The morning sun slowly peeked out from behind the mountain peak, casting its light on a modest wooden house that stood amidst a stretch of vegetable gardens and fruit trees. Ryu Tebujin opened his eyes just as the clock's hand pointed to seven. The crisp air pierced his lungs as he took a deep breath, chasing away the remnants of sleep that might still linger.
He put on a worn-out t-shirt and faded work pants, then stepped outside. His garden—a fertile plot of land he tended by himself—spread out before the house. Here, he grew everything: neatly lined carrots and cabbages, as well as apple and pear trees heavy with fruit. It had been nine months since he first arrived in the village, bought the old house at the mountain's foot, and decided to become a farmer.
At first, the villagers looked at him with suspicion. A young man, tall and broad-shouldered with a sharp gaze that hinted at a military past—naturally, he instilled fear. Especially in a village this peaceful, far from the chaos of the city. But Ryu proved he wasn't a threat. He never refused when someone asked for help, always smiled when passing by, and often shared his harvest with neighbors.
"Good morning, young Ryu!"
The raspy voice of an old man broke the morning stillness. Ryu turned and saw the village elder slowly walking toward the church.
"Good morning, Grandpa," Ryu replied, lifting a basket filled with fresh apples. "Just picked these. Want to try one?"
The old man took one with a smile, bit into the red apple, and his eyes sparkled. "So sweet! You really have a talent for farming, son."
Ryu offered a small smile. "I'm glad you like it."
"You're not going to church today?" the old man asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.
Ryu shook his head. "Sorry, Grandpa. It's not my faith."
The old man nodded, though his eyes still held questions. Since Ryu's arrival, no one knew what religion he followed. He never went to church, never visited temples, never seemed to pray. But he also never disrupted anyone else's worship.
"Alright then, son. See you later."
Ryu waved as the old man continued on his way. He returned to his garden, fingers digging gently into the soil, checking each plant. This work brought him peace—something he'd never found in years of war.
By four in the afternoon, after a long day's work, Ryu sat on his porch, enjoying a cup of hot tea. His eyes looked toward the village below, where kitchen smoke began to rise from the rooftops.
Why did I choose to retire?
That question always surfaced. At only 23 years old, he should still be standing among the ranks of soldiers. But he had chosen to leave. Tired of guns, tired of orders, tired of the blood that followed him even into his dreams.
"I don't want to kill anymore," he whispered to the wind.
But early retirement meant no pension. No guarantees. Only land, seeds, and the hope that nature would feed him.
And one other thing that continued to haunt him:
Does God really exist?
He saw people worship with unwavering faith. But he didn't know. He wasn't sure. Maybe one day he would find the answer. Or maybe not.
Night slowly fell. Ryu sighed, then stepped inside the house. Tomorrow, he would wake again at seven, work in the garden, and keep asking.
Until someday, whenever that might be, he might find the meaning of it all.