Novelist Running Through Time

There is a called “Metamorphosis.”

One day, waking up from an uncomfortable sleep, a man finds himself transformed into a giant insect, and the story narrates his subsequent apology, struggles, and eventual death.

An individual, who becomes an insect for no apparent reason, gradually becomes alienated from the world, society, and his family, ultimately leading to his death.

This book, which teaches that a person, who can no longer earn money or speak, and looks like an insect, will be treated and discarded like one, even if they retain their human essence, was not a favorite of mine.

Because suffering and dying after being harshly thrust into the world is enough of a reality.

Anyway.

The reason this suddenly came to mind is simple.

I, too, have “transformed.”

I have transformed into my 12-year-old self.

After waking up from a very…

A very long and uncomfortable dream.

EP 1- Cause of Death

The mornings at New Light Spring Orphanage are impeccably organized.

Due to the strict rule of waking up at 7 AM, making the bed, eating, and quickly going to school, everything operates like clockwork.

Those who dare to break these sacrosanct rules are ‘educated’ (quite harshly) by the enforcers responsible for maintaining discipline in the orphanage.

So, acting like a spoiled child from a typical family, begging for ‘just 5 more minutes of sleep’ is simply not an option. One reason being there’s no one to indulge such whims.

But this morning was a bit unusual.

“What year is it? Why are you asking that all of a sudden?”

“Just answer me, quickly.”

One of the roommates in the four-person room seemed to have fallen into a frenzy, causing a commotion since the morning.

Asking what year it is…

Or even asking the names of his roommates…

“Hey! I’m asking what year it is!”

However, in an orphanage as vast as this, with many ‘crazy’ individuals, one more doesn’t make much of a difference.

Surprisingly, none of the other three roommates could give a proper answer to the question of what year it was.

“I don’t know. Just make your bed.”

“I don’t want to. Won’t tell you. What can you even do about it? Other than getting annoyed, what can you do? Huh?”

“You’re just an annoying nuisance.”

Meanwhile, one person was getting increasingly anxious as he observed his friends’ reactions.

These unlucky guys were definitely the ones from his old memories.

Why are these guys, who used to share a room with me, here? Can a dream be this realistic?

The boy extended his trembling hand.

“Phone… someone, give me a phone quickly.”

“Where would we have phones?”

“Ah, right.”

New Light Spring Orphanage does not provide things like smartphones, which are considered a source of harmful electromagnetic waves and stupidity, in order to cultivate proper character in children.

It’s definitely not because there’s no money to pay for the phone bills.

“What year is it… What year is it really…”

The answer was closer than he thought.

The calendar on the wall told him.

“……Oh my gosh.”

You are in a time 10 years ago.

And today is Christmas.

* * *

Christmas at New Light Spring Orphanage is special.

It’s not necessarily about singing praises for the Lord’s grace.

Contrary to common belief, the orphanage is not a public institution but a private facility. It’s funded by the government, but that’s about it.

Naturally, welfare budgets are not abundantly distributed to every orphanage. Therefore, the orphanage operates on private donations, most of which come from religious organizations, predominantly Christian.

(It’s not that Buddhist monks are less generous, but when you combine Protestants and Catholics, they naturally make up the majority.)

Anyway.

Christmas at New Light Spring Orphanage is special.

Since most of the major donors attend churches or cathedrals, they contribute more during Christmas. Therefore, the orphanage organizes events for them.

This year was no different.

New Light Spring Orphanage had prepared a grand Christmas party, even renting a nearby school gymnasium.

Plaques of appreciation were made for the high-value donors, and the children had diligently prepared for a talent show.

That’s when the trouble started.

“What did you say?!”

Bang Jeong-ah, a life guidance teacher at New Light Spring Orphanage, was shocked.

“In-seop, you! You’ve forgotten the entire choreography?!”

“Teacher, I really can’t remember…”

“What do you mean by that! We’ve all been practicing together for weeks, how can you not remember?”

Bang Jeong-ah thought logically.

Instead of considering that the child in front of her had returned from the future 10 years later, she concluded that this little guy, now in the fifth grade of primary school, must have hit puberty.

So, Bang Jeong-ah knelt down with a forced smile to meet the child’s eyes.

“In-seop, you’re 12 now, so it might feel a bit embarrassing to do cute choreography to a Christmas carol…”

“Teacher, it’s not that I find the choreography embarrassing, I really can’t remember-”

“But… all the people coming today are our sponsors who have supported us. Wouldn’t it be nice to show them a good performance as a way of expressing our gratitude? It’s not like you’re doing it alone, we’re all in this together.”

But no matter how gently she coaxed, this stubborn kid kept insisting, “I can’t remember.”

If this were a less reputable orphanage, there might have been swearing and violence by now, but New Light Spring Orphanage is a Christian orphanage filled with faith, hope, and love.

Instead of disciplining the rebellious with corporal punishment and threats, they embrace them with warm ‘love’ from seniors to juniors.

Bang Jeong-ah called for Ma Ki-hoon, a high school sophomore and fitness prodigy, who was in charge of discipline among the residents.

She explained the situation and quickly left the scene.

Ma Ki-hoon smiled.

“Do you want to die, you little shit?”

* * *

[The Great Grace of the Lord- I love you-]

[I am a child of faith- a child of hope- a child of love-]

Children dressed as Santa and Rudolph danced adorably on stage. Moon In-seop was among them, his eyes lacking focus.

Bang Jeong-ah, watching the stage, murmured,

“What’s this. He’s dancing just fine.”

“He remembered the choreography once I talked to him nicely, didn’t he?”

“Teenagers are really tiring, I tell you~”

Meanwhile, Moon In-seop, dressed as Rudolph, glanced at the person in front and was desperately trying to follow the choreography.

‘How did this happen?’

I’ve returned to the past.

‘What am I doing?’

Dancing to the song with awkward movements.

‘How did I end up like this?’

I died.

‘Why have I traveled back in time?’

I don’t know.

‘Am I dreaming?’

No.

‘Oh my gosh.’

Moon In-seop knew the answer.

But it was hard to believe the truth.

* * *

New Light Spring Orphanage is a Christian orphanage.

It’s hard to say whether it’s more Catholic or Protestant. The director flits between the two, garnering support from both sides.

Anyway, thanks to the director’s connections, the orphanage’s finances were abundant, and there was a well-grown Zelkova tree planted in the large yard attached to the facility.

I was sitting leaning against that tree.

“Sigh.”

Looking up, I saw the pale winter sky.

White clouds drifted by, and as the wind blew, the snowflakes resting on the tree branches gently cascaded down.

Birds spread their wings and followed the wind, and this planet I stood on was also orbiting in its path.

Nature flows according to set rules, yet here I was, having traveled back against the flow of time.

10 years.

I have traveled back in time by 10 years.

A 22-year-old suicide victim has now become a 12-year-old primary school student.

It’s somewhat understandable to have traveled back in time. How could humans, living as mere specks of dust in this vast universe, possibly comprehend all the mysteries of this grand world?

The universe is filled with truths and laws yet to be discovered by science, some of which might even belong to the realm of theology, not science.

However, 10 years is a kind of ‘unit.’

This unit was created by humans.

People collectively agreed to call the time it takes for the Earth to orbit the sun once ‘1 year.’ Even this is not an exact calculation.

Therefore, the concept of ‘1 year’ is more of a legal concept than a scientific one. It’s a result of human intellect, not a natural law.

For this reason, the fact that I have traveled back precisely 10 years suggests the intervention of someone with an understanding of human intellect.

Who could that be?

Who is the transcendent being that made a failed suicide victim on Christmas Eve wake up on a Christmas 10 years prior?

Santa? Jesus? Buddha? Allah?

Santa originates from the legend of Saint Nicholas, a bishop, Jesus is a saint from the Roman era, Siddhartha Gautama was an Indian prince, and Allah or Yahweh represents the monotheistic faith that emerged in ancient Middle East, displacing polytheism.

Who is he?

Is he a god?

Does God even exist?

As I pondered these questions, someone asked me.

“Hey, Moon In-seop. Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’m not really in the mood to eat.”

“If you don’t eat, Ki-hoon hyung will scold you, you know?”

“I’ll go.”

Even as I had dinner in the cafeteria, the tangled web of thoughts in my mind did not easily unravel.

Could this be the life flashing before my eyes just before death? Was the 22 years I experienced a nightmare dreamt by my 12-year-old self? Could I be just a squishy pink brain inside a vat?

The deeper my thoughts, the less I could control my young body.

My mouth muscles relaxed, and I drooled the soybean paste soup.

“Blah…”

“Hey! How old are you to be spilling food like this!”

“I’m sorry…”

I couldn’t easily shake off my worries. After all, anyone who suddenly goes back 10 years would have all sorts of thoughts.

But when I returned to my room and saw the bookshelf, my worries flew away.

“Huh?”

What replaced my worries was joy.

The joy of encountering the bright memories of my childhood.

“This is…!”

Magical Chinese Characters, Survival Series, Greek and Roman Mythology, Why?, Les Misérables, Comic MapleStory…

With each title filled with memories, the pure dreams of my younger self came to mind.

No, they were too simple to be called dreams. Just desires.

I loved books.

I loved writing.

I loved reading.

Adding anything more to this would be an exaggeration.

That was all I initially thought.

I just liked it. Simply liked it.

It was a dream that shone like a candle.

And as I grew older, logs were added to this fire.

I won a student essay competition and received numerous praises. This made me want to write even better.

I was bullied for being an orphan. I decided to become someone greater than those who tormented me.

I learned that my parents, whom I thought were dead, were actually alive and had left me in the orphanage. I coped with the heart-wrenching pain by pouring it into my manuscripts.

I naturally learned how difficult it is to succeed as a writer. So what? I will leave an undeniable masterpiece.

I realized that unless born as a chaebol’s son, in a capitalist society, humans are just parts of the system. I don’t care! True beauty lies within.

These resolutions gradually built up.

So the candle was slowly added to by logs,

And it finally blazed into a huge dream.

Born insignificant, but wanting to create some kind of beauty. I wanted to have an immortal fame that even those with money and power couldn’t possess. I wanted to resonate with the souls of the wounded.

I wanted to rise from the lowest place and shine like a star. I wanted to create wonders so extraordinary that they couldn’t be merely described as ‘beautiful’, making the whole world marvel.

I dreamed of such things.

I wanted to become such a ist.

But the world told me to wake up from my dream.

I was born with genes that would make me succumb to lymphatic cancer at 22.

“Damn it.”

I cursed like a madman and paced around the room.

Biting my lips and tearing at my fingernails, I circled the same spot like a goldfish trapped in a bowl.

Then, suddenly, I looked in the mirror.

And I froze.

There was a 12-year-old boy.

A young child, unblemished by the world, was looking at me.

I stared blankly at that boy for a long time.

Then I placed my hand on the mirror.

“…Ah.”

The boy was very beautiful.

This emotion was more vivid and wondrous than the fondness felt when finding an old graduation album in a corner one day and looking at my young and innocent self.

The 12-year-old me held the very beauty that my 22-year-old self had struggled desperately to attain.

To confirm that this body was mine, I pinched my cheek. The boy in the mirror pinched his cheek too.

My cheek was unbelievably soft and delicate. This sensation could be described as pure.

There were no dark circles from overworking, no reddish skin damaged by alcohol, and no lips constantly picked at until they bled.

Only the lifeless, dull eyes remained the same.

Only those eyes proved who was controlling this body.

Even when I changed my expression in various ways, I couldn’t muster a childlike innocent smile. The boy in the mirror could never smile in a way befitting his age again.

At that moment, I realized the sin I had committed.

Who had abused such a pure child?

Gradually destroying him with alcohol, cigarettes, and depression.

And finally killing him?

It was me.

“No, it’s not…”

No, who am I?

I never killed myself.

Like all suicide victims, I suppose.

I just found it harder to muster the courage to live than the courage to die.

And it wasn’t me who made me this way, it was this damned world. This world pushed me to this.

“Paper… paper…”

With trembling hands, I searched for writing materials in a corner of the room. A pencil case fell over, spilling out a plastic ruler and erasers, but that didn’t matter now.

I pulled out some scrap paper from the bookshelf.

And lying on the floor, I began to write down the names of those who had ‘killed’ me.

Like a prisoner in an interrogation room listing his accomplices.

I pointed out numerous accomplices to shift the blame from myself.

It wasn’t some great, insurmountable villain who killed me but the many sorrows embedded in everyday life.

The child who locked my glasses with a padlock and wouldn’t unlock them, the one who stole my indoor shoes and never returned them.

The teachers who arbitrarily called those kids my ‘friends’ and forced me to get along with them.

The teaching assistant at university who carelessly revealed my orphanage background.

The immature freshmen who still tormented orphans at that age.

The critic who harshly reviewed my writing, the elusive literary awards, poverty, deprivation, and loneliness.

The professor who thought of me as his favorite student but wouldn’t allow me to marry his daughter.

The resentment towards my parents who divorced and abandoned me, the longing for them, and the disgust at myself for feeling both.

The bus driver who carelessly splashed me with water on a rainy day. The orphanage’s life guidance teacher who seemed affectionate but coldly enforced rules.

The thugs in high school who locked me in a bathroom and beat me up, the convenience store owner who didn’t pay me what he owed with nonsensical excuses.

The downstairs neighbor who would rush up at the slightest noise and complain, and even my past lover who said they loved me but eventually left me.

All these things slowly killed me.

I didn’t commit suicide after being diagnosed with lymphatic cancer; I was gradually worn down by the accumulated sorrows and pains since birth and eventually collapsed from exhaustion.

That’s right. I wasn’t the culprit!

I was just one among many accomplices…

“Haa… Haa…”

When I came to my senses, I was sweating coldly.

Drip, drip, the falling sweat drops soaked the paper.

The paper was now blackened with my messy, frantic handwriting.

Swoosh.

As always, I carefully lifted the paper as if I were holding a newborn baby.

Refining and polishing the words written here would give birth to another .

Yes. That’s enough.

“Haha…”

For the first time since returning to the past, I laughed.

And I realized something.

I realized what I don’t know.

I don’t know why I was thrown into this flow of time. Perhaps I will never know, unless one day, a revelation from an angel magically appears before my eyes.

But there’s something I do know.

I know that I am a ist.

Then all I have to do is write.

“Life…”

Nothing has changed.

Before I traveled back in time, did I know why I was born into this world? Did I understand why I had to endure the pains of life? Even then, I knew nothing.

Everyone born into this world lives like that.

Humans and insects don’t know why they were born, neither do cats nor sunflowers.

But unlike insects, humans can dream. Even if we don’t know why we were born, we can choose our reason to live.

And my dream is to be a ist.

Then all I have to do is write.

If I write,

If I live to write,

It no longer matters whether I am 12 or 22.

Both ages share the same dream.

“Life…”

I may not know why I was born.

I may not understand why I traveled back in time.

But I can decide for myself the reason to continue living.

So, I staked my life on writing.

Now, even death cannot defeat me.

* * *

“Ah, damn it, I want to quit acting!”

A girl shouted while looking into the mirror in the waiting room.

Then she slumped wearily into a chair.

“Ha… life…”

Child actor Kim Byul, 15 years old, has no separate dreams.

And even her name isn’t her real one.

Her real name is different, but ‘Kim Byul’ was chosen for her acting career as it was deemed more advantageous.

In her view, her stage name sounded much more old-fashioned than her real name, but she had no choice.

Becoming a child actor and changing her name were all decisions made by her mother.

She was like a marionette controlled by strings, just standing in front of the camera. It had been like that since she was young.

“Why live?”

Child actor Kim Byul. 15 years old.

An age when life felt overwhelmingly complicated.