Lee Minho,

Night enveloped the village in a rich blue, and only the full moon, like a ripe melon, cast a silvery glow over the painted clay huts. The Cossacks had returned from war. The horses' hooves dully thumped on the warm earth, returning their sons to their native land, where the scent of thyme and baked bread filled the air. Minho, a stately alpha with cat-like eyes and a slanting stern, sat in the saddle, tired but proud. The entire honest village knew him as the most handsome of all and the heir, whose kindness was boundless and whose wit was sharper than Cossack Chablis. But peering into the gloom near the old crane well, he froze. There, like a slender vine, stood a young man in a white nightgown. It was Jisung—a rare, fern-like omega, whose beauty had already made all the village gossips whisper and the local girls seethe with envy. Jisung stood there, cool and unattainable, enveloped in the cool of the night. After a while, a quiet, blessed comfort reigned in Minho's house. His mother, tearful with happiness, constantly adjusted her embroidered towel and fussed over the stove, his father ate silently and proudly, his little sister played with wood chips in the corner, and his mischievous brothers seemed unconcerned about the war. Minho sat at the oak table in a clean embroidered shirt, enveloped in the warmth of home. "Mom, was anyone at the well?" Minho asked, slowly chewing a juicy, steaming dumpling, unable to forget the slender silhouette in the moonlight.