I had just checked into an Airbnb by the shore—Panpo, Jeju, a shoreline dotted with offshore windmills.
The night air carried a faint saltiness. The kind that lingers quietly, not sharp, just present. Through the slightly opened window, I could hear the ocean—steady, rhythmic, almost indifferent. Waves arriving, retreating, repeating themselves without urgency.
I lay there for a while, listening.
At some point, without quite noticing when, I drifted.
I
I found myself inside a structure beneath the sea.
At first, it felt like a submarine—narrow corridors, metallic walls, the faint hum of something always running. But as I moved, the space opened. The corridors gave way to vast chambers, where glass panels revealed the weight of the ocean pressing in from all sides. Light filtered down from above in slow, shifting beams, breaking into fragments as it travelled through water.
Particles drifted. Time seemed slower here.
There was a mission. Something urgent. Lives, perhaps many, depended on it. I did not question it. I only knew I had to move forward.
And I was not alone.
A small group had gathered—survivors, perhaps. Their presence was urgent, but not chaotic. There was a sense of relief in the air, carried in quiet gestures, in brief exchanges of words I couldn’t fully hear. They had made it through something.
The mission passed to me without ceremony.
And among them, three stepped forward.
Volunteers.
They stood a short distance away, not quite together, not quite apart—as if each belonged to a different version of the same story.
The first held herself with an easy confidence. There was a natural composure in the way she stood, a quiet assurance that needed no reinforcement. She met my gaze briefly, with a faint, knowing smile, then looked away—as though she had already decided something for herself.
The second was softer in presence. Her hands rested loosely before her, her gaze lowered, drifting somewhere inward. There was a stillness about her, gentle and unguarded, like someone listening to thoughts that never quite reached the surface. She did not look up.
The third said nothing.
She stood with a calm that did not seek attention, yet held it effortlessly. There was strength in her posture—not rigid, not performative, just… certain. When she looked at me, her eyes were steady, clear.
And in them, something familiar.
Not striking. Not overwhelming. But precise.
Like she was seeing me, and not just looking.
For a moment, I hesitated—not because I didn’t know, but because I did. There was an awareness, however brief, of what I would be leaving behind.
Then I made my choice.
She did not move immediately.
Just held my gaze, for a fraction longer.
And that was enough.
The next room was quiet.
Smaller. Enclosed. Almost insulated from the rest of the world outside. The hum here was softer, more distant. At the centre stood an old television set—boxy, bulky, the kind that belonged to another time.
Beside it stood a woman in a housekeeping uniform.
She avoided my eyes at first. Her hands were lightly clasped in front of her, fingers moving subtly, as though unsure what to do with themselves. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.
“What do you see on the TV?”
I looked.
It was off. No image. No static. Just a dark, lifeless screen.
I leaned in slightly, focusing.
At first—nothing.
Then, a faint glint.
My eye.
Not fully. Just the iris. A small, almost insignificant reflection staring back at me.
I held my gaze.
Slowly, it expanded. From the iris to the outline of my eye. Then further—the frame of my spectacles appearing, faint but unmistakable. The image grew, not abruptly, but steadily, as though something was revealing itself layer by layer.
Soon, it was no longer just my eye.
It was me.
And then more.
The reflection deepened, extending beyond the surface of the screen. Like two mirrors facing each other, the image repeated—again and again—receding into a quiet infinity.
I was looking at myself.
And then, at countless versions of myself.
There was no sudden realisation. No dramatic shift. Just a quiet understanding, settling into place.
I spoke my answer.
The woman nodded, almost imperceptibly. No surprise. No approval. As if the outcome had never been in doubt.
Behind me, I could feel her—steady, present. We moved on together.
As we stepped out of the room, the faint hum returned.
Then, beneath it, something else.
A soft static.
I paused.
The sound didn’t belong to the corridor. It came from behind us.
I turned.
The television screen, now distant, was no longer dark.
The image was there again.
I took a step closer. Then another.
It drew me in—not forcefully, but with a quiet pull. The kind that doesn’t demand attention, but receives it anyway.
I leaned in.
Into the image.
Into the reflection.
And without resistance, I fell.
II
The room was larger. Warmer.
Wood replaced metal. Light replaced shadow.
A long, polished round table sat at the centre. It was familiar—not just in form, but in weight. Solid. Grounded. The kind of table that had seen countless discussions, decisions, judgments made and unmade.
Chairs circled it, spaced just a little too far apart. Or perhaps the table was just slightly too large.
People were already there.
Faces I recognised. Old bosses. Former colleagues. They nodded as I entered—not with surprise, but with the quiet acknowledgment reserved for someone who belonged.
Or used to.
Conversations were happening, but they felt distant. As though I was hearing them through a layer of glass. I caught fragments—names, topics, expectations—but nothing stayed long enough to form meaning.
There was something I was supposed to do.
A memo.
A meeting.
Someone important—I should have spoken to him. Prepared something. A presentation, perhaps.
The details were vague, but the weight of it wasn’t.
I hadn’t done it.
For a brief moment, a familiar instinct surfaced. Could I still fix this? Improvise? Speak my way through it? I had done it before. Many times. Enough to believe I still could.
The thought almost reassured me.
Almost.
Then something shifted.
Not suddenly. Not sharply. But like a memory returning—not new, just forgotten.
I had resigned.
The thought didn’t arrive as a conclusion. It unfolded. Slowly, steadily, until it settled.
This no longer applied to me.
The pressure eased. Not all at once, but enough.
Relief came first.
Then something quieter.
I looked around again. The same table. The same faces. The same unspoken expectations that had once shaped my days.
And yet—
I was no longer part of it.
There was a space between us now. Not visible. Not acknowledged. But real.
I felt it.
Across the room, I noticed her.
I knew it was her.
But I couldn’t see her clearly. Not her face. Not fully. She was there, present, moving within the same space, preparing, focused. There was something in the way she held herself—an attentiveness, a quiet precision—that felt oddly familiar.
I wanted to say something. To wish her well.
But the moment didn’t quite form.
And perhaps it didn’t need to.
Light began to intrude.
At first, faint. Then stronger.
A discomfort at the edge of my awareness.
I stirred.
Reached for my eye shades.
Pulled them over.
The light softened.
And once again, without resistance—
I drifted.
III
This time, the world was brighter.
Colours felt more saturated, more deliberate. Light didn’t just illuminate—it shaped the space. Buildings rose high, familiar in form yet heightened, as though reality had been gently turned up a notch.
It felt like Dubai.
Or something like it.
She was beside me.
Clear. Present. Entirely herself.
There was no hesitation in recognising her this time. No distance. No ambiguity.
She led the way naturally, as though she had been here before. Perhaps she had.
We walked toward a queue outside a club—something exclusive, something desirable. The people around us were dressed vividly, each one carrying a version of themselves that felt slightly amplified. Confident. Stylish. Intentional.
I became aware of my watch.
A Rolex.
I hadn’t thought about putting it on. But there it was. Sitting comfortably on my wrist.
For a moment, I noticed it—not as an object, but as a signal. A quiet projection of something outward.
Then the thought passed.
There was a fountain nearby.
The water held a soft glow, reflecting light in ways that felt just slightly unnatural. Beneath the surface, objects rested—clear enough to be seen, but distorted just enough to feel distant.
She stepped closer.
Reached in.
Pulled out a handbag.
Dark brown. Elegant. Aged. The leather worn in places, but carefully kept. There was something intricate on it—an elephant motif, faint but deliberate.
For a moment, she looked at it.
Then a voice, somewhere behind us.
“It’s mine.”
She paused. Nodded. Returned it without hesitation.
Then she reached in again.
This time—a scrapbook.
She opened it.
Inside, a poster. Of her.
From another time.
We both looked at it. Others nearby glanced over too, offering passing remarks—light, almost playful admiration. Nothing heavy. Nothing lingering.
She smiled.
Not with longing.
Not with regret.
Just recognition.
We took a photo. Closed the book. Placed it back where it belonged.
The queue moved slowly.
She turned to someone nearby and asked for directions. There was a brief misunderstanding—names overlapping, meanings crossing.
Then we stepped away.
Into a quieter corner.
A small shelter.
Two men stood there.
They wore something like uniforms—but loosely. Casually. One leaned against the wall, unsteady. His body seemed unable to fully hold itself. Drool slipped from his mouth in thin streams, unchecked.
The other stayed close, occasionally reaching out to wipe it away.
They looked at us.
Or through us.
She asked if the club was safe.
The response came slowly.
A breath first.
Then a gesture.
An arm. A vein. An invisible needle.
No explanation needed.
We didn’t discuss it.
We didn’t need to.
We turned and walked away.
The city was still alive around us. Lights, movement, colour—all of it continued, unchanged.
But it no longer called to us.
We walked.
Side by side.
Then closer.
Hands found each other, naturally.
There was a warmth in that contact—not intense, not overwhelming. Just present. Steady.
I became aware of my breathing.
Of hers.
Of the space between each step.
Nothing felt missing.
Nothing needed to be added.
The noise of the city softened—not because it disappeared, but because it no longer demanded attention.
We kept walking.
Time didn’t feel like it was passing.
Or perhaps it was, but it didn’t matter.
There was a quiet sense that where we were… was enough.
Light returned.
Not suddenly.
But inevitably.
It pressed gently at the edges of the world, growing stronger with each moment.
I didn’t resist it.
Didn’t try to hold on.
When I opened my eyes, the room was bright.
The sea was still there.
The waves continued, just as they had before.
Unchanged.
I lay there for a moment.
And then, quietly—
I got up.