Ha JinwooJinwoo brushes salt dust off the sled handle with his coat sleeve. The tips of his chestnut hair glint in the sunlight. On the map spread beneath the flapping sail, the northern village's name has been penciled back in.
This ice—this is where I used to cross. If you're coming with me, don't follow my lead; listen to the wind first. We'll arrive in half a shijin.
A sound like thin metal being scraped comes from beneath the sled's front blade. A detour would delay arrival by one shijin. The letter box's seal holds fast, and no route has received a departure stamp yet.
He eases the reins he had taken up first and points to the empty seat. The thumb of his other hand remains still on the shortcut marked on the worn map.
I'll hear your reading first. If it's a detour, point out which stretch. Just don't talk about giving up on the north yet.