The Man Who Will Not Stop Searching
Jung Hyun-seok doesn't dream anymore.
Dreams require rest, and rest is something he abandoned long ago.
Instead, he is awake—always awake. Even when his body betrays him, even when exhaustion threatens to drag him under, he fights to stay alert. Because if he stops—if he stops, then he might forget.
And forgetting is worse than dying.
The rain has soaked through his jacket, the dampness clinging to his skin like rot. It doesn't matter. He stands at the same spot, holding up his sign, fingers stiff from the cold. His throat is raw from shouting, but no one listens.
They walk past him, like they always do.
Like they did yesterday.
Like they will tomorrow.
A few glance at him before looking away, as if making eye contact will somehow curse them with his grief. Others scowl, annoyed at his presence, at the way he disrupts the neat order of their world. A handful of people whisper among themselves, murmuring words he has heard too many times.
"Ahjussi, just let it go."
"Still? It's been years."
"I heard the kid ran away."
Jung Hyun-seok doesn't acknowledge them.
Instead, his gaze flickers through the moving crowd, scanning, searching—always searching.
Then, he sees her.
The girl from earlier. The one who hesitated. The one who stared at his sign a little too long.
Seo Yoon.
She is across the street now, moving quickly, but not quickly enough. Her shoulders are tense, her grip on her bag too tight. She is rattled.
And then—she stumbles.
It's small, barely noticeable. But he sees the way her breath catches, the way her entire body stiffens.
And he knows.
She heard it.
Seo Yoon—Fragments of a Life She Was Never Meant to Remember
Seo Yoon doesn't remember how she got home.
One moment, she was walking, blending into the moving bodies of the city. The next, she was here, inside her apartment. Door locked. Lights on.
Heart pounding in her ears.
She grips the edge of the kitchen counter, her breaths unsteady. It wasn't real. It couldn't have been real.
But the words won't stop circling in her head.
"Hide well… I might see your hair."
Her fingers shake as she runs a hand through her hair.
She knows that voice.
Not just from the whispers that night. Not just from the street. She knows it. Deep in her bones, deep in the places memories go to die.
Her phone buzzes on the counter.
Unknown Number.
Seo Yoon stares at it.
The vibration stops. Then—a notification.
One new voicemail.
Her stomach twists.
Her thumb hovers over the play button. She doesn't remember giving her number to anyone. She doesn't even get spam calls. But something in her gut tells her this isn't random.
A sharp breath. Then, she presses play.
A faint static hum fills the speaker.
Then—
A child's voice.
"I don't know where I am."
Seo Yoon's stomach drops.
"Help me."
Her fingers tighten around the phone. Her pulse is deafening in her ears.
No. No, no, no.
She checks the timestamp.
The voicemail isn't new.
It was left years ago.
Something slams into her—a memory, unbidden and violent.
The Past—A Place She Was Never Supposed to Return To
A dark room.
Small figures curled up on the floor. The air thick with silence, thick with fear.
A voice—soft, trembling, close to her ear.
"If we don't move, they won't see us."
Seo Yoon gasps, clutching her phone like a lifeline.
The boy from the sign.
Jung Soo-min.
Her head spins. How does she know that? How does she remember a boy she has never met?
Unless—
She stumbles toward her desk, hands moving before she can think, tearing through drawers, flipping through old notebooks, desperate—searching—searching—
And then, she finds it.
A small, worn-out notebook.
She doesn't remember owning it.
But inside, scrawled in shaky, desperate handwriting, is a single name.
Jung Soo-min.
Jung Soo-min.
Jung Soo-min.
Over and over and over again.
Her breath stutters. This doesn't make sense.
Her fingers tighten on the pages. And then—
A sound.
Soft. Familiar.
A child's hum.
"Kkogkkog sumeora, meolikarag bolla."
Elsewhere—A Game That Was Never a Game
The woman listens, a small smile playing at her lips.
From the other room, the girl continues to hum.
The song is second nature to her now—part of her, just as it was part of the ones before her.
From the doorway, the man watches.
"She's remembering," he murmurs.
The woman tilts her head, considering.
"No," she corrects. "She's remembering exactly what we want her to."
A pause.
Then, she brushes a hand down the girl's hair, fingers light, affectionate.
"Again," she says.
And so, the girl sings.