The applause rang out like thunder in the distance in Jung Gwinam's ears.
This had been made possible by her retirement ceremony; this momentous occasion coincided with the culmination of a 35-year career-one of the most celebrated historians in Korea. The grand hall of the National History Museum glows under the soft light of chandeliers, packed full with colleagues, students, and journalists: all those who have come to pay tribute to the woman who has devoted her life to recording the past.
But Gwinam's gaze wandered elsewhere, away from the stage.. They were focused on a young woman in the back—her daughter, Jiyun, who was filming the speech on her phone, smiling from ear to ear.
"And to my daughter," Gwinam declared, her voice strong in spite of her age, "who taught me to look ahead, though I ever only looked behind. Gratitude."
The audience cheered more loudly, and Gwinam bowed her head deeply.
That evening, the roads were slippery from an unexpected spring rain. Gwinam and Jiyun strolled home together, arm in arm. Jiyun talked excitedly about a fantasy novel she had just completed.
"You'll laugh," Jiyun said, "but I really named the heroine after you. A smart, tough woman who comes from nothing to govern an empire—reborn in a fantasy world as a peasant orphan. Can you picture it?
Gwinam chuckled. "So I'm a heroine now?"
"Of course! But no one knows the truth—except the readers."
The crosswalk signal turned green. Gwinam started to step forward—when she saw it.
A car. Speeding. Headlights too bright. Tires skidding.
And Jiyun in the path.
Without thinking, Gwinam pushed her daughter aside.
Then there was only pain. And black.
---
When she woke, it was not to lights and sterile ceiling of a hospital. No. She opened her eyes to thatched roof, cracked wall, and the smell of hay.
She lifted her head. Small was his body. Weak. Young.
"What in the freak.?"
The door creaked and it opened, dragged an old woman inside. "You're awake, child," she said..
Good. You've slept since we found you by the river. Poor thing. No name, no parents."
Gwinam gazed at her hands—small, dirty, not a single wrinkle.
"No way," she breathed.
This wasn't a dream.
She was inside Jiyun's tale.
She was the heroine.
A commoner. An orphan. A child once more.
Professor emeritus, renowned scholar Jung Gwinam was reborn.
And for the first time in years, she had no idea what to do next.
But she smiled.
"So be it," she grumbled. "Let's create history once again."