It was summer.
The season when time seemed to slow down, when golden sunlight lingered on skin like a memory, and even the breeze carried the sound of laughter. It was the kind of season children and grown-ups alike adored—for the freedom, the warmth, the promise of stories waiting in the wind.
Ji Hyun stood behind an old pine tree, its bark rough under his fingertips, eyes squeezed shut with a grin playing on his lips.
"One... two... three..."
He was counting aloud, voice echoing gently through the forest grove.
"...eighteen... nineteen... twenty!"
His eyes snapped open. A smile curled at the corners of his lips. "Ready or not, here I come," he whispered into the quiet.
Hyun Soo, his best friend since they were both still in diapers, was hidden somewhere nearby. This part of the woods was their secret place—untouched, undisturbed, sacred. Most kids their age were afraid to come this deep into the forest. Only older boys—the big hyungs—braved it now and then for fishing. But Ji Hyun and Hyun Soo loved it for its stillness, its magic, and the sense that it belonged only to them.
As Ji Hyun began to tiptoe through the trees, hunting for Hyun Soo with practiced stealth, a strange sound caught his ear. A bark. Faint, but urgent. His head tilted.
That wasn't normal.
No dogs came this far into the woods. It sounded like it was coming from the riverbank.
Curiosity overpowered the game. "Hyun Soo will understand," he muttered, jogging toward the sound.
As the barking grew louder, it sharpened—now tinged with panic, even desperation. It wasn't just a bark anymore.
It was a cry.
Ji Hyun's jog turned into a sprint. He didn't hesitate.
The moment he saw two tiny paws splashing helplessly in the rushing water, he leapt in. The river's current tugged at him, but Ji Hyun had grown up here. This river had been his playground. He knew every swirl and surge like the back of his hand.
His arms reached. His fingers closed around fur.
The small pup clutched onto his shirt with trembling claws, and Ji Hyun kicked hard against the pull of the river, guiding them both back to the shore. As they tumbled onto the bank, the dog shivered violently, whimpering in fright.
Ji Hyun laid it gently on the grass, brushing its wet ears with shaking hands.
"You okay, little one?" he whispered.
The pup nudged closer to him, pressing its damp head into Ji Hyun's leg, tail flicking weakly. A sudden warmth bloomed in Ji Hyun's chest as he reached down to stroke it.
"What brought you here, huh?" he asked softly. The puppy looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes—as if it understood every word.
"Hyunnie! Hyunnie!"
A familiar voice rang through the trees, edged with irritation.
"Hyun? Yah! Ji Hyun!"
Ji Hyun turned his head just in time to see Hyun Soo bursting through the bushes, fuming.
"There you are!" Hyun Soo marched straight toward him and smacked his arm with a huff. "I was waiting forever for you to find me! I thought I was the best at hiding!"
He only babbled when he was angry. Ji Hyun grinned sheepishly.
But before he could respond, the pup let out a sharp bark—directed straight at Hyun Soo.
Hyun Soo paused, puzzled. "Where'd you get that?"
Ji Hyun pointed toward the river. "There. He was drowning."
Hyun Soo's expression softened instantly. He bent down, brushing the puppy's soggy fur. "Oh no... what if you'd been a minute later?"
The pup moved closer to his touch, snuggling into the warmth of Hyun Soo's palm.
Ji Hyun handed him over. "You're drier than me anyway," he chuckled.
Hyun Soo examined the pup's collar. "Look—there's a tag, but nothing's written on it. Maybe it got lost?"
Ji Hyun frowned. "What kind of owner lets a pup wander into the river like that? If I had a pet, I'd never let it out of my sight."
"You've always wanted one," Hyun Soo murmured. "But your sister..."
"She's allergic," Ji Hyun said, voice trailing off. "But maybe—maybe we could build a little shelter for it. Outside."
Hyun Soo raised a brow. "You think your mom will be okay with that?"
"She doesn't need to know everything," Ji Hyun grinned. "We'll take care of it. Together."
The pup barked again—an approving little yap.
They both laughed.
As the golden sun dipped behind the trees, the three of them began walking home, their silhouettes long and stretching across the forest floor.
"What should we name her?" Hyun Soo asked.
Ji Hyun looked down at the little creature nestled in his arms.
"We found her in the river," he said with a smile. "Let's call her Ga-ram."
(가람 – a poetic Korean word meaning "river.")
Their laughter echoed behind them, fading with the wind as the forest settled once more into quiet.
And somewhere in that silence, a new story had just begun.
_________________________________________
Years passed—softly, like petals falling one by one, so slow you almost didn't notice.
Ji Hyun and Hyun Soo were no longer the two little boys hiding behind trees, whispering secrets into the wind. Somewhere between scraped knees and school uniforms, they had grown—taller, quieter, and a little more careful with their hearts.
But Ga-ram had remained the same.
The puppy they once saved from the river had grown alongside them—legs longer, bark sharper, but heart just as gentle. She was with them through it all:
When Hyun Soo broke his arm falling from the tree near the old shed—she whined all night until he came home.
When Ji Hyun failed his first math test—she laid her head on his lap like she understood disappointment.
When they both had their first fight and didn't speak for a week—she paced between their houses, restless and confused, until they forgave each other with tearful laughter under the stars.
She was there for the small things too.
Chasing after their bikes down the village path. Barking every time Ji Hyun sneezed. Sleeping in the sunspots on the porch like a queen. She had become a part of their rhythm, a silent third presence in their friendship that never left.
But love doesn't always make things easy.
Ji Hyun's mother never grew fond of her. In fact, her dislike deepened over time.
The worst moment came during monsoon season. Ji Hyun had stayed late at school for football practice. It had been raining, but he didn't think twice—he always came home just in time.
That day, he didn't.
By the time he got back, soaked from head to toe, he found Ga-ram tied to the porch railing—drenched and trembling, her fur heavy with cold, her eyes wide and confused.
No cover.
No blanket.
Just punishment for being left behind.
He never said a word.
He just untied her gently, wrapped her in his jacket, and held her to his chest like something sacred.
And his mother never brought it up again.
That was the night Ji Hyun stopped asking for permission.
She could hate it.
She could threaten him with brooms and rules and excuses.
But Ga-ram wasn't going anywhere.
Now in tenth grade, Ji Hyun and Hyun Soo walked the same old village path—but their steps were steadier, their backs straighter. Their voices had deepened, but they still laughed like they were ten.
Ji Hyun sighed dramatically, slinging his arm over Hyun Soo's shoulder.
"You still do that?" Hyun Soo teased. "Every first day of school, you sigh like someone's taken your last bowl of ramen."
"It's the end of freedom," Ji Hyun muttered. "Again."
He paused, expression softening.
"I keep thinking about her... about how she's getting older too. But she still runs to the gate every time I come home. Like she's been waiting all day just to see me."
Hyun Soo smiled. "She does the same with me, don't be jealous."
"I'm not jealous," Ji Hyun muttered. Then, quieter, "I just don't get how someone could hate her. She's the best part of my life."
"I know," Hyun Soo said gently. "And she knows too."
They walked in silence for a while, the crickets singing again from the grass. Then:
"You should be more scared of our new homeroom teacher than your mom," Hyun Soo grinned.
"Ugh. Why would you remind me?"
"And there it is—the drama," Hyun Soo laughed. "Ji Hyun's back, everyone."
Without warning, he smacked Ji Hyun on the butt and took off running.
"YAH—HYUN SOO!" Ji Hyun shouted, chasing after him.
Their footsteps pounded the road, and their laughter chased them into the morning.
Behind them, houses blurred, childhood faded at the edges, and memories hung like fog in the trees.
But on one doorstep, not far behind, a now-grown dog with warm eyes and a graying muzzle waited.
Ga-ram wagged her tail, nose pressed against the door,
still ready—
as if the boys were just late from playing again.