[2050, A Saturday Morning]
Beneath the heavy gray sky, the city was slowly waking.
The sun had already begun to blaze, and though the wind stirred, it did nothing to cool the air.
The heat clung to the skin like a second layer.
Stepping out of the cooling pod, Jian remained silent.
"Jian, today… let's go see your father together."
Her mother, Yoon-seul, spoke with a voice that was gentle yet steady.
Jian gave a quiet nod.
At least for today, there would be no more postponing.
They climbed into Yoon-seul's old electric car.
The paint was faded under the sun, the door handle squeaked faintly, yet the inside was neatly kept. Hot late-summer air slipped in through the window cracks, brushing Jian's forehead.
Outside, the scenery blurred under a veil of dust.
Even so, her heart was slowly finding order.
The columbarium lay on an old hillside at the edge of Seoul.
The moment Jian pushed the door open, a faint chill and a familiar scent wrapped around her.
"…Dad, I'm here."
Kneeling, she carefully gazed at the smiling face in the photo.
Behind the urn holding her father's small, solid bones, his laughter still lingered. Beside him, her grandparents' names were engraved as well. Jian traced the letters with her fingertips in silence.
"These days… it's been hard. Honestly, I've missed you. A lot…"
The words slipped out like a small sigh.
Yoon-seul sat quietly beside her, resting a hand on her daughter's shoulder.
That was when Jian noticed a familiar figure walking toward them from across the hall.
Neatly dressed, a thin frame, a face she recognized—
Ji-hyuk.
At his side stood a woman who carried a more mature air. Her long hair was tied back,
fatigue etched around her eyes.
Ji-hyuk's older sister.
Startled for a moment, Jian lifted her hand first.
"Ji-hyuk? …Hi."
He bowed slightly.
"Hello. Hi, Jian."
His sister hesitated, then lowered her head politely.
"Hello… I'm sorry for the sudden meeting. I'm Ji-hyuk's sister.
We come here every year, around this time, to visit our mother."
Yoon-seul returned a gentle smile.
"I see. We came to see my husband, and my parents as well.
Ji-hyuk and Jian are classmates.
Lately they've even been studying together at my café with a few friends."
Ji-hyuk nodded faintly, and Jian lowered her head in a small greeting.
A short silence followed, but within it lingered a quiet warmth—an unspoken understanding.
Then Yoon-seul spoke again, carefully.
"Actually, today… I thought we might stop by the seaside for a while, to ease Jian's mind."
Her gaze shifted between the two siblings.
"The kids all seem weighed down lately. Maybe it's the weather, or maybe just school…
I hardly hear them laugh these days.
I thought it might be nice, on a quiet day like this, to just get some fresh air. If you're free,
perhaps you could come with us? It might be good for the kids to spend time together."
Ji-hyuk's sister finally smiled softly.
"Since you've invited us so kindly… thank you. We were planning to go straight home, but—"
She glanced at her brother. Ji-hyuk gave a small nod.
"…We'll gladly join you."
Soon, the four of them were riding in the small electric car, heading out of the city.
The roadside trees were withered, the landscape outside dust-choked, yet the scent of the sea drew steadily closer.
There wasn't much conversation in the car.
But the silence wasn't uncomfortable.
It was the silence shared by people bound by similar memories, familiar loss, and the same passing seasons.
In the back seat, Jian watched the flickering scenery through the open window.
'Dad, I'm trying to live well. It wasn't all bad days. Today… feels a little lighter.'
And then, quietly, the blue shimmer of the sea began to spread before their eyes—as though it had been waiting for them.
[2050, Gyeonggi Coastline]
Early September, late summer. It was just past ten in the morning.
The sun was already blazing down, stabbing at the crown of the head, and though the wind stirred, it carried only heat.
The restored beach lay within artificial seawalls and water barriers, but the bare white sand radiated a searing heat, as if the body itself were being baked.
The sand was bone-dry, and even through the soles of their shoes, the heat pulsed upward.
The sea, too, shimmered faintly gray under the sun, dulled by fine dust and drifting debris.
A thin greenish-brown film skimmed across the waves, while plastic scraps, tangled fishing nets, and frothy refuse floated here and there.
The smell was sharper still: a sour mix of salt, rotting shells, and long-forgotten garbage rising with the hot breeze.
Anyone who had mistaken it for the sea of old would quickly wrinkle their nose.
Yoon-seul spread out a small mat toward the shore and settled down.
"Still… at least the breeze feels a little better out here," she murmured, listening to the faint sound of waves.
Ji-hyuk's sister sat quietly in the shade nearby. She didn't speak much, but her eyes carried a trace of relief—like the rare freedom of fresh air.
Jian wandered slowly toward the far end of the shore, her gaze never leaving the sea.
Footsteps followed. Ji-hyuk.
He walked beside her, just slightly behind, his pace matching hers.
Between them, only the wind spoke for a while.
Jian broke the silence.
"Is this your first time here?"
Ji-hyuk gave a small nod.
"Yeah. After my mom passed, I… stayed away from the sea. She loved it."
His words were calmer than expected, but his voice trembled faintly at the edges.
Jian stopped, still facing the horizon.
"…Will you tell me about her?"
Ji-hyuk was silent for a long moment, then spoke slowly.
"It was right after the Forty-Four Pandemic started. At first, people thought it wasn't too different from the old viruses…
But my mom had weak lungs. She went out once, and—just like that—she caught it."
His voice tried to stay steady, but his fingers sifted sand through his hand, over and over.
"Our family was… too busy. We got her to the hospital too late. She was quarantined, and I never really heard her voice again. No proper goodbye…"
His eyes drifted to the far horizon.
Jian stood quietly beside him before speaking.
"I lost my dad in a wildfire.
He got us out first—me and Mom—and went back for my grandparents.
I don't remember all of it, but the smell… the sirens… I can't forget them."
Ji-hyuk turned slowly to her. Their eyes met, neither looking away.
"Then… do you ever feel like you can't breathe?"
His question was soft, but raw.
Jian nodded.
"Yeah. Some days everything feels so far away, and I can't move at all.
But when I talk to someone about it—like this—it eases a little. Just like now."
A faint smile tugged at Ji-hyuk's lips.
It was awkward, cautious, but warm all the same.
Jian smiled back.
They began walking again in silence. Above, a digital billboard flashed warnings about climate anomalies, while the gray waves rolled endlessly ashore—
yet their footsteps kept to a gentle rhythm, side by side with the sound of the sea.
By the time they returned, Yoon-seul and Ji-hyuk's sister, Ji-yoo, were sitting together near the beach tent.
Ji-yoo handed her a small canned coffee.
"I thought you might like this. I grabbed it from a vending machine nearby. Sorry, no ice this time…"
Her voice was still careful, but softer than before.
Yoon-seul smiled, taking the cup.
"The aroma's nice. Thank you." She sipped, her lips curving faintly.
After a pause, Ji-yoo spoke again, quieter.
"Ji-hyuk… he's been living on his own. After Mom passed, things with our dad… broke down.I got him a small place, but it hasn't been easy. He's still so young."
She looked toward the sea, her sigh caught in the breeze.
"I work out of town, so I can't see him often. Lately, though, he looks a little lighter.
Seeing him smile today—it's been a long time."
She hesitated, then pulled out her phone.
"If it's not too much to ask… would you keep an eye on him sometimes?
Just if anything happens. Could we exchange contacts?"
Yoon-seul nodded without hesitation.
"Of course. Our café's right by the school, and Jian's in the same class.
They're comfortable around each other.
It's good for us adults to stay connected, too."
They exchanged numbers quietly. Ji-yoo glanced at the saved screen, then looked up again.
"Thank you. I didn't mean to trouble you, but… it eases my mind."
Yoon-seul shook her head, smiling warmly.
"No trouble at all. I'll keep watch. Sometimes what kids need most… is simply for an adult to be there."
The short conversation left behind a seed of trust.
Outside, the waves still rolled in gray, but between them, something warmer was already spreading.
[2030, Busan Marine Environment Agency]
The air conditioner hummed quietly, but the tension in the conference room refused to cool.
Piles of documents labeled "Marine Pollution Response Budget Proposal" lay scattered across the table.
Ryu Se-ah sat with her eyes half-closed, staring down at the papers.
Sweat clung to the short hair framing her face, while her superior's raised voice echoed heavily through the room.
"Se-ah, this marine cleanup project is far too idealistic. Without a fundamental solution, running campaigns will only look like a waste of 'event funds.'"
Slowly, Se-ah lifted her head.
Her tired eyes still carried an unshaken firmness.
"I believe those 'events' can stop children from getting their feet tangled in plastic.
It may seem idealistic now… but doing nothing is worse."
A colleague beside her flipped through the minutes, muttering under his breath.
"The government hasn't signed off, citizen turnout is low… Push this now, and it'll only damage the agency's image."
Her superior cut the discussion short.
"That's enough for today. Next time, bring us something more realistic."
Chairs scraped back as the meeting adjourned.
Everyone left—everyone except Se-ah, who sat staring at the papers, unmoving, long after the room had emptied.