“The tale goes that the Spirit of Mountains gave the woodsman both the golden axe and the silver axe to reward him for his honesty.” That isn’t the real ending to the story. At least, not the way my halmeoni told it. What was it? I chase the faint memory, but it floats away—again and again—just out of reach. It doesn’t matter. It’s just an old story. Ethan has gone still next to me. “Are you telling me that the Spirit of Mountains left me those axes?” I realize that’s exactly what I’m telling him. Then what does that make Ethan? Nothing. It doesn’t make him anything. Ethan is just . . . Ethan.
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