had often heard it called - was the place at the end. Not every soul ended up here, some blew off course. But most did. Although, not always at the same time. He could not find those he had lost in life. They hadn’t arrived yet.
Or maybe they had already left?
He reached forwards, twisting his fingers into the untrimmed grass, leaning forwards until his forehead pressed against the dirt.
The windmill stood at the edge of Windward, like a silent guardian. He had heard whispers of it, of the things it could do. Could grant.
He had to get back. He wasn’t quite sure when back was, but he knew it was important. Somewhere along the way, his own memories had become jumbled, lost to the wind like most of the other parts of himself.
A windswept soul only has the capacity for so much.
The grand structure before him creaked and groaned as its sails turned. Slowly, only a few metres.
‘Please.’
He took a breath in, grass pressing against his nose.
‘I need to go back.’
His fists tightened, snapping and uprooting the yellowed blades.
‘Please let me go back.’
The wind roared in response.
Ꝋҟⱥɏ.
.
.
.
The mirror reflected everything. It held no secrets, no biases, no alliances. In the practice room, you couldn’t hide from the mirror. It took up the whole wall facing their instruments.
The room was empty-
Or… No.
It wasn’t empty.
His ears were just rushing with the sound of the wind.
He reached up, pressing on them, trying to rid himself of the sound. He was indoors. Why was he hearing the wind indoors?
Five people were settled around, chattering loudly between themselves. It took him a moment to realise they were speaking Korean. He also spoke Korean, didn’t he?
Yes, that’s right. Yes, he did.
The five strangers weren’t looking at him, but they didn’t seem bothered by his presence. They were very calm for strangers…
But they weren’t strangers.
Each of the faces came into focus one by one, caught and suspended in the mirror’s reflection. They were his bandmates. His friends.
His family.
A frown settled across his features, pulling in a way he wasn’t used to. His muscles felt tired and he hadn’t even moved yet. He had forgotten the weight of being attached to a physical body.
He almost wished for the wind to take him back.
But he didn’t.
He had work to do.
He swallowed thickly, the sensation sending a shiver down his spine.
He could almost remember this moment, the mirror replaying it like a movie. He could almost see the moment he came here to rewrite. It was still some time away, but he supposed he could wait.
He could plan.
He needed to plan.
This time, there were no second chances.
Someone - one of them, he wasn’t quite sure - looked up, glancing up at him in the reflection. “Are you okay?” Gunil. Goo Gunil.
It took him a moment to form the words to reply. And even longer to figure out how to. No one spoke in Windward. No one needed to.
“Hyeongjun?” Seungmin. Oh Seungmin.
Then name rang a bell, an echo of something he felt like he should know.
“He looks pale.” Jungsu. Kim Jungsu.
“Should we get the manager?” Jiseok. Kwak Jiseok.
“It looks like he’s trying to say something.” Jooyeon. Lee Jooyeon.
His lips moved, the words finally coming out in a rush. “My name is Hyeongjun. Han Hyeongjun…”
There was a pause. A silence, one that used to be filled with the wind.
“Yes, it is.” Gunil again. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” Hyeongjun finished. “I am alright.”
This time, they would get it right. This time, things would work out.
He had fought his way back from Windward. This time, no one was going to stop Han Hyeongjun from correcting his future.
This time, things would be alright.