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The faint rays of a winter morning sun filtered through the window slats of Ji-hoon’s tiny Shinjuku apartment in Tokyo. Lying on his futon, he stared blankly at the yellowed ceiling above him. The digital clock on his bedside table blinked at 9:30 AM, but he had no intention of getting up. Today was just another workday, though to him, every day felt the same—dull, lifeless, and devoid of meaning.
At 27, Ji-hoon had been living in Tokyo for five years since leaving Korea with hopes of a new, promising life. But now, looking back at his time here, all he saw was a string of aimless days and missed opportunities. His office job at a small advertising company brought neither satisfaction nor accomplishment. Each day, he trudged to the office, sat before his computer, and tried to endure eight hours without making any significant mistakes.
Reaching for his phone, Ji-hoon scrolled through messages and notifications—mostly ads and unimportant news. There were no messages from friends or family. He sighed, realizing how distant he’d become from his social connections. The friends he had met upon first arriving in Japan had gradually left—some returning home, others moving to new cities in search of better opportunities. Meanwhile, Ji-hoon remained stuck here, caught in an endless loop of mediocrity.
Slowly sitting up, Ji-hoon felt a heaviness, not just in his body but in his soul. The tiny 20-square-meter room seemed to close in around him. The dreams and aspirations he once harbored when arriving in this land of the rising sun were now faint memories. He had once dreamed of becoming a writer, a storyteller who could bridge cultures through his words. Yet now, his notebook lay gathering dust on the bookshelf, its blank pages a bitter reminder of his unfulfilled ambitions.
Ji-hoon’s gaze landed on the small mirror on the wall. The face staring back was that of a young man with tired eyes and pale skin. He barely recognized himself anymore. Where was the ambitious, spirited young man he once was? Now, all he saw was an empty shell, a person existing rather than living.
He shuffled into the tiny bathroom and turned on the tap. The gushing water broke the oppressive silence of his apartment. Staring at the stream, he wondered if his life was slipping away as meaninglessly as the water. Each passing day felt like he was sinking deeper into a mire of uncertainty and despair.
Breakfast was a black coffee and a slice of toast, consumed mechanically without tasting. On TV, a morning news program recounted the achievements of young entrepreneurs. A pang of pain hit Ji-hoon’s chest. Those were the stories he had once dreamed of living, but now they only deepened his sense of failure and uselessness.
Before leaving for work, Ji-hoon glanced around his apartment. Everything was neat and orderly—not because he was tidy, but because he owned so little and lacked the energy to create chaos. The room, much like his current life, bore no trace of a truly lived existence.
Stepping out into the bustling Shinjuku subway station, Ji-hoon blended into the sea of people. The cacophony of voices and the screech of trains only amplified the loneliness gnawing at his soul. Among the faceless crowd, Ji-hoon felt like an isolated island, a mismatched piece in the grand puzzle of urban life.
As he squeezed into the packed train car, Ji-hoon observed the lifeless expressions around him—eyes staring vacantly into space or glued to phone screens. He wondered if they felt as empty as he did or if their blank faces masked colorful, meaningful lives. The thought clenched his heart in a dull ache.
Through the train’s window, Tokyo’s towering skyline and vibrant billboards blurred by. Ji-hoon recalled the excitement and hope he’d felt upon first seeing this city five years ago. Back then, every street corner and every person seemed to hold a secret, a story he longed to uncover and write about. Now, it was all a gray, lifeless mass—nothing to tell, nothing to write.
At the office, Ji-hoon sat at his desk—a tiny cubicle among rows of identical ones. He powered up his computer, greeted by a flood of emails and Excel sheets awaiting his attention. His job as a low-level marketing assistant required precision and detail but no creativity or passion. Ji-hoon felt like a machine, mechanically repeating soulless tasks and counting down the seconds until the day ended.
During lunch, Ji-hoon wandered to a small park near the office. He sat on a bench, watching the last cherry blossoms of the season fall gently in the breeze. Their fleeting beauty struck a chord in him, reminding him that time was passing, and he was squandering the best years of his life in uncertainty and despair.
Pulling out the dusty notebook he always carried—a remnant of his writerly dreams—Ji-hoon opened to a blank page and picked up his pen, hoping for a spark of inspiration. But the ideas and words eluded him, leaving an empty expanse on the paper, mirroring the void within his soul.
As the city was bathed in twilight, Ji-hoon left the office and joined the crowd heading home. He stopped by a convenience store, purchasing a pre-packaged bento and a can of beer—his usual solitary dinner. Passing a small restaurant filled with cheerful laughter and conversation, envy and loneliness washed over him, driving him to quicken his pace.
Back in his apartment, Ji-hoon flicked on the light, the dim yellow glow accentuating the room’s emptiness. He sat at his desk, opened the bento, and ate mechanically, tasting nothing. Food had become mere sustenance to prolong his existence.
As night fell, Ji-hoon lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling. In the darkness, his bleak thoughts grew louder. He questioned whether he was wasting his life, whether it was too late to change, and whether he could even start over. These questions circled endlessly, leaving only emptiness and fear of an uncertain future.
When sleep finally came, Ji-hoon dreamed. In the dream, he chased something—perhaps a dream, perhaps a purpose—but it remained out of reach. He ran and ran through a labyrinth with no exit until he awoke, more exhausted and despondent than before.
Another day began, and Ji-hoon wondered if it would be any different, or just another link in the endless chain of meaningless existence.
The dawn broke, dispelling the darkness and rousing Tokyo from its brief slumber. Ji-hoon opened his eyes, the weight of exhaustion still pressing on his mind. Slowly, he sat up, his gaze sweeping over the familiar room that seemed frozen in time.
It was Saturday, a rare day when Ji-hoon didn’t have to go to the office. Instead of feeling relieved, he was uneasy. Weekends were always a challenge, confronting him with empty hours, void of work to mask the hollowness within.
Deciding to leave his cramped apartment, Ji-hoon hoped the fresh air outside would free him from the spiral of bleak thoughts. He wandered aimlessly through the streets as Tokyo began to stir. A bakery had just opened, wafting the aroma of fresh bread that tempted passersby. Shops raised their shutters, preparing for another day of business.
With no specific destination, Ji-hoon let his feet guide him. He passed through Yoyogi Park, where elderly men and women practiced tai chi, their deep breaths welcoming the new day. The serene scene reminded Ji-hoon how long it had been since he truly lived in the present, constantly pulled between regrets of the past and fears of the future.
His steps carried him to Yanaka, a traditional neighborhood that retained its charm amidst modern Tokyo. Wooden houses, narrow winding alleys—it was as though he’d stumbled into another era. For a fleeting moment, Ji-hoon felt like a traveler lost in an unfamiliar world, where time slowed and life moved gently.
A soft breeze carried a familiar scent of old paper and ink. Ji-hoon stopped, realizing he was standing before a small, old bookstore tucked behind a cluster of wisteria in bloom. The wooden door was slightly ajar, as if silently inviting him in.
Something instinctive—perhaps the forgotten love of books—compelled Ji-hoon to step inside. A small bell above the door jingled softly, announcing his arrival. The air was thick with the scent of old books, memories, and stories. Ji-hoon felt a strange sense of belonging in this quiet space.
In the dim light of the bookstore, Ji-hoon noticed a figure crouched by a low shelf, arranging books. At the sound of the bell, the person stood and turned. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Ji-hoon felt a shift, as though a new chapter in his life had just begun.
The bookstore’s warm glow, emanating from vintage lamps, cast golden hues over neatly lined shelves. The fragrance of aged paper, leather, and ink created an irresistible charm, stirring long-forgotten memories in Ji-hoon.
The man facing Ji-hoon was unlike anyone he usually encountered in Tokyo. Likely in his fifties, his salt-and-pepper hair was combed back neatly. Behind tortoiseshell glasses, sharp, bright eyes sparkled with curiosity. His attire—an unassuming white shirt and beige slacks—radiated an understated elegance. But what captivated Ji-hoon most was the man’s warm, genuine smile.
“Hello,” the man greeted, his deep, soothing voice tinged with surprise. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a visitor at this hour. Welcome to ‘Pages of Life.’ I’m Sang-hyeok, the owner.”
Ji-hoon was startled by the name of the bookstore. "Pages of Life"—a title that resonated deeply with his current state. Bowing slightly, he replied hesitantly, "Hello, sir. I’m Ji-hoon. I... I just happened to walk by and—"
Sang-hyeok nodded, his smile unwavering. "There’s no such thing as chance, Ji-hoon. Every step leads us to where we need to be. Are you searching for something?"
Ji-hoon froze. How did he know? "I... I’m not sure. Maybe I’ve been lost for too long," he admitted.
Sang-hyeok regarded him with understanding eyes. He stepped closer, resting a reassuring hand on Ji-hoon’s shoulder. "Then perhaps this is where you’re meant to be. The books here don’t just hold stories; they’re maps—maps of the soul, of life itself. Maybe one of them will help you find your way."
Warmth radiated from Sang-hyeok’s hand, something Ji-hoon hadn’t felt in a long time—genuine care. His eyes wandered to a nearby shelf. "May I look through them?"
"Of course," Sang-hyeok said with a nod. "Feel free. If you need anything, just ask."
Ji-hoon began browsing the shelves, his fingers trailing over the spines of books. Each one felt like a doorway to another world, another life. He stopped at a worn leather-bound volume. Opening it, a familiar scent greeted him—the scent of memories, of the days when writing had been his passion.
Sang-hyeok appeared beside him, glancing at the book in Ji-hoon’s hands. "Ah, Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. A fascinating choice."
Ji-hoon looked up, surprised. "You know this book?"
Sang-hyeok smiled. "Of course. Every book here is an old friend. This one speaks of finding meaning in life, even in the most challenging circumstances. It seems it has chosen you, Ji-hoon."
Something stirred within Ji-hoon. Was this a sign, the chance he had been waiting for? He looked at Sang-hyeok, then back at the book, feeling as if he stood on the threshold of a new journey.
"I’ll take it," Ji-hoon said, his voice steadier than before.
Sang-hyeok nodded approvingly. "An excellent choice. But before you go, why don’t we have a cup of tea? I feel we have much to discuss."
Ji-hoon hesitated, then agreed. Following Sang-hyeok to a small corner at the back of the bookstore, he felt as though he were stepping into a new chapter of his life. For the first time in years, a flicker of hope glimmered in his heart.
Sang-hyeok poured tea into delicate porcelain cups, the steam carrying a gentle herbal aroma. Ji-hoon accepted the cup, the warmth seeping into his hands. Taking a small sip, he savored its rich, subtle flavor, as though it were reawakening dormant senses.
"You know," Sang-hyeok began, breaking the serene silence, "every book in this store has its own story—not just the one written within its pages, but the journey it took to arrive here."
Intrigued, Ji-hoon asked, "Can you tell me one of those stories?"
Sang-hyeok smiled wistfully, his gaze drifting as if to a distant memory. "There’s a book I remember well—The Ocean of Dreams. It came to me from a middle-aged man who said it had saved his life when he was on the brink of despair. He wanted it to continue its journey and touch someone else’s heart."
Ji-hoon listened intently, feeling something stir within him. "What did you do with the book?"
"I placed it on the shelf, waiting for its next reader," Sang-hyeok replied. "And, you know, just a week later, a young woman found it. She said she felt lost in life, and the title spoke to her. When she left with it, I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes."
Ji-hoon pondered the story. Was he like the man or the young woman, searching for something to hold on to? Or perhaps he was somewhere in between, seeking something to believe in.
"Sang-hyeok," Ji-hoon said after a moment, "why did you open this bookstore?"
Sang-hyeok’s warm, thoughtful gaze met Ji-hoon’s. "Because I believe in the power of books to change lives—not just through their stories, but through the connections they create. Every book is a bridge, Ji-hoon—a bridge between writer and reader, between past and present, and sometimes, between who we are and who we long to become."
Sang-hyeok’s words struck a chord deep within Ji-hoon. A faint tremor ran down his spine. "You sound like a writer yourself," Ji-hoon remarked.
Sang-hyeok chuckled softly. "Perhaps. I once dreamed of being a writer, you know? But life had other plans, and I realized my role wasn’t to write stories, but to connect them with those who needed them."
Ji-hoon felt a profound kinship with Sang-hyeok. He, too, had once dreamed of storytelling, of weaving tales that resonated. But the grind of reality had gradually snuffed out that fire.
"Do you ever regret it?" Ji-hoon asked, his voice tinged with vulnerability.
Sang-hyeok shook his head, his smile steadfast. "Not at all. Because I believe everyone has their own story to tell, Ji-hoon. And sometimes, that story doesn’t need to be written on paper. It’s told through the way we live, the way we connect, and the meaning we create in our lives and others’."
Sang-hyeok’s words pierced through the fog in Ji-hoon’s mind like a ray of light. Something was shifting within him—a nascent sense of hope and possibility.
"Thank you, Sang-hyeok," Ji-hoon said earnestly. "I think I have a lot to reflect on."
Sang-hyeok nodded knowingly. "Remember, Ji-hoon, life is a book being written. And you—you are its author."
When Ji-hoon left the bookstore, he felt as though he’d stepped out of a dream. Yet the book in his hands and the lingering warmth of tea reminded him it was real. Walking through the streets of Yanaka, his mind buzzed with fresh thoughts. Perhaps, he mused, this was the beginning of a new chapter in his life.
As Ji-hoon wandered the narrow streets of Yanaka, his thoughts swirled with new emotions and ideas. Man’s Search for Meaning lay snug in his hand, a tangible reminder of the profound encounter he had just experienced. Sang-hyeok’s words echoed in his mind: "Life is a book being written. And you, you are its author."
Stopping at a small café with wide windows overlooking the street, Ji-hoon decided to pause. He chose a table near the window, placed the book down, and ordered a black coffee. The soft afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass, casting warm streaks across the wooden table.
Opening the book, Ji-hoon began to read. Each page unfolded a new world before his eyes, a world where the meaning of life wasn’t a distant concept but something each individual could discover and create. He read intently, occasionally jotting down notes in his journal—a habit he hadn’t practiced in years. Fresh ideas and reflections sprouted, like young shoots reaching for sunlight after a long winter.
Time slipped away unnoticed. As the evening descended over the city, Ji-hoon looked up from the book, surprised to find the café nearly empty. He had been engrossed for hours, entirely lost in thought and inspiration. It had been a long time since he felt this alive.
After paying, Ji-hoon stepped back into the streets. The Tokyo sky had softened to a gentle purple as streetlights began to flicker on, painting a picturesque scene. Breathing in the cool spring air, he felt an unfamiliar lightness in his heart.
Stopping at a small stationery shop, Ji-hoon purchased a new notebook with a smooth brown leather cover, far more elegant than the worn one he carried. He also selected a fountain pen, feeling that his renewed thoughts deserved to be recorded with something special.
Returning to his apartment, Ji-hoon didn’t feel the usual suffocating emptiness. He flung open the windows, letting the cool night breeze refresh the familiar space. For the first time in months, he saw his room differently—not as a refuge but as a canvas for potential, a space where dreams could grow.
Sitting at his desk, Ji-hoon turned on his lamp and poured himself a cup of green tea. Opening the new notebook, he traced his fingers over the pristine pages. On the first page, in careful handwriting, he wrote: "Today, I begin anew." Then, he started writing. The words flowed like a river, recounting the day’s events, his encounter with Sang-hyeok, and the thoughts and emotions stirring within him.
He wrote about the years of stagnation and doubt, the fear that he had lost his dreams and passion. He wrote about the yearning to create, to tell stories, to make something meaningful. Then, he began sketching ideas for a story—a tale of a young man searching for purpose in an unfamiliar city.
When the clock struck midnight, Ji-hoon looked up from his notebook, amazed to find he had been writing for hours. His hand ached, but his mind buzzed with energy. For the first time in years, he felt a genuine joy, a sense that he was exactly where he needed to be.
Ji-hoon stood, stretched, and walked to the window. The lights of Tokyo sprawled out before him like a sea of stars, each representing a life, a story. He wondered how many of those lives mirrored his struggles and how many had found the same glimmer of hope.
Perhaps he didn’t have all the answers yet, but at least he was asking the right questions. And maybe, Ji-hoon thought, that was the most important first step.
As he lay down to sleep, Ji-hoon felt a lightness he hadn’t known in a long time. Instead of the usual dread, he felt a faint anticipation for what lay ahead. For the first time in years, he looked forward to tomorrow. Before closing his eyes, Ji-hoon promised himself he would return to Sang-hyeok’s bookstore. There was so much more he wanted to share with the man who had unknowingly opened a new door in his life.
That night, Ji-hoon slept deeply and peacefully, free from nightmares and persistent anxieties. In his dreams, he was writing. The words rose from the pages, transforming into birds that soared toward an endless horizon.
The next morning, Ji-hoon woke up with a refreshing sense of vitality he hadn’t felt in a long time. The soft rays of morning sunlight filtered through the window, casting warm patterns on the floor. He sat up, took a deep breath, and smiled at his reflection in the mirror.
Instead of rushing through his usual routine of preparing for work, Ji-hoon decided to spend the morning on himself. He brewed a cup of coffee, then sat by the window, sipping slowly as he reread the words he had written the night before. The lines on the page seemed to come alive, reminding him of the emotions and thoughts that had flowed through him.
After finishing breakfast, Ji-hoon called his office to request a day off. He felt a twinge of anxiety—he hadn’t taken personal leave in years. But after hanging up, an unexpected sense of relief washed over him. Today, he would dedicate entirely to rediscovering himself and exploring new possibilities.
With Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning and his new notebook tucked into his bag, Ji-hoon left his apartment, choosing to walk to Sang-hyeok’s bookstore and enjoy the crisp Tokyo morning air. Along the way, he noticed things he had often overlooked—the chirping of birds on the branches, the aroma wafting from freshly opened bakeries, and the friendly smiles of passersby.
When Ji-hoon arrived at the bookstore, he was surprised to find it still closed. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was only 8 a.m. Instead of feeling disappointed, he sat down on the steps outside and began to write. Ideas and emotions poured out, and he let his pen dance freely across the pages.
About an hour later, the sound of a key turning in the lock broke his concentration. Ji-hoon looked up to see Sang-hyeok standing there, a warm smile lighting up his face.
"Good morning, Ji-hoon," Sang-hyeok greeted, his tone a mix of surprise and delight. "You’re here early."
Ji-hoon stood, feeling a little sheepish. "Good morning, Mr. Sang-hyeok. I... I couldn’t wait to come back."
Sang-hyeok nodded knowingly. "Then come in. I just brewed a fresh pot of tea."
As they stepped inside, the familiar scent of old books and fragrant tea filled the air. Ji-hoon felt as though he had come home after a long journey.
"So," Sang-hyeok said as they settled down with steaming cups of tea, "what did you find in that book?"
Ji-hoon opened his notebook. "I found... hope," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "And perhaps, I found myself again."
As Ji-hoon began sharing what he had read, the thoughts and feelings the book had stirred in him, Sang-hyeok listened intently. His eyes shone with pride and joy, as though he were witnessing the blossoming of a seed he had planted.
Their conversation stretched from morning into the afternoon, interrupted only by a few customers who stopped by the bookstore. Ji-hoon spoke about his dreams of writing, the years he felt lost in Tokyo, and the newfound hope that had begun to fill him.
Sang-hyeok offered words of wisdom, drawing from his own experiences. He shared stories of his struggles with directionlessness and how he eventually found purpose in connecting people through books.
By the time afternoon arrived, Ji-hoon felt as though he had been on a long, transformative journey. He had opened up in ways he never had before, and with each word, he felt a burden lifting from his shoulders.
"Ji-hoon," Sang-hyeok said as they stood to part ways, "I have a suggestion. Why don’t you come here once a week to write and talk? This bookstore will always welcome a soul in search."
A wave of warmth surged in Ji-hoon’s chest. "Thank you, Mr. Sang-hyeok. I would love that."
As Ji-hoon left the bookstore, he felt as though he had stepped out of a beautiful dream. But this time, he knew it wasn’t a dream—it was reality, a new reality brimming with promise and potential.
On his way home, Ji-hoon stopped at a stationery store and purchased a few more notebooks. He had a feeling he would need them soon. Back at his apartment, instead of the usual loneliness, he felt a bubbling excitement. Sitting down at his desk, he began sketching ideas for a novel—a story about a young man rediscovering life’s meaning through books and unexpected friendships.
That night, before going to bed, Ji-hoon gazed out of his window at the Tokyo skyline. He smiled, knowing he had found a fresh start. Tomorrow, he would return to his office job, but this time with an entirely different mindset. Now, he understood that each day was a new page in the book of his life, and he was eager to keep writing.
The following days passed with a new rhythm in Ji-hoon’s life. Each morning, he woke earlier than usual to spend time writing before heading to work. The job remained the same, with Excel sheets and lengthy meetings, but Ji-hoon no longer felt suffocated by monotony. Instead, he began to see everything around him as inspiration for the story he was weaving.
Every Saturday, as promised, Ji-hoon returned to Sang-hyeok’s bookstore. Those mornings became the most cherished time of his week. They discussed books, life, dreams, and fears. Sang-hyeok became not only a mentor but a friend and a mirror, reflecting Ji-hoon’s potential back to him.
One Saturday afternoon, as the late-day sun cast golden beams across the bookstore’s old shelves, Sang-hyeok suddenly asked, "Have you ever thought about hosting a reading event?"
Ji-hoon looked up from his notebook, startled by the question. "A reading event? I’ve... I’ve never thought of that."
Sang-hyeok’s eyes twinkled with excitement. "Why not? We could host it right here in the bookstore. Invite book lovers to share their stories, poems, or favorite excerpts. Perhaps you could read a piece of your own work."
Ji-hoon’s heart raced at the idea—a mix of excitement and apprehension. "But... I’ve never read my work in front of an audience before."
"That’s exactly why you should try," Sang-hyeok said gently. "Sometimes, we need to step out of our comfort zones to grow."
After some thought, Ji-hoon nodded. They began planning the event, aiming for the end of the month. Ji-hoon felt a mix of nervousness and exhilaration at the thought of sharing his story with others.
The following weeks were a whirlwind of preparation. Ji-hoon spent every spare moment writing and polishing the excerpt he would read. He practiced in front of the mirror, with Sang-hyeok, and even before strangers at the park. Each attempt boosted his confidence.
Finally, the day of the reading event arrived. Ji-hoon arrived early to help Sang-hyeok rearrange the space. They set up extra chairs, prepared tea and snacks, and created a cozy, welcoming atmosphere.
As the first guests trickled in, Ji-hoon’s heart pounded in his chest. He was surprised to see how many people had come—familiar faces from the bookstore and new ones from across Tokyo.
The event began with Sang-hyeok reading an ancient Japanese poem. His deep, calming voice eased the tension in the room. Others followed, sharing stories, poems, and favorite passages. Then, it was Ji-hoon’s turn.
He stood, his legs trembling slightly. But as he looked around the room, he saw warm, encouraging faces—especially Sang-hyeok’s. A surge of courage welled up in him.
Ji-hoon began reading. His voice quivered at first but soon grew steady. He spoke of a young man lost in a foreign city, finding hope and meaning through books and an unexpected friendship. As he read, the room grew still. Everyone seemed captivated, holding their breath as they listened.
When Ji-hoon finished, there was a moment of silence, followed by scattered applause that grew into enthusiastic clapping. Ji-hoon looked up to see smiles, nods of approval, and even tears in some eyes.
After the event, attendees approached Ji-hoon, sharing their thoughts on his story. Some said they saw themselves in his protagonist; others asked when his book would be finished and published. Overwhelmed by the positive feedback, Ji-hoon felt a pride and joy he had never experienced before.
When the evening ended and the guests departed, only Ji-hoon and Sang-hyeok remained in the quiet bookstore. Sang-hyeok approached Ji-hoon, resting a hand on his shoulder with a proud smile.
"You did wonderfully, Ji-hoon," he said. "You touched many hearts tonight."
Tears welled up in Ji-hoon’s eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Sang-hyeok. For everything. I don’t know where I’d be without you and this bookstore."
Sang-hyeok shook his head gently. "All I did was open the door. You were the one who stepped through and found your path."
As Ji-hoon walked home that night, he felt transformed. He was no longer the lonely, directionless man he had been months ago. Now, he was a writer, a storyteller, a part of a community.
Stopping on a small bridge over a canal, Ji-hoon gazed into the water, seeing his reflection and the city lights. For the first time in years, he truly saw himself—not as a faint shadow but as a whole person, filled with dreams, hope, and potential.
Ji-hoon smiled at his reflection. He knew the road ahead would be long, filled with challenges and uncertainties. But now, he was ready to face it. He had found his voice—and, more importantly, his reason to use it.
When Ji-hoon entered his apartment that night, it no longer felt like an empty space. Instead, it was like a blank page waiting to be filled with new stories. He sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and began to write. The words poured out, and this time, Ji-hoon knew it was just the beginning of a long journey—the journey of a writer, of a man truly living, with his whole heart and soul.