Chapter 1 — The Boy at the Edge
Pyeongchang, Gangwon Province, South Korea.
At the edge of the country, mornings arrived quietly.
There were no horns outside the windows. No crowds rushing toward subway stations. No towers blocking the horizon.
There were mountains.
Endless green slopes in summer, white silence in winter, and narrow roads winding between fields and houses that seemed to have been there forever.
For sixteen-year-old Kang Min-jae, that was simply home.
He had never thought of it as beautiful.
Not really.
You didn’t notice the beauty of something you saw every day.
Min-jae opened his bedroom window and immediately regretted it.
Cold air rushed inside.
He pulled his blanket over his head.
“Five more minutes.”
From downstairs came his mother’s voice.
“Min-jae!”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re going to miss the bus!”
“I’m awake!”
He wasn’t.
He closed his eyes again.
Three seconds later, his phone vibrated against the wooden bedside table.
06:47.
He stared at the screen.
Then at the ceiling.
Then back at the screen.
“Why does morning exist?”
He finally dragged himself out of bed.
His room was small, but organized.
A school uniform hung beside the door. Books were stacked neatly on one side of his desk, while the other side was occupied by a half-finished sketch he’d been working on for three nights.
He picked up the drawing.
A mountain.
Again.
He had drawn the same mountain dozens of times.
Sometimes from memory.
Sometimes from the hill behind his house.
Sometimes without even realizing he was doing it.
He added one final line and placed the pencil down.
Then he noticed the time.
07:03.
“Oh, no.”
By the time Min-jae reached the kitchen, his mother was already standing by the stove.
His father sat at the table, reading the news on his phone.
“You have twelve minutes,” his father said without looking up.
“I know.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I made it yesterday.”
“Because the bus waited.”
Min-jae grabbed a piece of toast.
“Then I’ll make it wait again.”
His mother turned around.
“Eat properly.”
“I’m eating.”
“That’s toast.”
“It’s food.”
“It’s not breakfast.”
Min-jae smiled.
His mother sighed.
“You’re sixteen. You should eat more.”
“I’m growing.”
“Then grow after finishing your rice.”
He looked at the bowl.
Then at his mother.
Then at the clock.
He grabbed the bowl.
His father finally looked up.
“Slow down.”
Min-jae took two bites.
“Happy?”
“No.”
Min-jae laughed.
It was easy at home.
He didn’t have to think before speaking.
He didn’t have to wonder how he sounded.
He could be himself.
That was something he didn’t fully understand yet.
Outside this house, Min-jae was different.
Quiet.
Careful.
Almost invisible.
At home, he was simply Min-jae.
The bus stop was less than a kilometer away.
Min-jae ran most of the distance.
The morning air burned his lungs.
When he finally reached the stop, the bus was already there.
He slowed down.
The driver looked at him through the windshield.
Min-jae bowed slightly.
The driver sighed and opened the door.
“Every morning.”
“Sorry.”
“You’ll be late one day.”
Min-jae stepped inside.
“I’ll run faster.”
The driver shook his head.
Min-jae found a seat beside the window.
As the bus moved away, the familiar landscape passed outside.
Fields.
Houses.
Pine trees.
Mountains disappearing into morning mist.
He watched them quietly.
He liked the view.
He just didn’t know yet that one day he would miss it.
At school, Min-jae became almost invisible again.
He wasn’t unpopular.
That wasn’t the right word.
People knew him.
They just didn’t really know him.
He was the boy who answered when a teacher asked a question.
The boy who helped carry sports equipment.
The boy who sometimes drew in the corner of his notebook.
The boy who smiled politely when someone spoke to him.
He wasn’t the smartest student in the class.
He wasn’t the best athlete either.
His grades were average.
His football skills were average.
His drawings were good, but not extraordinary.
He could sing.
Not brilliantly.
He could cook.
Not amazingly.
He could fix small things around the house.
He could learn almost anything if he had enough time.
Min-jae was good at many things.
Exceptional at none.
And strangely, he was comfortable with that.
At least for now.
During lunch, a hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.
“Min-jae.”
He turned.
Park Joon-ho.
The loudest person in their class.
Possibly the loudest person in the entire school.
“You coming after school?”
“Where?”
“Football.”
Min-jae shook his head.
“I have homework.”
Joon-ho stared at him.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t do homework.”
“I’ve changed.”
“You said that last week.”
“And I’m still changing.”
Joon-ho laughed.
Another boy approached them.
Choi Tae-hyun.
“He’s lying.”
Min-jae looked at him.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
Joon-ho pointed at Tae-hyun.
“See? That’s why nobody likes you.”
Tae-hyun shrugged.
“I like myself.”
A third boy sat down beside them.
Lee Hyun-woo.
He quietly opened his lunch.
“You’re all annoying.”
Joon-ho looked offended.
“You’ve been friends with us for six years.”
“Exactly.”
Min-jae laughed.
And suddenly the quiet boy disappeared.
He leaned back in his chair.
“Joon-ho, didn’t you fail your math test?”
“I didn’t fail.”
“You got twenty-eight.”
“That’s not failing.”
“What’s failing?”
“Thirty.”
Tae-hyun stared at him.
“That’s not how exams work.”
“Details.”
Min-jae laughed harder.
A few students at the nearby table looked over.
One of them smiled.
This was the version of Min-jae most people never saw.
With the right people, he wasn’t shy.
He was ridiculous.
Playful.
Sometimes reckless.
He could spend an entire afternoon making his friends laugh.
But the moment someone unfamiliar walked over...
His voice became quieter.
His posture changed.
The walls returned.
Hyun-woo noticed.
He always did.
After school, Min-jae walked home alone.
The others had football practice.
He had promised his mother he’d help at home.
The road climbed gently toward the hillside.
He stopped halfway.
Below him, Pyeongchang stretched across the valley.
The afternoon sun touched the mountain peaks.
Min-jae stood there for a while.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Joon-ho.
WHERE ARE YOU?
Min-jae replied:
Home.
Three seconds later:
LIAR.
Min-jae smiled.
He put his phone away.
For a sixteen-year-old, he thought about the future more than he admitted.
Sometimes he wanted to leave.
Sometimes he wanted to stay forever.
He wanted to see Seoul.
He wanted to know what it felt like to walk among thousands of strangers.
He wanted a job.
Money.
Independence.
A life that belonged to him.
But then he looked at the mountains.
And suddenly leaving felt impossible.
He didn’t know which feeling was the truth.
Maybe both were.
That evening, Min-jae sat outside his house with his father.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
His father drank his tea.
Min-jae watched the sky darken.
Finally, his father asked:
“What do you want to do when you grow up?”
Min-jae smiled awkwardly.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“Everyone else seems to know.”
His father looked toward him.
“Most people don’t.”
Min-jae was quiet.
His father continued.
“Just don’t choose a life because other people think it’s impressive.”
Min-jae looked at him.
“Then how do I know what I want?”
His father smiled.
“You won’t.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Min-jae laughed.
His father laughed too.
For a few seconds, neither of them said anything.
The mountains stood silently beyond the house.
Neither father nor son knew that this ordinary evening would become one of the memories Min-jae carried far into adulthood.
That night, Min-jae returned to his room.
He opened his notebook.
On the final page, he wrote:
Things I want to do someday:
See Seoul.Travel somewhere alone.Get a good job.Make enough money that Mom doesn’t have to worry.Figure out what I’m actually good at.
He stared at the list.
Then added one more.
6. Become someone I’m proud of.
He closed the notebook.
Outside his window, the mountains disappeared into darkness.
Min-jae didn’t know it yet, but his life was already changing.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Just quietly.
The way everything important begins.
And somewhere far away, at the opposite end of the country, another sixteen-year-old girl was closing her own notebook.
She had written a very different list.
But she was looking toward the same future.
Neither of them knew the other’s name.
Not yet. the tin again.
"Seo-yeon. You don't have to."
She finally looked at him.
"I know."
He stared.
She smiled.
Slow.
Victorious.
"How does it feel?"
"Terrible."
"Good."
"That's my line."
"Not anymore."
"You can't just steal a line."
"I'm a marketing student. Stealing good lines is the entire degree."
He laughed.
Then he tucked the tin inside his jacket.
Not in his bag.
Inside his jacket.
Close to his chest.
She noticed.
She didn't say anything.
But she noticed.
They took the subway.
It wasn't crowded this time.
They found two seats together.
She sat by the window.
He sat beside her.
The suitcase sat between his knees like a third, very heavy passenger.
"So," she said.
"So."
"Seoul was boring?"
"Extremely."
"What did you do?"
"Worked. Studied. Argued with Joon-ho."
"Who won?"
"He forfeits too quickly. It's not satisfying."
"You need a stronger opponent."
"I had one."
"Had?"
"She left for ten days."
Seo-yeon looked at the window.
At her reflection.
At his reflection beside hers.
She thought about the folder on her camera.
She didn't reach for it.
"Your hand," she said instead.
He held it out without being asked.
The bandage was gone.
A
