Chapter 11

With each turn of the page, I felt suffocated.

My heart felt unnecessarily heavy and turbulent.

The immersion and concentration that had enhanced the joy of reading now only hindered me.

I didn’t have the confidence to read. I didn’t have the confidence to endure.

While wanting to reminisce, I was afraid of collapsing from the memories.

I was scared of feeling the despair I had felt back then once more.

“No. That’s not it.”

This is a lie. I know it myself.

What I’ve been continuously avoiding wasn’t that.

I just didn’t like facing the possibility that they might resent me.

Since it’s in the form of a book, their end is also written similar to an ending.

Their ending was a sad ending, a bad ending. It could never be a happy ending.

I didn’t want to read a story that could never become happy.

I preferred happy endings, even if they were somewhat forced.

If there was even a single line blaming me in that final moment, I didn’t think I could bear it.

Only the regrettable actions I had done to them, the prickly words I had said, came to mind.

I should have treated them a bit more kindly.

Regret, no matter how quickly it comes, is always late. It’s late because it’s regret, and it’s regret because it’s late.

At that time, I wasn’t in my right mind. It was overwhelming just to take care of myself.

It was when I was mentally overwhelmed.

In the early days, I struggled frantically to survive. Since there was only survival to think about, other concerns were a luxury.

It was when I became somewhat comfortable and prided myself on being strong.

Those were days when I went around arrogantly, showing off.

In reality, it was merely filling my self-esteem by forcibly establishing pride, afraid that my insignificant inside would be exposed.

Despite the fact that such filled self-esteem couldn’t be proper.

Suddenly my gender changed, and in an instant, the environment surrounding me changed.

My memories are clear, but the people related to me don’t exist.

The gap between memory and reality. The distance between the two drove me crazy.

Am I really me? My head was full of concerns one would typically have during puberty.

It was painful that I had nowhere to define myself except within myself.

When I was precariously wobbling, there was no one to hold me.

It felt like being a lone sailboat floating in the vast sea.

Even the gentle waves felt like tsunamis in a storm.

A life just floating, without knowing where I was heading or being able to define who I was.

Not living life, but just being lived.

It seemed that one doesn’t necessarily become an adult just because time passes.

I was still a coward who only ran away and an infinitely selfish child.

“Phew.”

I exhaled as if taking a deep breath.

Yes, it’s time to face it now. It’s time to stop running away.

It’s about time to become an adult.

From the first page I faced that way, I crumbled.

There was no resentment towards me, no disappointment.

Just one sentence was written.

[I dedicate this book to my dear teacher.]

This one line, just this one line I couldn’t see.

In the end, I didn’t trust those children until the end.

Why?

Why is this one sentence sadder than any resentment?

A tear that I couldn’t hold back no matter how hard I tried trickled down my cheek.

It’s hard to suppress a cry once it bursts. Tears that swell rapidly like a broken dam continue to flow.

Teardrops falling one by one, two by two.

The book upon which tears have fallen cries.

As the tears spread, the book also cries sorrowfully. It distorts, becoming quite ugly.

But strangely, laughter also flowed out.

Memories that I thought had completely sunk resurface one by one, bringing a smile to my face.

Each of their handwriting had their personality embedded.

Round handwriting, square angular handwriting, even handwriting so messy it was hard to read.

The sentence on the first page was written in each of their handwriting.

They probably didn’t write it themselves. The Tower merely restored the handwriting arbitrarily.

The Tower cannot fabricate facts that don’t exist.

It pursues fairness, and occasionally that fairness can feel as cold as a machine.

But right now, that fairness couldn’t feel any warmer.

Sniff! I read the rest of the book while sniffling.

Not only in the handwriting but also in the writing style, the characteristics of each individual were well represented.

That was quite an interesting thing.

I could find traces of them even in the parts that weren’t obvious.

It was making even hidden memories resurface drop by drop.

Those that rose like soap bubbles were both hazy and precarious, as if they would burst at the slightest touch.

“Not all sad endings are bad endings.”

“Sniff. What? Old man, you’re still here?”

“Would you prefer I leave quickly?”

“That’s not it. So what were you trying to say?”

The old man raised one eyebrow and said,

“I missed the perfect timing for a cool line because of you.”

“It’s okay. I’m still maintaining the emotional mood, so you can say it. The afterglow remains long.”

I said, sniffling.

I felt the old man looking at me with an incredulous expression. I quietly averted my gaze.

“Ahem, not all sad endings are bad endings.”

The old man said, clearing his throat.

Ah, he’s starting from there?

I returned a gaze as if I found it absurd, and the old man also stealthily avoids my gaze.

“A person’s ending is basically a sad ending.”

“Is ‘and they lived happily ever after’ like in fairy tales impossible?”

“That’s right. Exactly. A person’s ending is literally the end. It can’t continue anymore.”

All deaths are sad. Both for those left behind and for those departing.

There are various funeral cultures in the world.

In some places, people dance, and in others, they commemorate the departed with laughter and a festive atmosphere.

However, the basic underlying tone of commemoration is sadness.

In the end, it’s sadness. All farewells are painful and sad.

“What’s important is to part well. Whatever it is.”

“Is that so?”

Then have I now properly said farewell?

“Are you still scared?”

“Of what?”

“Of being left alone.”

A gaze that seems to see through me is directed at me.

Eyes that contain much, befitting the nickname of sage, look at me.

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind then.”

We both spoke lightly, but we both knew that what we said was false.

Sometimes, a well-packaged lie is needed rather than the truth.

But it seemed that wasn’t the case now.

The old man unveils the well-packaged shell.

“You won’t be alone. There will be the Tower and the Abyss. Ber will be included too.”

“I have to build relationships again. Can I build them again? What if I build them wrong and they become twisted and collapse? What if I make things worse?”

“You have too many fears.”

I can’t help it. I don’t want to suffer again because of memories that only I keep.

I forcibly swallowed the words I couldn’t speak out loud.

“Then I’ll remember too. Even if we go back to the past, somehow.”

“Ha, how would you do that, old man?”

“So, somehow.”

He utters words that confusingly seem both serious and joking.

Nevertheless, those words were comforting.

“I think it would be better to turn back time. That would be right. That’s right. It will be so.”

Because if we just stay like this, it can never become a happy ending.

At the very least, it should be an acceptable sad ending, shouldn’t it?

“If we go back to the past, I’ll take you as my disciple, old man.”

“That sounds good. I’d like to be brought in when I’m young, if possible. This worn-out body gets tired too easily.”

“Alright, I’ll do that.”

“But do you know my name?”

The old man looked at me with a face full of doubt.

“Of course I know!”

“Really? Then tell me.”

What does he take me for?

“Jang Chun-mong.”

It’s a name that’s hard to forget once heard. It’s a name that reminds one of “Iljangchunmong” (a fleeting dream).

And,

“There’s no way I wouldn’t know a friend’s name.”

The old man looks at me with wide eyes. Then he bursts into laughter.

“Haha. Hahahahaha.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought you had forgotten my name since you always call me ‘old man, old man’.”

“That’s impossible. It’s not like I’m taking you for a fool.”

Tapping my head, I continued.

“It’s all here. Everything. Things I want to forget, things I shouldn’t forget. All of it.”

They’re just sunken. They could resurface anytime.

“And your name is special, right?”

“That’s true.”

“Have you ever disliked your name or something like that? Chunmong (spring dream), it’s not a particularly good meaning.”

“It feels awkward to talk about this without alcohol.”

“Cut down on the alcohol.”

“You should increase it. Is it normal to pass out after just one glass?”

I was speechless. But I quickly regained my composure and said,

“How about getting drunk on the atmosphere today?”

“With your tears as snacks?”

“Ugh, what are you saying?! That’s cringeworthy.”

“Well, anyway, I like my name.”

The old man hurriedly changed the topic and said.

“I also like the meaning contained in the name.”

“Chunmong means a futile dream, a word that signifies the transience of life, doesn’t it?”

“But you can be happy for a brief moment.”

Is that so? I tilted my head.

It wasn’t well understood, but it’s not polite to make an issue out of someone else’s name.

“Even if it’s a fleeting dream, you can be happy while dreaming it.”

“And after waking from that dream?”

“Well, after waking, it might shatter like glass fragments. You might get hurt by those fragments.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“But that’s how people are. We’re beings that live on moments.”

“Live on moments?”

“Isn’t beauty something like that? Being captivated in a fleeting moment. And then reminiscing about that moment that will never come again.”

Wiping his glasses, the old man continued.

“A moment in a long life. People name that moment as a memory, ruminate on it, long for it, and live like that.”

With one eye squinted, he looked at me through his glasses and said,

“In the end, what’s vividly remembered in a long life are moments of happiness.”

You too. And me too.

His low, settling voice harmonizes with the serenely shining light.

In the darkened night, over the quiet night where everyone is asleep, those words quietly spread.

Like the deep ripples spreading over a calm lake, it warmly wets my heart.