Seoul in 2050.
The sudden hailstorm wasn't just a quirk of the weather.
Chunks of ice, nearly eight centimeters across, crashed down from the sky, smashing
windows and wrecking cars across the city.
It felt less like a storm and more like a warning—nature speaking in a language we can't ignore.
We may have prepared for a single disaster at a time.
But that is no longer how the world works.
Across the globe, disasters don't arrive one by one anymore.
They overlap, they collide, they cascade.
Scientists call this compound climate extremes.
It means two or more climate hazards striking together, or in rapid sequence,
overwhelming entire societies.
A heatwave paired with drought.
A typhoon followed by floods, then disease.
When one crisis hasn't ended before the next arrives,
people—and entire nations—lose the space to recover.
According to IPCC, WHO, and NASA, East Asia around 2050 faces high risks of such compound disasters:
Supercell storms and giant hail disrupting city systems.
Sudden collisions of cold air and humid late-summer heat could bring massive hail,
shutting down subways, crushing vehicles, and endangering lives.
Coastal flooding mixed with outbreaks of waterborne disease.
When heavy rain or typhoons coincide with high tides, seawater surges into cities.
Sewage overflows, drinking water is contaminated, and illnesses spread.
Heatwaves colliding with blackouts.
Summer electricity demand peaks, pushing grids to their limits. A single rolling blackout could paralyze hospitals, air-conditioning, even clean water supply.
Unexpected urban cold snaps before winter.
With unstable jet streams, sudden freezes can strike in mid-autumn, devastating fragile infrastructure and leaving the vulnerable at risk.
These are no longer "rare events."
They are happening—quietly, steadily—and they are only growing more frequent and more severe.
Climate disasters no longer arrive alone.
One layer of misfortune invites the next,
and that unstable chain threatens the very fabric of daily life.
Our responses can no longer be single-layered either.
We need cooperation across fields, lifestyle changes,
and above all, awareness—now.
The landscape of CHAPTER 4 is not fiction.
It is a preview of a future that scientists have already warned us about.
["Is There Anything Left I Can Do?" – On Climate Anxiety and Helplessness]
Some days, even looking out the window feels heavy.
The sun burns too harsh, the rain is too short—or far too heavy.
Spring skips into summer. Autumn disappears.
And in winter, instead of snow, we hear the roar of storms.
On those days, a teenager—or someone's son, daughter, or friend—whispers quietly:
"In a world already broken, what difference could I possibly make?"
This isn't exaggeration.
It has a name: climate depression or climate anxiety.
It is not just fear. It is long, grinding despair.
It is the helplessness of standing before a problem too vast to solve alone.
Young people in particular—teens and those in their twenties—see the severity early,
but also reach the conclusion fastest: "It's already too late."
In a 2021 survey by Lancaster University across 10 countries,
over 60% of respondents aged 16–25 said climate change threatens their future.
56% said humanity is already too late.
45% said it is disrupting their daily lives.
And many added, "Politics is doing nothing."
Helplessness often silences action.
The hand that carried a reusable tumbler,
the feet that once paused at the recycling bin,
the voice that joined a small campaign—
all fall quiet under the weight of "What difference does this make?"
But climate despair is not just an emotion.
It is a reaction—an echo of being ignored, disappointed,
and forced to witness failure again and again.
And in that sense, it is not a weakness.
It is proof of caring.
We hurt not because we are indifferent,
but because we love this Earth—its seasons, its laughter, its wind on summer nights.
That is why we sometimes collapse.
But climate anxiety is not an ending.
It may simply be the silence before a new story begins.
And for that story to be rewritten,
we need someone to sit beside us and say:
"You're not alone."
"Let's try together."
Small words, but solid ones.
Climate change speaks in numbers and graphs to overwhelm us.
But real change begins between people—
when despair is spoken out loud,
and becomes empathy instead of silence.
And when that happens, the name of the feeling shifts:
From despair to solidarity.
From paralysis to questions.
And, at last—
to a single step forward.