At that moment, the moon shone brightly. The ceiling of the sky was pitch black. Stars intertwined with one another, and the night was breathtakingly beautiful and serene. The light of the night seeped through the window of Yoo Jakwoo's room, slowly illuminating the entire space. The room was filthy—dirty clothes scattered everywhere, books piled messily on the floor, and cobwebs clustered on the ceiling like heavy clouds. With his beloved tablet pen in hand, Yoo Jakwoo wrote swiftly yet gently, though his movements carried the urgency of someone desperate.
Jakwoo: "Damn it… This novel isn't good at all. I've been writing this since my high school days, for eight whole years, and yet… why does it still feel like something's missing?"
Yoo Jakwoo slowly realized that his novel was nearing its end. He had published it on a web novel platform, but hardly anyone was interested in his story. His once small audience of twelve dwindled until only a single reader remained. Yet, Jakwoo endured for the sake of that one reader—his one true constant—whom he came to call his faithful companion, the only one who had stayed since the story's release.
Jakwoo: "Haaahhh… Forgive me, whoever you are. I know you must want to see how this story ends. What else can I do? You're the only one left out of the eleven who used to read a hundred chapters, even two thousand chapters of mine. That alone is an incredible achievement. You read two thousand chapters—over a hundred thousand words and twenty thousand sentences in a single story. But I can't go on living if all I do is write this novel."
Jakwoo thought: (Perhaps this is why no one reads my work. A single chapter takes two whole days to finish without food or rest. And yet, the plot is already good—or at least, that's what I believe. Still, I'm proud, because there were once twelve readers who stayed, even knowing how heavy it was. Four to six of them even read twenty to thirty-four chapters—that was just the prologue! But maybe for that one reader, my novel was more precious than life itself. After all, they've accompanied me for eight years, just for this fiction. That's insane.)
Sighing deeply, Yoo Jakwoo prepared to write one final extra chapter. His novel had already reached 2001 chapters, but for the one reader who had made it this far, he wanted to leave a small message.
It read: "Thank you. I don't know who you are or why you've stayed with my novel. But… I want to thank you with all my heart for reading this boring story up to chapter 2001. I must also apologize. Soon, I'll be ending this novel. I can no longer live on words alone. My finances have collapsed, and I'd rather close this novel properly than let it wither. So, for the epilogue—do you perhaps have an idea, my faithful reader? If you do, please send it to me at @hnnightfn."
[Signed, GMnight, with a faint smile at the end.]
At that moment, Yoo Jakwoo recalled his high school days, when he first began writing. Back then, he carried stacks of books and broken tools into school. His bag, overflowing with torn notebooks and cracked rulers, caught everyone's attention. They laughed, sneered, and ridiculed him, treating him with scorn rather than human decency.
"Bro, why is that idiot Jakwoo carrying broken rulers and ripped notebooks?"
"Did he even shower? He reeks like trash."
"Hey! Look at poor Jakwoo. Did he seriously stuff garbage into his broken bag?"
"Hahaha! I pity the bag more than him."
"Is he collecting junk? Does he want to grow up to be a trash picker?"
From small insults to larger humiliations, Jakwoo could only stay silent, walking toward the classroom as if dragging the weight of the world.
He waited for a reply to his message. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. He found a modest job, but the salary was barely enough to survive. Over time, the work exhausted him; his body grew frail, and sickness became a frequent companion. He finally understood what his mother must have felt when he was a child. And yet, Jakwoo waited—for one reader, for one response.
On the 187th day after posting the extra chapter, Jakwoo still sat in his shabby chair—its cushioning long gone—staring at his dusty old laptop. He refreshed the page over and over, countless times, desperate for a sign. But there was nothing. No comments. No emails. Nothing… except for one bitter truth: his readers had dropped, from twelve down to one, as if the universe itself was reminding him that even loyalty was temporary in the digital void.
He chuckled bitterly—not because it was funny, but because his body had forgotten how to cry. With one loud slam, he shut the laptop, the sound echoing in the lonely room, mixing with the groaning rhythm of the old fan. He felt hollow. He felt like a failure. Eight years of writing, and he couldn't even convince himself of his own story's worth.
But that night was different. Something—maybe curiosity, maybe the pitiful habit of a lonely man—drove him to open the page again. His heartbeat thudded strangely, as though his body already knew something was coming.
And there it was, on Chapter 2001.5—a new comment.
> [Anon_001]: I have read it.
Jakwoo froze. His weary eyes rubbed at the screen. This couldn't be real. He checked last night. He checked last week. He checked for a whole month, and it was always empty. No comments. No life. But now… now something stared back at him from the monitor.
> [Anon_001]: Thank you for writing this far. But you've missed something important.
> [Anon_001]: Would you mind if you and I wrote the epilogue together?
> [Anon_001]: Of course, they can join too. You and GMnight won't mind. Let's write it together.
The words were strange—raising more questions than answers. That last line made his skin crawl. They? Who was "they"? Who else was watching?
Before Jakwoo could even type a reply, the words on the screen began to shift. Letters rearranged themselves, rewriting the message before his very eyes.
> [Anon_001]: Thank you for choosing the answer I wanted.
The laptop screen flickered violently. White light burst forth, swallowing the room whole. The old machine hissed like it was whispering its dying breath. Jakwoo panicked, trying to shut the screen, but something greater than gravity pulled him in. He screamed, shut his eyes tight, and thought—for a fleeting second—that this was the end.
But when he opened them again, he was no longer in his cramped room. The scent of damp soil filled his nose, the chill of foreign air stung his skin, and above him stretched a sky overflowing with stars—so close he felt he could reach out and touch them. His feet sank into strange earth, wild grass brushing against his toes, and the wind whispered as if calling his name.
Then, a voice pierced directly into his mind.
[Welcome to the Epilogue.]
[I will pray for your fortune.]