Seasons of Becoming

The first thing Kang Joon-seo noticed that spring was the sound.

The snow had melted weeks ago, but only now did the world truly feel awake again. He sat on the edge of the barracks roof one early morning, legs dangling over the side, his sketchpad open on his lap. From here, he could hear everything—the steady crunch of boots on gravel, the low hum of generator lights flickering off as dawn crept in, the faint whistle of someone brewing instant coffee near the mess hall. And beyond the military fences, the world stretched wide—pine-covered mountains exhaling fog, birds returning with song, and the occasional rustle of deer passing through the thawing fields.The air smelled of wet bark, distant wildflowers, and rusted steel. And yet, despite the coldness of the metal railing under his fingertips, Joon-seo felt warm.

He was thirteen now. Maybe fourteen. No one could say for certain anymore.

The years had passed like rivers splitting through the same valley, each carving something deeper into him. His face had grown sharper. His voice steadier. His silence more thoughtful than guarded.

Time, here, wasn't marked by birthdays, but by the change in the light.Summer, Age 14

At school, Joon-seo had found his rhythm.

He was still quiet, but he had friends now—real ones. Yoon Ah-ri remained a constant presence, her laughter always just slightly too loud in the hallway. There was also Kim Min-woo, a boy with glasses too big for his face and a passion for astronomy, and Chae Eun-bi, who loved painting and sometimes argued with teachers over the meaning of poetry.

They accepted Joon-seo's silences, filling them with stories of their own. Ah-ri once joked, "You're like our living diary—you remember everything we say, even when we forget."He had smiled at that.

On a class trip to Jeju Island, he tasted tangerines fresh from the branch—sweet, sun-warmed, their juice sticking to his fingers. They hiked Hallasan Mountain, the wind cool and sharp as knives, carrying the scent of volcanic soil and moss. He stood at the peak, surrounded by fog, the world silent except for his own breath.

He had never felt so small.

So free.Autumn, Age 15

The base changed too, with the seasons.

The trees bled orange and red. The barracks grew colder. Tae-joon started issuing winter gear again. The smell of stew and pickled radish wafted stronger from the mess hall. On weekends, Joon-seo joined maintenance crews, learning to fix old radios, strip rifles, and reroute failing power lines.

He liked the weight of tools in his hands—the rough feel of leather gloves, the buzz of static when reconnecting wires, the clink of metal against metal.

One weekend, Ji-ho surprised him with a small camera. "Use it," he said, ruffling his hair. "One day, you'll want to remember all this. Even the boring stuff."Joon-seo didn't know why the gesture made his throat tighten.

That night, he took a photo of the sunset from the roof. The sky was a slow-burning canvas of peach and lavender, clouds drifting like brushstrokes over the world he was growing in.

Winter, Age 16The nights were cold enough to make the bones ache.

But inside, Joon-seo felt fire.

He was now helping instruct junior recruits—guiding obstacle courses, correcting stance, adjusting posture. They listened. They respected him. Some even feared him. Not because he was cruel. But because he was unshakable.

His nightmares still came—sometimes more vivid, sometimes just the sensation of falling. But he had learned to wake up slowly. To sip warm barley tea from Soo-jin's flask. To breathe through the fear.One evening, after a grueling day of training and school exams, he stood outside the mess hall, letting snowflakes melt on his cheeks. The air was sharp with cold, and the world felt hushed, like it was listening.

Ji-ho came up beside him, offering him a hot bun from the kitchen. "Still think of drawing?"

Joon-seo nodded.

"I want to draw what I see. Not just what I remember."

"What do you see now?"

He looked up.The stars.

The snow.

The warmth of quiet laughter echoing from inside the base.

"Home," he said softly.Spring, Age 17

The base was blooming again.

Wildflowers pushed through old cracks in the concrete. Bees hovered near makeshift gardens planted by passing soldiers. The barracks had new coats of paint. New recruits.

Joon-seo's sketchpad was now full of faces—Ah-ri laughing in the sunlight, Min-woo pointing at stars, Tae-joon scowling over burnt rice, Soo-jin resting with a book on her lap. Some he drew from life. Others from memory.

He had started journaling again too."I don't remember who I was before. But maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe who I'm becoming is more important."

His senses were sharper now, not because of trauma, but attention.

He felt the texture of life.

The way ramen broth warmed his fingertips through a cheap plastic bowl. The way Ah-ri's perfume lingered like sweet lemons. The way the earth smelled just before rain. The way laughter echoed in rooms with concrete walls and metal ceilings and still managed to sound like music.

He had built a life.It wasn't normal.

But it was real.

Summer, Age 17, Final Days of Term

On their final school trip, the class went to Gyeongju.

History whispered from every stone. Ancient palaces, crumbling pagodas, lotus-filled ponds. Joon-seo found himself sketching again—this time not just faces, but templesbathed in gold light, shadows cast long by dusk, dragon motifs curled into old stone.

At night, lying beside his classmates under the stars, Ah-ri passed him a candy she had saved. "Try it," she said. "It tastes like childhood."

It was sweet.

Too sweet.

He laughed.

And when he looked up at the stars, he didn't feel like a ghost anymore.

He felt full.