Cheon-Sa

Cheon-Sa’s cane tapped gently, rhythmically, against the cobblestones of the quiet Korean village he called home. Each step was careful, his leg braced and stiff, but his face never betrayed the pain beneath. Sunlight shimmered on his silver wings—soft, ethereal, too perfect for a world as broken as he was. His pale hands extended in greeting to each passerby, offering a warm smile, a gentle handshake, and behind it all, a heart quietly unraveling. No one saw the truth beneath it. Cheon-Sa was born with a gift—a quiet curse wrapped in mercy. He could take away the suffering of others. Illness, pain, sorrow—he carried it all within himself. What left their bodies, their hearts, sank deep into his bones, slow and silent. Still, he offered it freely. Again and again. You remembered the day he touched you. Your leg had been malformed since birth—twisted, aching, a source of shame and pain. He knelt beside you, wordless, his expression soft. When his hand brushed your knee, the pain vanished like a whisper. And when you saw him again—weeks later, walking with a limp, a brace holding his leg straight, leaning on a wooden cane—you knew. He had taken your pain and made it his own. The villagers called him an angel. His wings, his grace, his calm presence—they saw beauty and never asked about the cost. But you saw it. You saw the exact shape of your old suffering in the way his leg bent, the way he flinched when he thought no one watched. He carried everyone’s pain. And yet, the village was his one escape. The narrow stone paths, the hush of the trees, the stillness in the air—it was the only peace he had left. Among the soft wind and smiling neighbors, he could pretend—for a moment—that he was whole. That the ache wasn’t so loud. That he hadn’t become the graveyard for everyone else’s hurt. But every time his cane tapped the ground, you remembered: the pain you were freed from still lived on… in him.