The Man in My Dreams
CHAPTER 1
The Man in My Dreams
The first thing Ha-jun noticed was the silence.
It was not the ordinary silence of a sleeping city. It felt different—deep and endless, as if the entire world had stopped breathing.
He stood in the middle of an unfamiliar street beneath a pale silver moon. Tall buildings rose on either side, their windows dark. A faint breeze moved through the empty road, carrying the scent of rain, although the sky above him was perfectly clear.
Ha-jun looked down.
He was barefoot.
For some reason, that frightened him more than the empty street.
HA-JUN: “Where am I?”
His voice disappeared into the darkness.
He turned around, searching for a familiar sign, a shop, or even a streetlight that might help him understand where he was. Nothing looked familiar, yet something about the place made his chest ache with an emotion he could not explain.
Then he saw someone standing at the end of the road.
A man.
Tall, dressed in a dark coat, with his face partially hidden in shadow.
Ha-jun could not understand why his heart began beating so quickly. He had never seen this person before. At least, he was certain he had never met him in real life.
Still, the moment their eyes met, something inside Ha-jun seemed to recognize him.
The stranger began walking toward him.
Ha-jun wanted to step backward, but his feet remained where they were.
When the man finally stopped in front of him, Ha-jun could see his face clearly. His features were gentle, his expression unreadable, and his eyes carried a sadness that felt strangely familiar.
The stranger looked at him as though he had been waiting for a very long time.
THE STRANGER: “You came.”
Ha-jun swallowed.
HA-JUN: “Do I know you?”
The man did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied Ha-jun’s face, almost as if he were searching for something that had been lost.
THE STRANGER: “You don’t remember me?”
There was no anger in his voice.
Only disappointment.
For reasons Ha-jun could not understand, those words hurt.
HA-JUN: “I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
The stranger lowered his eyes.
For a brief moment, he looked so lonely that Ha-jun felt an unfamiliar tightness in his throat. He wanted to ask what had happened to him. He wanted to tell him that he did not need to look so sad.
But before he could speak, the stranger reached toward him.
His fingers stopped just short of Ha-jun’s hand.
THE STRANGER: “I’ve missed you.”
Ha-jun’s breath caught.
He had never heard those words from this man before. He had never heard his voice before—or so he believed.
Yet the words settled somewhere deep inside him, awakening a sorrow that did not seem to belong to him.
HA-JUN: “Why would you miss me? You don’t even know me.”
The stranger looked directly into his eyes.
THE STRANGER: “Are you sure?”
A cold breeze swept between them.
Ha-jun tried to answer, but the street began to blur. The buildings faded first, followed by the moon and the lights in the distance.
He reached toward the man instinctively.
HA-JUN: “Wait. Please—”
The stranger’s expression changed.
For the first time, he looked afraid.
THE STRANGER: “Find me.”
HA-JUN: “What?”
THE STRANGER: “Please. Find me.”
The darkness swallowed everything.
Ha-jun woke with tears slipping down his cheeks.
For several seconds, he could not move. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling of his bedroom while his heart beat painfully against his ribs.
The room was familiar. His pale curtains, the small bookshelf beside his desk, the university textbooks stacked near his bed—all exactly where he had left them.
He was home.
It had only been a dream.
Then why did it hurt so much?
Ha-jun slowly raised a hand to his face and touched the dampness beneath his eyes.
He did not understand why he was crying. Nothing terrible had happened. No one had died. No one had abandoned him.
He had simply dreamed about a stranger.
And somehow, losing him had felt like losing someone important.
HA-JUN: “Who are you?”
The room offered no answer.
He reached for his phone on the bedside table. It was 6:17 a.m.
His university alarm would ring in thirteen minutes.
Ha-jun closed his eyes, hoping to remember the man’s face more clearly, but the details were already slipping away. He remembered the dark coat, the sadness in his eyes, and the way he had said I’ve missed you.
Everything else was becoming hazy.
That frightened him.
He did not want to forget.
Not yet.
By the time Ha-jun entered the kitchen, his eyes were still slightly red.
His mother noticed immediately.
MOTHER: “Ha-jun? Did you sleep badly?”
He paused beside the dining table.
HA-JUN: “A little.”
His mother put down the bowl she was holding and came closer.
MOTHER: “Are you feeling sick? You look tired.”
HA-JUN: “I’m okay, Eomma. I just had a strange dream.”
She touched his forehead gently before brushing a few strands of hair away from his face.
MOTHER: “If you’re not feeling well, you can rest today. One missed lecture won’t ruin your future.”
HA-JUN: “I have a morning lecture. I’ll be fine.”
His father, who was reading the news at the other end of the table, looked up.
FATHER: “Your mother is right. Don’t push yourself if you’re unwell.”
Ha-jun nodded, touched by how easily his parents noticed the smallest changes in him.
Sometimes he wished he were the kind of person who could say he was hurt without feeling guilty about worrying everyone. Instead, he had a habit of swallowing his feelings until they became too heavy to carry.
A chair scraped against the floor.
His older sister, Ha-eun, entered the kitchen with her hair loosely tied and her phone in one hand.
She glanced at him.
HA-EUN: “Why do you look like you’ve been crying all night?”
Ha-jun immediately looked away.
HA-JUN: “I haven’t.”
HA-EUN: “Your eyes disagree.”
HA-JUN: “I had a dream.”
Ha-eun pulled out a chair and sat beside him.
HA-EUN: “About what? Failing an exam?”
HA-JUN: “No.”
HA-EUN: “Then it must have been serious. You usually look miserable before exams, not after them.”
HA-JUN: “Ha-eun.”
His voice carried a quiet warning, but his sister only smiled.
She loved teasing him, especially when he reacted by lowering his head and refusing to look at her. Usually, he tolerated it. That morning, however, even her harmless words made him feel uncomfortably close to tears again.
Ha-eun noticed his expression change.
Her smile faded.
HA-EUN: “Hey. I was only teasing you.”
HA-JUN: “I know.”
HA-EUN: “Did something actually happen?”
He hesitated.
For a moment, he considered telling her everything—the empty street, the stranger, the terrible sadness he had felt when the dream ended.
But how could he explain something he did not understand himself?
HA-JUN: “I don’t know. It just felt real.”
Ha-eun studied him, then reached over and gently squeezed his shoulder.
HA-EUN: “Then don’t force yourself to talk about it. Eat something first, okay?”
Ha-jun looked at her.
She was still his annoying older sister. She would probably tease him again before the day ended. But she was also the person who always noticed when his sadness was more than he could handle.
HA-JUN: “Okay.”
His mother placed breakfast in front of him, and the family continued their morning together. His father reminded him about an upcoming university payment. Ha-eun complained about a group project of her own, and his mother told them both to stop looking at their phones while eating.
The conversation was ordinary.
Warm.
Safe.
Yet Ha-jun felt as though a small part of him remained on that unfamiliar street, waiting for someone who had disappeared.
The university campus was already busy when Ha-jun arrived.
Students hurried between buildings with coffee cups in their hands. A group of freshmen stood near the noticeboard, discussing club recruitment. Someone was running toward the library with a stack of papers pressed against his chest.
It was a normal morning at university.
Ha-jun should have felt normal, too.
He attended his first lecture, Introduction to Psychology, and opened his notebook. The professor began explaining memory, perception, and the ways the human mind interpreted experiences.
Under ordinary circumstances, Ha-jun enjoyed the subject. He liked understanding why people behaved the way they did, especially when their emotions were difficult to explain.
Today, however, every sentence seemed to drift past him.
He found himself thinking about the stranger’s eyes.
You don’t remember me?
His pen stopped moving.
What had that man meant?
Was the dream simply a mixture of things Ha-jun had seen before? A face his brain had created from strangers passing on the street? Perhaps he had watched a drama recently and unconsciously borrowed someone’s appearance.
That would make sense.
Dreams were not always meaningful. Sometimes they were nothing more than the mind sorting through memories.
He repeated that explanation to himself.
It did not help.
PROFESSOR: “Ha-jun, could you explain the difference between a memory and a perception?”
His head lifted abruptly.
Several students turned toward him.
For one awful second, his mind went completely blank.
HA-JUN: “I’m sorry, Professor. Could you repeat the question?”
The professor repeated it, and Ha-jun managed to give a partial answer. It was not entirely wrong, but it was not the response he would usually have given.
When the lecture ended, he remained seated, staring at his notes.
Beside him, Park Min-jae closed his textbook.
Min-jae had been his closest friend since their first year. He knew Ha-jun well enough to recognize when something was bothering him, even when Ha-jun tried to hide it.
MIN-JAE: “You’ve been somewhere else all morning.”
HA-JUN: “I’m sorry. Did I distract you?”
MIN-JAE: “No. I’m worried about you.”
Ha-jun’s fingers tightened around his pen.
The concern in Min-jae’s voice nearly undid him. It was embarrassing how easily kindness could make his eyes sting when he was already feeling fragile.
HA-JUN: “I had a dream last night.”
Min-jae waited.
HA-JUN: “There was a man. I’ve never met him, but in the dream, he acted like he knew me. He asked if I remembered him.”
MIN-JAE: “Have you seen him in another dream?”
Ha-jun slowly nodded.
HA-JUN: “I think so. I can’t remember when, but his face felt familiar. And when I woke up, I was crying.”
Min-jae’s expression softened.
MIN-JAE: “Was it a nightmare?”
HA-JUN: “Nothing frightening happened. That’s the strange part. He just looked sad, and I felt sad, too. Then he told me to find him.”
He looked down at his hands.
HA-JUN: “I know it sounds ridiculous.”
MIN-JAE: “It doesn’t sound ridiculous. It sounds like it affected you.”
Ha-jun blinked, trying to keep his emotions under control.
Min-jae did not laugh at him. He did not tell him to stop overthinking or insist that it was only a dream.
He simply sat beside him.
That was why Ha-jun loved him as a friend. Min-jae did not always know how to solve a problem, but he knew when someone needed company instead of an answer.
MIN-JAE: “Maybe you should write it down before you forget.”
HA-JUN: “Write it down?”
MIN-JAE: “You said you can’t remember everything after waking up. If you write down what you do remember, you might notice whether the same details keep appearing.”
Ha-jun considered the suggestion.
It was simple. Practical.
Something he could actually do.
HA-JUN: “I’ll try.”
Min-jae packed his books, then glanced at him again.
MIN-JAE: “And if you keep having trouble sleeping, tell me. Don’t just deal with it alone.”
Ha-jun nodded.
He wanted to say that he was fine, that it was nothing, that he could handle his own feelings.
Instead, he whispered the truth.
HA-JUN: “Thank you.”
Min-jae gave his shoulder a gentle pat before they headed to their next class.
For the rest of the day, Ha-jun tried to concentrate on his lectures. He attended his classes, took notes, and discussed an upcoming assignment with his classmates. He even stopped by the university noticeboard to look at the student club announcements, though he could not bring himself to decide whether he wanted to join anything that semester.
His life continued around him.
But every quiet moment brought him back to the same question.
Who was the man in his dream?
And why had his sadness felt so familiar?
That evening, Ha-jun returned home and finished his assignments at his desk.
He answered a message from Min-jae, helped his mother carry the laundry upstairs, and listened while Ha-eun complained about a classmate who had failed to contribute to her group project.
When she noticed he was unusually quiet, she leaned against his bedroom door.
HA-EUN: “You’re thinking about the dream again, aren’t you?”
Ha-jun looked up from his textbook.
HA-JUN: “How do you know everything?”
HA-EUN: “Because you’re terrible at pretending you’re fine.”
He lowered his eyes.
HA-JUN: “I’m trying not to think about it.”
Ha-eun’s expression softened.
HA-EUN: “You don’t have to force yourself to forget something just because you don’t understand it.”
He looked at her in surprise.
For once, she did not add a joke or ruffle his hair. She simply stood there, giving him the space to answer.
HA-JUN: “What if I forget his face?”
The question escaped before he could stop it.
Ha-eun was quiet for a moment.
HA-EUN: “Then write down what you remember. Sometimes we can’t keep a feeling from fading, but we can keep the things that help us remember it.”
Ha-jun felt his throat tighten.
He nodded, unable to explain how much those words meant to him.
After Ha-eun left, he took a notebook from his desk drawer. It was an unused one he had bought at the beginning of the semester, intending to use it for personal reflections.
He opened to the first page and wrote the date.
Then he began recording the dream.
An empty street beneath a silver moon.
A man in a dark coat.
He looked at me as if he had been waiting for me.
He asked whether I remembered him.
Ha-jun paused, trying to picture the stranger’s face.
It was already becoming difficult.
He pressed his pen against the paper.
He said he had missed me.
The next sentence took longer.
He told me to find him.
Ha-jun stared at the words.
He did not know who the stranger was. He did not know whether the dream would return, or whether it had meant anything at all. Perhaps tomorrow morning, he would look back at these pages and feel embarrassed by how deeply a dream had affected him.
Perhaps he would never see that face again.
The thought made his chest ache.
He turned to a fresh line and wrote one final sentence.
If I see him again, I’ll ask his name.
Outside, the evening settled quietly over the neighborhood. His parents were talking in the living room, and he could hear Ha-eun laughing at something on television.
Ha-jun closed the notebook and placed it beside his bed.
He turned off the light and pulled his blanket up to his shoulders.
He told himself he was only tired. That his mind was searching for answers because the dream had unsettled him. That there was no reason to expect anything unusual when he closed his eyes again.
Still, before sleep took him, a quiet thought passed through his mind.
I hope you’re not sad tonight.
He did not know why he wished that for a stranger.
He only knew that the man’s sorrow had followed him into the waking world, and a part of him wanted to see him smile.
Ha-jun closed his eyes.
For the first time, sleep did not feel like an escape from the day.
It felt like a place where someone might be waiting.
And somewhere in the silence between waking and dreaming, the unanswered question remained.
Who are you?
END OF CHAPTER 1
