Brok was running. The girl had led him into the mystic forest again. It was a field occupied by giant dandelions and tall grass. It might as well as be a corn field without corn. A dandelion floret flew above him. Brok reached out for its rear end. He jumped and grabbed with his two hands. His hands were trembling when he looked down from the air. The girl was not far away, Brok swinged and kicked, trying to steer himself to the red dress.
The air smelled a mixture of sweet and syrupy scent. Brok gained some distance, but it was not enough. The girl travelled faster on ground than him on the sky. Brok climbed up the floret and twisted the head so as to create a slow and temporarily drop. His hands were still trembling when he hopped back to the ground. The floret, taken by the mild wind, returned to its journey.
Brok ran. His steps firm and rigid. He could hear his heart beating. Sweat ran down his neck. The sun beamed down on him. Not just him, but the whole field. The girl must have felt the same way and was slowing down. Brok was ten steps behind. He called out. His voice disappeared, and was replaced by air bubbles. His mouth was a bubble machine.
Then he saw the girl took a turn to the left. He followed. The trial soon ended and he came out to a field. There was a tree, a tree with steps and houses naturally formed by itself. The girl was inside one of those houses. Brok saw her beautiful blond hair swaying. He walked up the stairs.
The door, locked, hissed open. The room was empty. The door hissed closed.
Someone had lay their hands on his shoulders, shaking him.
Mila woke him. He rolled his eyes.
"How long?" said Brok, sitting up, staring at the icy metal floor. His heart was still racing.
"Two."
Brok swiped the only long hairs on his forehead aside, and rubbed his bald head and pulled his ears lightly.
"It's summer time back home," said Mila. Her face was pink.
Brok looked up. "We'll go back sometimes. Just not now, Mila."
"I know," she bit on her lower lips, "but father-"
"We've talked about this," said Brok. "Come here, I'm cold."
Mila sat on the bunk bed and hugged her father. Their breaths were warm. Space is cold. Summer in space is as cold as winter on Kolon.
Brok had only one daughter, and Mila was everything he had. Mila was twelve, Broke was thirty five. They called each other father and daughter. At least they wanted it to stay that way.
The cafeteria down the hallway was empty of the usual crowd when Brok had finished his sanitary duties. The chef munched his words and gave Brok and Mila their foods in a cold plate.
"Can we have something hot?" asked Brok, "for my daughter, at least?"
"No can't do. They have already shut off the power. You just have to eat what you have. If you want something hot, be early next time," said the chef.
They sat down on the corner, body touching each other and stuffed the foods into their stomach. Brok looked at his daughter and started sobbing. How did he came to become so poor that he could not feed his baby girl a hot meal.
There was only himself to blame.
The air smelled a mixture of sweet and syrupy scent. Brok gained some distance, but it was not enough. The girl travelled faster on ground than him on the sky. Brok climbed up the floret and twisted the head so as to create a slow and temporarily drop. His hands were still trembling when he hopped back to the ground. The floret, taken by the mild wind, returned to its journey.
Brok ran. His steps firm and rigid. He could hear his heart beating. Sweat ran down his neck. The sun beamed down on him. Not just him, but the whole field. The girl must have felt the same way and was slowing down. Brok was ten steps behind. He called out. His voice disappeared, and was replaced by air bubbles. His mouth was a bubble machine.
Then he saw the girl took a turn to the left. He followed. The trial soon ended and he came out to a field. There was a tree, a tree with steps and houses naturally formed by itself. The girl was inside one of those houses. Brok saw her beautiful blond hair swaying. He walked up the stairs.
The door, locked, hissed open. The room was empty. The door hissed closed.
Someone had lay their hands on his shoulders, shaking him.
Mila woke him. He rolled his eyes.
"How long?" said Brok, sitting up, staring at the icy metal floor. His heart was still racing.
"Two."
Brok swiped the only long hairs on his forehead aside, and rubbed his bald head and pulled his ears lightly.
"It's summer time back home," said Mila. Her face was pink.
Brok looked up. "We'll go back sometimes. Just not now, Mila."
"I know," she bit on her lower lips, "but father-"
"We've talked about this," said Brok. "Come here, I'm cold."
Mila sat on the bunk bed and hugged her father. Their breaths were warm. Space is cold. Summer in space is as cold as winter on Kolon.
Brok had only one daughter, and Mila was everything he had. Mila was twelve, Broke was thirty five. They called each other father and daughter. At least they wanted it to stay that way.
The cafeteria down the hallway was empty of the usual crowd when Brok had finished his sanitary duties. The chef munched his words and gave Brok and Mila their foods in a cold plate.
"Can we have something hot?" asked Brok, "for my daughter, at least?"
"No can't do. They have already shut off the power. You just have to eat what you have. If you want something hot, be early next time," said the chef.
They sat down on the corner, body touching each other and stuffed the foods into their stomach. Brok looked at his daughter and started sobbing. How did he came to become so poor that he could not feed his baby girl a hot meal.
There was only himself to blame.
