The 36th Newsletter

Hi there,
This is your A.thentic Jong Hee.

This is 36th newsletter for you.

How are you today?

You might have been surprised to see my new newsletter arrive earlier than you expected. The reason is simple: as I mentioned in the last issue, I wasn’t able to share everything I wanted to say, so I decided to wrap it up sooner this time. Originally, I wanted to write about lighter and brighter things, but that mood was ruined by that devilish fool of a dictator—the devil Trump.

Anyway, let’s move on to the main topic.
The ice cream I posted in the last photo is called “메로나” Melona, a Korean ice cream made from melon. (And just to be clear, I receive no sponsorship or support from that company.) I’ve always liked this ice cream—I usually buy it while walking, whenever I want a little mood-lift. I like it as much as my favorite “Pat”(red bean) ice cream. Recently, I learned from a major Korean media outlet that Melona has actually become very popular among foreign visitors to Korea. It’s a must-eat for them. 

The place in the photos is a 24-hour unmanned ice cream shop—a store where there’s no clerk. Customers go in, pick what they want, pay, and walk out. I don’t know if your country has these, but they’ve been around in Korea for a few years now, and you can find them almost everywhere.

Sure, I heard that there are sometimes small thefts by young students, but the fact that these shops are thriving nationwide shows that most customers act with honesty. Korea, in general, has a lot of unmanned shops, like unmanned cafés, as well.

One of the things foreigners are often surprised by after living in Korea for a few years is experiences like leaving their wallet in a taxi and still being able to get it back the next day. In reality, most Koreans don’t really care about other people’s belongings. As I mentioned before, even if you leave your laptop, wallet, or phone on a café table while you go to the restroom, nothing happens. I do the same myself. When I go to a café, I often leave my phone on the table to save my seat while I order, and some people even leave their wallets there too.

On rainy days, you’ll often see umbrella stands or plastic bins at the entrances of restaurants, cafés, and supermarkets. People just leave their wet umbrellas there and head inside. Most of the time, the umbrellas are still there when they come back. And if one’s missing, it’s usually just because someone mistook another umbrella for their own. Later, you’ll notice a different umbrella left behind—it evens out in the end.

In any case, every time I step into one of those unmanned ice cream shops, I feel a small sense of excitement and happiness. After all, who could feel gloomy standing in front of ice cream?

As you may have heard, K-Beauty has been gaining huge popularity overseas. But honestly, most Koreans, including myself, don’t really know about this. It’s the same with K-Dramas and K-Pop. These were never made for foreigners in the first place—they were created by us, for us. The stories in dramas, the songs in K-Pop, the skincare and food—these were all originally meant for Koreans, not for the outside world. So when we hear that foreigners love them, most of us react with surprise: “But this is just something we like—why do they like it too?” Things like kimbap, cup rameon (cup noodles), and dramas feel familiar to us because they reflect our daily lives, our joys, our sorrows, and our catharsis.

When it comes to K-Beauty, what I wanted to share last time is this: many American women, especially white women, have been coming to Korea to receive skincare treatments or anti-aging procedures in Korean clinics. I even read that a few specific products became so rare because demand from abroad made it nearly impossible to find.

The photos below are from a nationwide cosmetics collection shop, called “OLive Young”. These days, especially in tourist areas, more than 80–90% of customers are foreigners. Near Haeundae Beach, I saw this myself—the store was filled with non-Koreans. But as you can see from the photos, the same shop in my neighborhood feels quiet and peaceful, a place where you can shop comfortably. (I only recently learned this too. As I’ve said before, most Koreans don’t know or really care about which of our products are famous abroad.)

Back in the day, I used to use a lot of skincare products myself, so I know the differences well—whether foreign or Korean products, skin lotions, boosters, essences, nourishing creams, or even the importance of foam cleansers before bed. Years ago, the products at this shop were just average quality. But in recent years, their quality has improved a lot. I know the technology has advanced greatly over time. Now, I see quite a few items there with “#1 Best Seller on Amazon” labels. I plan to try one of their skincare essences myself.

Now, let me share what I originally intended to talk about in the last newsletter.
But before that, I should tell you—this might be my last newsletter for a while. I don’t plan to write again anytime soon (maybe in five or six months? I don’t know..). To those who enjoyed my writing and even replied each time—thank you, and I’m also sorry.

As for the unfinished story of Hyun and Jisoo—I don’t plan to share more of it here, at least for now. I already know how that story ends, and I do intend to keep writing it occasionally. Maybe one day it could become a book, though that’s uncertain. The truth is, investing my time and energy into publishing it here brings me very little in return—physically or mentally. Still, music related to that story may continue to come out.

Also, I’ve decided not to release a new album this month—since I didn’t work on new music. I deeply regret not being able to fully express myself in this newsletter. But the truth is, the more I write here, the more emptiness I feel. It weighs on me, just like Instagram does.

Speaking of Instagram, if I ever feel like posting actively again, I might do so on this account—or maybe on a completely new one. For now, I just want more freedom. The truth is, the farther I step away from Instagram, the calmer I feel. For you, it might be better to follow accounts that are more fun, more active, and updated often.

As for me, I want to feel freer, and eventually, I’ll also change the direction of my music production (not immediately, but gradually). When that time comes, I hope some of you will still find ways to connect with me—whatever form that may take.

To be honest, through this newsletter I had hoped to share something deeper about myself. But I’ve decided not to expect too much from that—because of language barriers, cultural differences, and the misunderstandings that inevitably arise.

In my previous newsletter, when I advised, “Don’t trust a Korean person you meet online,” that too was misunderstood. What I meant was this: if you are in a romantic relationship with someone who suddenly cuts off all contact, demands unreasonable money, or shows suspicious behavior, be careful. Many of those cases are not even real Koreans, but foreigners pretending to be Korean. Of course, I’ve also heard that even real Koreans sometimes commit crimes, demanding money and disappearing right after receiving it. 

For instance, there was once a foreign man who followed me. (I didn’t even know if he was following me.). Without saying a word, he took my photos and uploaded them on his own Instagram, pretending to be Korean. When I happened to discover this and asked him, “Why did you do that?” he simply blocked me. That’s why I tell you—be cautious.

The real issue is when someone you believe is Korean begins a relationship with you and then suddenly disappears or makes unreasonable demands. In my last newsletter I even asked, “Am I real?” But you know—I have never disappeared on you, nor have I ever asked you for anything. All this time, I’ve only been making music, playing instruments, creating videos, and sharing the stories I write here with you. And you’ve been there, watching that journey.

Of course, I also know people who have built truly beautiful love stories online. I know someone who often chatted on Instagram and eventually flew all the way from abroad to Korea to meet her Korean boyfriend, and they spent wonderful time together. I also know a couple where the Korean man travels every year to his girlfriend’s country so they can go on trips together, like something out of a beautiful movie. Stories like these remind me that love doesn’t begin with language—it begins with the heart. And I sincerely cheer on these people and their journeys of love, to the very end.

Finally, now I want to share the hidden story behind one of my earlier albums. It’s Fading Heart Shore.

Fading Heart Shore

Once you read this story, you’ll understand why the album had that title, why the cover art looked the way it did, why he is walking to the sea, and why the next album was Alone on the Beach. This was a story I created in my mind, and from it, I composed the music for Fading Heart Shore. And that summer, I suffered deeply.

But let me warn you(Disclaimer): this is not a happy story. If that’s what you’re looking for, it’s better not to start reading. And one more thing—what this story longs to tell is “love”. Even though I go through mental and emotional struggles, if you dive deep enough, there is always love. I hope you can see that.

And one more thing, before you read my story, I want to explain a few Korean words. I use the word “Ajeosi” here, which is a term children—or even ordinary people—use to address a man they don’t know personally. In English, the closest word might be “Uncle,” but it doesn’t really capture the same nuance in the context of my story. That’s why I decided to keep the word Ajeosi as it is.

You may recognize it from the Korean movie The Man from Nowhere, starring Won Bin—the original Korean title is actually Ajeosi.

And I also used the word Yeobo. This is a term that married couples use to address each other, and it can be used by both the husband and the wife. While English words like Honey or Baby exist, they often feel too casual, so I chose to keep the original Korean word.

And lastly, if you listen to the music while reading this story, you may find yourself drawn even deeper into its mood.

Song : Fading Heart Shore

Spotify : https://open.spotify.com/album/4HrKjhiTV4sv4TN48CJLEM?si=rBNpWS0LTMG3Ul6hxo78aw

Apple Music : https://music.apple.com/us/song/fading-heart-shore/1822000829

YouTube : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6oaOrO39x7k

Okay, that’s all for today.

So, until much later, I hope we meet again.

In the meantime, I wish you health and happiness.

Thank you so much

Warm Regards 

A.thentic Jong Hee 

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Fading Heart Shore 

Written by A.thentic Jong Hee

“Here’s the room, young man. Take a look around...”

In a quiet seaside village, a stranger arrives, breaking the silence of the town. A man, carrying only a small bag, peers into the room shown to him by an elderly woman. It isn’t the summer vacation season, and this isn’t the kind of beach that attracts outsiders. There are hardly any hotels or proper lodging nearby—just a plain, quiet village.

“What do you think? This whole place is like that. It’s such a remote countryside that no one comes here for fun.”

The young man doesn’t answer. He simply sets his bag down at the door.

“It’s been... two months since anyone stayed in this room. It’s been so long I’ve lost count. But since you wanted it, I went ahead and cleaned it. You should be fine here.”
“……”

The young man just stares blankly into the room, eyes weary, still silent.

“Did you come alone?”

“……”

“How long will you be staying?”

At last, the man answers quietly.

“Not for long...”

“Well, all right. But you already gave me more than enough money—enough for over a week. Normally folks pay day by day. I even tried not to take it all at once, but you insisted...”

He says nothing, only turns to look outside. From the doorway, a bleak stretch of tidal flats opens to a still, gray sea. Out on the horizon, faint streaks of sunset begin to spread across the sky.

“But how will you eat? There aren’t really any places around here...”

The village has no restaurants worth the name—barely a diner in sight.

“If you can’t find food, just come to my house. Guests staying here usually eat with us anyway. The red gate up the hill—can’t miss it.”
“……”

Still, the man remains silent.

“All right then, get some rest.”

The old woman, a little awkward at his lack of response, carefully steps down the stone stairs and leaves.

The man continues to gaze into the room long after she’s gone. Finally, he turns and sits on the wooden porch. From there, he can see the wide, low sea straight ahead—the wall around the yard is low enough not to block the view. It’s the West Coast sea: no waves, only silence, draped over the whole village. 

Finding not a single passerby in sight, he seems almost relieved, the faintest smile curling at his lips.

“So this place... it’s still the same...”

He murmurs to himself as if the scenery is familiar, then places the bag he had tossed inside the room beside him. He unzips it, rummages through it with his hand, and pulls something out—a small bottle of strong liquor.

“Food...”

Repeating the woman’s words with a faint smile, he opens the cap and takes a deep swig. The burning alcohol rushes into him as though it were his supper. 

As the strong alcohol quietly spreads through his body, he closes his eyes slowly, as if only now finding peace of mind, savoring the warmth of the liquor for a moment before opening his eyes again. The world, once blurry, seems to clear, and with renewed vision, he casts his gaze toward the sea and begins to take in the surrounding scenery.

Before him, the calm water reflects a faint rose-colored glow of sunset. He stares, entranced, casting his heart out toward the sea.

Turning his gaze, he notices the little village houses, walls tangled with green vines and nameless flowers. Everything looks strangely vivid, almost beautiful, as though the liquor had stripped away a veil from his sight. His eyes begin to shine with curiosity.

At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he notices the neighboring yard, and sees a young little girl playing alone on the wooden porch. She quietly plays with a few shells she had picked up from the sea, moving them back and forth as if in a little game. He takes another sip of his drink, then looks toward the girl and whispers faintly.

“…Why is the child... alone?”

And then, his eyes slowly begin to close. Before coming to this village, he hadn’t slept properly in a long time. With the strong liquor in his body, the exhaustion from the journey here, and the release of tension, drowsiness finally starts to overcome him. How long has it been since he last felt the weight of sleep?

And then, sitting on the porch in front of the room with a view of the sea, he slowly leans back and soon drifts into sleep.

Moments later, a flashing light flickers before his closed eyes. He can’t tell if it’s from an ambulance or a fire truck, but something is flashing vividly before him.

“Haru!”

He shouts, jolting awake. He’s still on the porch of the guesthouse, night falling around him. Realizing it was only a dream, he breathes heavily, but soon, a wave of grief rises unbidden from deep inside him.

“Haru...”

The man begins to weep quietly.

“Haru…”

The man calls out a name—whose it is, he cannot say. His sobbing will not cease. Whether from the liquor or from some uncontrollable surge of emotion, he seems unable to hold back his tears. With his head bowed, the drops fall steadily from his eyes onto his knees.

Then, a small hand comes into his line of sight. Lifting his tear-streaked face, he sees a little girl standing before him.

“……?”

Puzzled, he stares. The child tilts her head and asks in a gentle, curious voice,

“Ajeosi... why are you crying?”
“……”

In that moment, the man realizes it is the same little girl he had seen earlier, playing alone in the next door. With a voice full of innocent curiosity, her eyes a mix of worry and wonder, she asks him a question. She is far too young to understand what sorrow is. The man turns his head away and wipes his tears.

“Why are you crying, ajeosi? Is your mom... sick too..?”

Her sudden words pierce his heart. ‘Sick... a mother…' He forces a faint smile, trying to sound calm as he answers,

“No... nothing’s wrong.”

But the girl doesn’t look away. He turns his face again, hurriedly brushing his tears. Then—

“Here, ajeosi. A present.”

The girl holds something out to him. In her small hand is the little shell she had been playing with on her own just moments ago.

“My mom gave me this... but I’ll give it to you. Don’t cry anymore, okay?”
“……”

He absentmindedly takes the little shell the girl offered. The man gazes blankly at the shell in his hand.

“I have to go now. Don’t cry, ajeosi.. Bye...”

And with that, she turns, carefully stepping down the stone stairs, her tiny footsteps pattering away toward home. Watching her retreating figure—so innocent, so pure—the man feels his heart collapse once more. Overwhelmed, he buries his face in his hands, sobbing, and whispers the name again through his tears:

“Haru...”

……………………………………………..

After a while, the man steps into the guesthouse room. When he switches on the light, he sees a folded blanket and pillow placed neatly in one corner, and a small wardrobe. The wallpaper is patterned with faint flowers, the kind that seems to exist in every countryside home. He turns the light off again and crouches in the corner of the room. Then, softly, a name escapes his lips.

“Yeobo (wife)…”

This room, in fact, was the very one where he and his wife had once stayed together before they were married. Both fond of traveling, the two of them would escape on weekends or short holidays to quiet seaside villages like this. One of those places had been this very house, this very room. 

Avoiding the noisy crowds of summer resorts, they had come here, walking along the beach, splashing in the waves, picking up seashells. It had been like a picture-perfect retreat, just the two of them, wrapped in peace and silence.

Even when they occasionally argued or misunderstood each other during their relationship, they would come here. Walking along the beach, talking things through, and at night lying together, talking and sharing love until dawn, their love would deepen as if no argument had ever occurred.

No matter how many times they visited each year, this quiet, peaceful place never grew tiresome; to the two of them, it was a small, warm and beautiful paradise.

Later, they married and settled in Seoul. Each day had been filled with happiness and sweetness. The man, who had lost both his parents at an early age, had no real family except for an older brother. But that brother only ever came around to ask for money, claiming he desperately needed money for his business. Repayment was never in his thoughts—he always demanded more, even after loans and favors.

Because of this, his wife had been everything to him. She knew his loneliness and always embraced him with a warm smile and unconditional love. He, in turn, loved her with all his heart, grateful for every moment.

When they each went to work in the morning and planned to meet somewhere on the way home in the evening, the man, as the meeting time approached after work, would run so that he wouldn’t make his wife wait even for a single minute at the meeting spot. And once he arrived at the meeting spot and saw his wife walking toward him from a distance, he quickly wiped the sweat off his face, worried that she might be concerned if she saw him sweating.

But then… he lost her..

His wife had been taken from him in a sudden accident. The one and only angelic wife in the world who understood everything about him and gently healed the wounds he carried from his family and the longing for his parents… he had lost her.

The shock and despair drove him to shut himself inside, abandoning his work, his life, everything. For days and nights, he curled up in darkness. Occasionally, his brother would come by, knock on the door, and shout from outside, telling him to pull himself together and not just sit there, but since there was no answer, his brother would soon give up and leave. It was unclear whether he was worried about his brother’s well-being or just about his business funds. 

Now, overwhelmed by memories, the man takes out a bottle of liquor from his bag. As the alcohol burns down his throat, a strange sense of relief spreads through him.

“If not for this drink…” he thinks.

He lets his hand trail along the wall, the floor.

“Yeobo…” he whispers again, faintly.

This room still feels as if it carries her scent, her warmth. He remembers how she had loved the atmosphere of this little house, how her eyes had glowed whenever they stayed here.

For nearly a month or two, the man had been holed up in his house, and somehow he mustered his last bit of strength to come here. If he had stayed in his home in Seoul, people—trying to offer comfort—would constantly knock on his door, expecting him to come out and say he was fine, as if that were the only way they could leave.

So he came to this place, where their love had once blossomed most deeply. And perhaps, this place might be his final destination. After this, he had no plans, no tasks, no reason to continue. On his desk at home, he had already left a letter to his elder brother, along with his bankbook and the bank password. In the letter, he wrote that all he could leave his brother now was the remaining money, apologized for not being able to be a better sibling, and wished him happiness, then departed.

The man took another few sips of alcohol and quietly opened the door. Through his slightly intoxicated eyes, the soft lights of the small fishing boats far out on the night sea shimmered like peaceful, warm lights from another world, untouched by pain. Stumbling a little, he slowly slipped on his shoes, stepped out into the yard, and began walking toward the sea. 

As if the ocean itself were calling him, or perhaps as if he were going to meet the family he had long been unable to see, he walked toward the water with a distant, desperate look in his eyes. It felt as though the sea could offer him endless comfort deep within his heart. Perhaps forever.

At this moment, as the man walks toward the sea, the sound of a child crying reaches him from somewhere. 

“What’s that…?” 

He wonders, but pays it no mind, dragging his drunken body and continuing slowly toward the ocean. Yet even as he leaves the yard, the child’s cries do not stop. Then, from afar, the voice of the child can be heard.

“Mom!”

The man falters, swaying. The word pierces him, small and weak, but unmistakable.

“Mom…?”

And an image comes to mind—the little girl from earlier, asking him if his mother is sick. But he ignores it, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them and continues walking forward. Then, once again, the sound of the child crying reaches him. The voice comes again.

“Mom!”

Once again, he hears the voice calling “Mom.” At that moment, the man thinks: he is supposed to go to the sea… but why is this child… crying so much at this very moment? 

With that thought, he finally stops walking. He wants to keep moving forward, but the sound of the child calling for her mother halts him. Standing there for a moment, he slowly turns his body. Without realizing it, he starts walking, little by little, toward the house where the child is crying. 

Once again, the child’s voice calling for her mother reaches him—not just whining in front of her mother, but a cry that carries a growing sense of urgency and fear.

“Mom…!”

The man quickens his pace, and despite his drunken staggering, he is soon running. 

A short while later, he reaches the neighboring yard and stops in front of a lit room. And the man shouted urgently toward the room.

“Hey, kid. Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

The child suddenly opens the door and meets him. Her face is full of tears, a mixture of surprise and fear. It’s the little girl from before! Seeing him, she cries and speaks,

“Ajeosi… Mom… Mom is very sick…Mom isn’t waking up.…”

Upon hearing this, the man rushes into the room. Inside, he sees the child’s mother lying in the center of the room. Covered with a blanket, she seems unconscious.

“Ma’am, are you okay? Ma’am? Wake up, please. Ma’am?”

He quickly leans close to the mother’s face, checking her breathing and placing an ear near her mouth and nose while observing her chest. He hears faint breaths and then checks her pulse and gently opens her closed eyelids to assess her consciousness. As if he’s never been drunk, his movements are swift and precise. 

The child standing behind him, witnessing this, bursts into louder tears—perhaps out of fear, perhaps relief. The man remains composed, swiftly assessing the nearly unconscious woman.

“Sweetheart, where does your mother feel pain? Since when has this been happening?”

He asks the child while keeping his eyes on her mother. He was an internist—a doctor.

Having lost his family, he had closed his clinic, feeling as though he’d lost everything. He came here intending to end his own life, yet witnessing someone else’s life in danger is an entirely different matter he cannot ignore. Acting on instinct, knowledge, and experience, he begins treating the urgent patient unconsciously.

“Sweetheart… this won’t do. We need to call an ambulance. Where’s a phone?”

He didn’t even bring a cellphone when he came here. The child shakes her head, tears in her eyes, as if she doesn’t know. Growing desperate, he scans the room. Seeing nothing, an idea strikes him, and he rushes outside.

He runs to the house upstairs, searching for the red-doored guesthouse—the inn where the owner lives.

Shortly after arriving, he bursts through the front door and urgently calls for the owner:

“Ma’am! Ma’am!”

Startled, the innkeeper appears.

“Who is it..? What’s wrong? What’s happening…?” 

she asks, seeing the man’s urgency.

“Phone… I need to use a phone, ma’am.”
“Phone? Oh, here… here it is.” 

She points to the telephone on the floor.

“But what’s the hospital number? The number for the hospital in this village?”
“Hospital? Ah… the number is posted on the phone. We always put emergency numbers up.”

Before she even finishes speaking, the man grabs the phone, dials, and explains the situation:

“Hello? Is this the hospital? There’s an urgent patient here—a young woman, collapsed for unknown reasons. Her pulse is present but tends to be fast, and her breathing is shallow and irregular. Airway is clear, BP(Blood Pressure) hasn’t been measured yet.. Yes. Huh?  Where am I? The address is…”

The innkeeper interjects:

“101-1 Sanwe, Daecheong-ri.”

The man repeats the address over the phone, continues describing the situation, and then hangs up. The innkeeper asks,

“What happened? Did the kid’s mother next door collapse again?”
“Yes…”

Finally, the man, sitting on the floor, responds with a dazed expression.

“Oh… the ambulance is coming soon?”
“Yes. They said it will arrive shortly.. Ah! I should go check again.”
“Right, go.. My goodness, what’s happening in the world…”

The man runs back to the neighboring house. Until the ambulance arrives, he stays by the mother’s side, monitoring her condition in case of any danger.

A short while later, the ambulance arrives in the yard next door. Paramedics begin emergency care, place a respirator, and carry the mother onto a stretcher. A few neighbors have come out to watch, and the guesthouse owner is comforting the frightened, crying child by carrying her on her back.

“I hope she’ll be okay… tsk tsk…”

The innkeeper says worriedly, watching the ambulance drive off. The man finally relaxes slightly, a small sign of relief on his face.

“Mom will be okay, so go rest, Min jeong,” 

She says calmly to the child and tries to put her to sleep on her back.

“Did you have dinner?” 

The innkeeper asks the child. Min jeong quietly nods.

“Good. So your mom fed you dinner.. Okay, now sleep. Don’t think about anything. Mom’s fine, okay?”

At her familiar words, the child buries her face into the innkeeper’s back and closes her eyes. Having been frightened by her mother’s illness and the arrival of the ambulance, the child slowly drifts to sleep, comforted by the grandmotherly figure.

“That young mother is really sick… and, poor thing, the baby’s dad went out fishing months ago and still hasn’t come back…”

Hearing the older woman’s quiet words beside him, the man is startled.

She continues softly, 

“He went out to the far sea, planning to earn money so she could go to a big hospital… tsk, tsk… but there’s still no news… even the coast guard hasn’t found him yet… ah… it’s just so pitiful…”

As she says this, the elderly woman, carrying the child on her back, sniffles and wipes her tears with the sleeve of her clothes.

He quietly closes his eyes, biting his teeth, trying to hold back emotions he wishes he hadn’t heard.

“Have you eaten?” the innkeeper asks the man.

“……”

Seeing no answer, she looks at him for a moment and says,

“Follow me.”

Carrying the child, she leads the way. The man stands still.

“What are you doing? Come on!” she urges. Reluctantly, he follows her.

A little later, they arrive at the house. She goes into the room and gently lays the sleeping child on the blanket. She quietly strokes the child’s head a few times, then comes back out and speaks to the man.

“Stay here for a moment.”

She heads into the kitchen. The man stands awkwardly, then sits down on the wooden porch.

A little later, the woman comes in carrying a dinner tray full of food. The surprised man takes the tray in his hands.

“What is… this…?”
“It’s nothing much, but sit down here.”

The man sets the tray down in front of him and sits, still unsure.

“Eat up. You look like you haven’t had anything all day.”
“……”
“You can’t just drink and skip your meals. You’ll ruin your health that way.”

She had already noticed the smell of alcohol lingering on him.

“Go on, eat. The side dishes aren’t much, but better than starving. Here, here.”

She picks up the spoon and presses it into his hand. He stares blankly at it.

“Go on…”

Her voice is low and gentle, almost like that of a mother coaxing her grown son. Unable to refuse, the man finally lifts the spoon and puts a bite of rice in his mouth. Seeing this, the old woman smiles softly.

“Good. Eat more—have some of this too.”

She pushes the dishes toward him, one after another.

The man, who ends up having dinner somewhat absentmindedly, finds the rice and side dishes—something he hasn’t eaten in a long time—strangely unfamiliar. Yet he quietly brings the food to his mouth and chews slowly, tasting the side dishes and soup as well.

The innkeeper smiles softly at his careful, quiet movements.

“Eat slowly, or you’ll upset your stomach.”
“……”
“But I wonder if the kid’s mother is going to be okay… I’m worried…”

“She’ll be okay this time. She didn’t seem critically ill. But whatever the illness is, she should get treatment quickly.”
“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

She asks gently. The man hesitates, then quietly nods.

“I thought so… I could tell.”

She makes a peculiar expression.

“Stay here a moment. Keep eating, don’t just sit there.”

She rises and goes into the room. A moment later, she returns holding something in her hands.

“Took me a while to find this… wondered where it was.”

Muttering to herself, she sits across from him and  hands him something: a photo.

“This is you, isn’t it?”

The man looks at the photo, confused—then shocked.

“This is you, right? You’re the man in this photo, aren’t you?”

It is a picture of him with his wife, taken before their marriage. His eyes widen in disbelief.

“I thought I’d seen you somewhere… At first I didn’t recognize you. You look so worn now. But this was taken here, wasn’t it? With that young lady. You asked me to take the picture, remember? Don’t you?”

It’s a photo of them at the guesthouse from a previous trip with his wife. Memories flood back: he remembers how friendly they had become with the owner back then, talking, taking photos, and enjoying their time. The man stares at the photo, stunned, forgetting his meal.

“I remember you said you were a doctor back then. I nearly didn’t recognize you now. Look at your face… what happened to you?”
“……”
“How many years has it been? How have you been?”

The man finally lifts his head.

“I’m sorry… I should have greeted you properly.”
“No, no, don’t apologize. Life gets busy. But why didn’t you say something when you first came? I thought you were someone else. You’re so thin now I barely knew you. What happened? And why are you here alone—where’s your wife?”
“……”
“You two said you’d marry. You even sent me the wedding photos.”
“…Yes…”
“So why are you here by yourself? She couldn’t come because she was busy?”

The man cannot answer. The woman suddenly asks,

“What about the baby ?”
“...What?”
“The baby. You boasted to me about your boy, remember? Look—this.”

She pulls out another photo. The moment the man sees it, tears well in his eyes. It’s the family portrait: he and his wife, smiling broadly, with their little boy sitting between them—adorable, wide-eyed, still so small.

“You sent me this when he turned one, remember? I thought he was the most beautiful child. I used to look at this photo often. He must be bigger now… four years old, maybe five?”
“……”
“Is he growing well? Oh, he must be running around everywhere at this age, right?”

She asks with a smile. The man says nothing.

“What was his name again? What did you name him?”

After a pause, the man whispers:

“Haru…”
“Ah, Haru. Last name Jung, wasn’t it? So Jung Haru. Even his name is sweet.”

Hearing his young son’s three-syllable name, a tidal wave of emotion overwhelms the man. Tears stream down his face. The woman, surprised, asks,

“Why…? Why are you crying?”

The man says nothing, staring at the photo, tears falling freely. Concerned, the woman asks again,

“What is it? Is he sick? Tell me, what’s wrong?”

The man can only sob.

“Haru…”

He whispers his son’s name again. A heavy tear falls onto the photo.

“Please, you’re worrying me. What happened? Tell me.”

At last, he speaks, brokenly,

“My child… my child…”
“Yes? What about your child?”
“There was… an accident.”
“An accident? What accident?”

The innkeeper’s voice trembles with tension.

“What kind of accident?” she presses.

“My wife… she was driving our son to kindergarten… there was a crash…”
“What? And—?”
“A truck crossed the center line… it hit them head-on… my wife and son… both… on the spot…”
“What?!”

The man breaks down before he can finish, clutching the photo, his body shaking with sobs. His cries fill the house. The woman, stunned, drops her hands weakly to the floor.

“Oh… what could be done… poor things.. that poor child…”

She wipes at her tears, unable to stop.

“How could such a thing happen… oh, how cruel…”

Her voice breaks as she weeps.

“Oh… poor things… this angelic baby… poor thing…”

The man bows his head, tears streaming. The two sit in silence, crying.

Meanwhile, the little girl sleeping in the room stirs at the sound of crying from the hallway and whimpers, “Mom…” Seeing this, the woman wipes her tears and enters the room.

From the room, the little girl awakens at the sound of their sobbing. She stirs and whimpers, 

“Mommy…” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Min jung. Grandma is here.”

She gently lifts the startled girl onto her lap, stroking her hair gently.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. Go back to sleep. Good girl, sleep now.”

She rocks the child in her arms like her own granddaughter, soothing her back to rest.

The man, having cried for a long while, watches through the slightly open door. He thinks: perhaps by now, he should have been walking into the sea, sinking into its depths. Yet it is this child who kept him here—who drew him back, who placed a meal in front of him tonight.

He doesn’t know what will become of himself. But in his heart rises a wish—that this little girl never fall sick, never be hurt, never suffers emotional pain while growing up. That wish might stem from the guilt and remorse he feels for losing his own young son. 

If only his own body could have broken a hundred times over to spare his boy. If only he could have protected that angel, his most precious treasure. Instead, he still lives while his son lies beyond this world. The weight of that guilt crushes him. Yet with his wounded heart, he now prays for another angel-child’s happiness.

Even if his body were to shatter a hundred times over, even if he were to break and fall apart a hundred more times. If only he could have protected that angel, his most precious treasure. And here he sits, still alive, while his own beloved son was taken from the world… a guilt so heavy it crushes him, yet with this wounded heart, he silently prays for another angel’s safety and happiness.

Tears, still wet on his face, linger in his eyes as he gazes at the little girl in the room. 

At that moment, a gentle breeze, carrying the scent of the distant sea, drifts in—soft and salty—and brushes across his tear-stained face as if to console him.

<The End of Story>