The name appeared before him like an accident, a shard of glass glinting unexpectedly in the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. It was on a receipt, of all things. Tucked, almost invisibly, into the pages of a secondhand poetry book—one he'd found tucked behind a row of unread essays in the quiet corner of the store. Ji-ho hadn't even been looking for it. He'd been restocking, rearranging, the familiar dull ache behind his eyes a constant companion, dragging his thoughts through the fog of another headache when the slip fluttered loose from the binding. A small, cream-coloured strip. Slightly crumpled. Smelling faintly of old ink and something subtly floral, a ghost of a scent clinging to the paper like a forgotten memory.
Jung Soo-min.
The name was typed neatly at the top, a stark contrast to the chaotic jumble of his thoughts.
He stared. The fluorescent lights of the bookstore hummed, a relentless, monotonous drone that mirrored the frantic beat of his heart.
It meant nothing. Logically, it meant absolutely nothing. A random name on a receipt. Yet...
His fingers trembled, a tremor that had nothing to do with the cold air conditioning of the bookstore. His stomach flipped, a sickening lurch that sent a wave of nausea through him. His throat closed up around air that felt too heavy to swallow, a physical manifestation of the unspoken dread that coiled in his gut.
He let out a breath, a small, shaky sound lost in the quiet hum of the store. A forced laugh, soft and brittle, escaped his lips.
"Weird," he muttered, the word sounding hollow, inadequate to describe the unsettling feeling that had settled over him like a shroud.
But he didn't throw it away. He couldn't. He folded it. Neatly. Tucked it into his pocket. Told himself he was just curious. Just wondering who the book might have belonged to. Nothing more.
Nothing more. But the lie tasted like ash in his mouth.
The name echoed anyway, a persistent whisper in the silent chambers of his mind.
Jung Soo-min.
His head ached that night, a relentless throbbing that pulsed in time with the haunting melody of Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila, a song that seemed to be woven into the very fabric of his being. The kind of ache that curled behind the eyes and bled into dreams, blurring the lines between reality and memory. He lay on the couch instead of his bed, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like dust and detergent, the familiar scent offering little comfort. The receipt was on the table in front of him, unfolded, a silent accusation in the dim light.
He kept glancing at it, his gaze drawn to the name like a moth to a flame. He couldn't tear his eyes away.
Why did it feel like something he should remember? Something he knew, deep down, in the shadowed recesses of his subconscious?
The dreams didn't help. They only intensified the feeling of unease, of something lost and irretrievably gone. A woman's voice, soft and melodic, yet tinged with a profound sadness. A hand brushing his hair, a gentle touch that sent shivers down his spine. The scent of steamed rice and kimchi stew, a comforting aroma that evoked a sense of longing, of a home he'd never known.
A warm laugh, a sound so full of joy and innocence that it felt like a cruel mockery of his present reality.
"Soomin-ah—wash your hands before dinner."
He woke with tears drying on his cheeks, the taste of salt lingering on his lips. He sat up slowly, breathing hard, his chest tight with a nameless dread.
The room was quiet, the silence amplifying the turmoil within him. The city outside was a cacophony of sounds, a stark contrast to the oppressive stillness of his apartment.
But something inside him wasn't quiet. It was a storm, a tempest of unspoken emotions, unanswered questions, and the chilling realisation that he was losing himself.
He looked at the receipt again. Still there. Still harmless. A simple piece of paper. Yet, it held a power over him, a power he couldn't understand, a power he couldn't deny.
He tried to tear it in half, to destroy the evidence of this unsettling intrusion into his carefully constructed reality.
He couldn't. His fingers refused to obey, paralysed by a nameless fear.
The next day, everything felt too loud, too bright, too overwhelming. The world seemed to press in on him, a suffocating weight that mirrored the pressure behind his eyes. He bumped into coworkers, his apologies mumbled and unconvincing. He dropped a stack of books, the clatter echoing in the oppressive silence of his mind. He nearly called someone by the wrong name—not their name, but his. The name he'd never used.
Jung Soo-min.
Who the hell was that? The question echoed in his mind, a relentless, maddening refrain.
He found himself staring at the mirror in the bathroom again, his reflection a stranger staring back at him. Same face. Same tired eyes. Same questions. He said it aloud, the name a foreign object in his mouth.
"Jung Soo-min."
It didn't fit. It felt like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. It tasted like ash, bitter and acrid, leaving a residue of unease on his tongue.
He turned the tap on, splashing cold water on his face, the sound a desperate attempt to drown out the humming.
That same song.
Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.
The melody was a constant presence, a haunting reminder of something he couldn't quite grasp, something he desperately wanted to forget.
His pulse stuttered. He gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white.
"Jeongsincharyeo (Snap out of it, Get a grip)," he whispered, the words a desperate plea to himself, a futile attempt to regain control.
But it stayed. The name. The song. The feeling of unease. They were all intertwined, a Gordian knot of forgotten memories and suppressed emotions.
That night, he saw her again. The woman from his dream. Not clearly—not at first. Just a fleeting glimpse, a silhouette in the shadows. The voice, soft and familiar, yet tinged with a profound sadness. The gentle call of his name—not Ji-ho. The other one.
She held a small towel in her hand, waving it with exasperated fondness. "You're always climbing things, Soo-min. One day you're going to fall off that shelf."
His dream-self laughed, a sound so full of giddy innocence that it felt like a cruel mockery of his present reality.
He woke with the echo of that laughter still in his throat, a sound that was both comforting and terrifying. He didn't laugh anymore. Not really.
At work, he asked his manager if they had any records of old donations to the bookstore.
"Why?" she asked, her brow furrowed with suspicion.
"Curious," he said, his voice tight with a mixture of anxiety and desperation. "Found a name. Wondered if they left more."
She let him look, her gaze following his every move. There were more receipts. Not all legible. Some faded, the ink bleeding into the paper like a forgotten memory.
But the name came up again and again. Jung Soo-min. Always connected to poetry. Always in neat, elegant handwriting.
His hands shook as he flipped the pages, the tremor a physical manifestation of the turmoil within him. Something scratched at the inside of his skull, a desperate attempt to break through the surface of his consciousness.
Who are you? The question echoed in his mind, a silent scream trapped within the confines of his skull.
He didn't sleep that night. He lay on the floor, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the darkness above mirroring the darkness within him. Every time he blinked, he saw her again. The woman. Not Seo Yoon. Not Eun Hye-won. Not someone he recognised from this life. Someone before.
She wore a soft, cream-coloured jumper, fraying at the cuffs. Her hands smelled like lavender oil and tiger lillies. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, a smile that held both warmth and a profound sadness. She looked young, but tired, worn down by the weight of unspoken sorrows. She looked like someone who hadn't laughed in a long time. Except when she looked at him.
He felt something break, a dam bursting, releasing a flood of suppressed emotions. He pressed his hands to his chest, the ache too sharp, too intense. He couldn't breathe through it.
He sat up and screamed into his hands, a silent scream trapped within the confines of his own being.
The next day, he didn't speak to anyone. He moved through his work like a ghost, his actions mechanical, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. He handed customers their change, his movements stiff and awkward. He shelved books in the wrong places, his mind unable to focus on the task at hand. He answered to "Ji-ho," but the name felt foreign, a mask he wore to conceal the truth of his identity.
He didn't feel like Ji-ho. Not fully. At lunch, he sat outside instead of with Hyun-seok, the solitude a desperate attempt to escape the turmoil within him. He stared at the sky, the vast expanse mirroring the emptiness he felt inside.
And he thought of that name again. Jung Soo-min.
His phone buzzed, a jarring interruption to the silence. A message from Hyun-seok.
[You alright? Haven't seen you today.]
He didn't respond. He didn't know how to say: I don't know who I am.
Later, he wandered the aisles of the bookstore like a ghost, his movements aimless, his mind adrift in a sea of fragmented memories. He paused near the poetry section, his gaze drawn to the books as if they held the answers he desperately sought. He reached for a thin volume, his fingers trembling. He opened it, and found a note. Folded neatly. Tucked inside the pages.
He recognised the handwriting. Not from memory. From the receipt. From his dreams.
He unfolded it, his hands shaking.
"Soomin-ah, I hope you still like this one. Appa read it to you when you were small. Remember? You used to finish the last lines before he could."
He read it ten times, the words a lifeline in the storm of his confusion. The words didn't change. But something inside him did.
He folded the note, tucking it into his coat, the paper a tangible link to a past he couldn't quite grasp. He went home, the city lights blurring into a hazy kaleidoscope, reflecting his inner turmoil. He stared at himself in the mirror, his reflection a stranger staring back at him.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper in the oppressive silence of his apartment.
No answer. Just the sound of that damn song. Always that song.
Kkogkkog sumeora. Meolikarag boila.
He curled up on the floor, the cold seeping into his bones, mirroring the cold dread that had settled over him like a shroud. And he didn't move until morning, lost in the labyrinth of his own mind, lost in the haunting melody of a song that seemed to be woven into the very fabric of his being. The rain continued its relentless assault on the city, mirroring the storm raging within him. He was a ship without a sail, adrift in a sea of fragmented memories, his identity a fragile construct threatened by the relentless waves of his subconscious. The rain continued its relentless assault on the city, mirroring the storm raging within him. He was a ship without a sail, adrift in a sea of fragmented memories, his identity a fragile construct threatened by the relentless waves of his subconscious. The rain continued its relentless assault on the city, mirroring the storm raging within him. He was a ship without a sail, adrift in a sea of fragmented memories, his identity a fragile construct threatened by the relentless waves of his subconscious.