[2050, Yoonseul's Café]
Autumn sunlight streamed gently through the windows.
The first floor was filled, as always, with the warm scent of coffee, and soft music drifted faintly from the back of the café.
Kim Suyeon sat quietly at a table beside the counter, cupping a coffee mug in both hands.
"Oh, Assistant Kim Suyeon."
Jian's mother, Yoonseul, approached with a bright smile.
Wearing her café uniform with a scarf loosely wrapped over it,
she wiped her hands before taking a seat.
"Hello. Thanks to Jian, I've been learning a lot myself," Suyeon said carefully.
"That's why… I'd like to ask a favor."
Yoonseul nodded, listening attentively.
"I'm helping prepare the campaign for a young political candidate.
We're also drafting a youth climate proposal.
I want to make sure students' voices can be heard.
If Jian and her friends could be at the heart of it, it would mean the world to me."
Yoonseul's eyes widened in surprise.
"Jian? Doing something like that? She never really mentioned it at home."
Suyeon smiled gently.
"She's already accomplished more than she realizes."
She paused briefly, then continued.
"What I'd like is to bring her in as part of a 'student advisory group.'
It wouldn't be an official role, but the discussions there are vital.
And… if it's all right, could we hold a meeting upstairs here at the café today?"
For a moment, Yoonseul was silent.
Then she gave a small smile and nodded.
"Maybe I don't know if those kids can really change the world.
But the desire to change it—that much, at least, is real.
Go ahead, use the second floor. I'll send up some hot tea."
Suyeon bowed her head with gratitude.
"Thank you so much."
The café held a quiet warmth all its own.
Around a round table upstairs sat Jian, Shia, Doyoon, and Suyeon.
A tablet, notebooks, and pens were scattered across the tabletop, their attention naturally fixed on one another.
"This time… we may need to stand beside someone else."
The students looked up.
"Us?" Jian asked cautiously.
"Yes." Suyeon nodded with a small smile.
"There's someone trying to open a new path.
He's still inexperienced, still small in presence—but the direction he's pushing toward is the same future we've dreamed of."
She set her tablet on the table and slid it forward.
"This is him. Choi Jaehoon—the man we once connected with."
Jian caught her breath, staring at the screen.
A man in a neat suit, with a gaze that was modest but resolute.
"It's really… him?" Jian whispered in disbelief.
Shia let out a low exclamation.
"The one we struggled to reach with just a few words… and now, here he is, in reality."
Jian nodded softly.
"Back then, I didn't realize.
That even a single sentence could move an entire life."
Silence lingered around the table—
but this time, it wasn't fear that filled the air.
It was a cautious kind of hope.
Suyeon closed her eyes briefly, then spoke quietly.
"The bill we worked on may have collapsed… but it's not over."
Shia smiled, answering quickly.
"Then we start again. Our way."
Doyoon nodded.
"This time, we'll stand right beside him. Fight together."
Suyeon looked at each of them, then said slowly,
"You're right. We haven't failed. We just stumbled, that's all."
At that moment, Doyoon glanced around.
"But… where's Jihyuk?"
A beat of silence. Then Jian answered quietly.
"After visiting his family home a few days ago, he came down with a bad fever.
He's living on his own, but today he even missed school.
I called earlier, and his voice sounded… exhausted."
The turmoil between family and conviction,
the weight of a helplessness too heavy to carry alone—
for now, it seemed to have pressed down on Jihyuk's body and heart alike.
[2050, Jihyuk's Apartment]
Outside, a soft autumn rain was falling.
The afternoon light had faded into a dull gray, and Jihyuk lay half-reclined on his bed, staring at his phone before turning his head away in silence.
Another notification blinked on the screen: "Marked as absent."
A small thing, but one that was automatically forwarded to his father.
Barely thirty minutes later, the sound of a keypad echoed from the front door.
The door opened, and Jeong Jaeyoon stepped in first.
Behind him followed a familiar figure—black coat, neat attire.
Han-na.
"Jihyuk."
His father's voice was low, but something weighed at the edge of it.
"You could have at least called. Skipping school for days on end—what do you think you're doing?"
Jihyuk slowly pushed himself up from the bed.
"It's nothing. I told the school I caught a cold."
"The problem isn't the cold."
Jaeyoon circled the room, stopping in the middle of the living space.
"This week I've got the primary debate and a press interview.
If you're just lying here like this… what do you think people will say?"
A shadow crossed Jihyuk's face.
"So that's it. You're worried about what people will say."
"And why shouldn't I be? A politician has to manage his image.
I'm already handling things your mother should've been doing
—do I really need to lecture you about this too?"
Quietly, Jihyuk pushed the blanket aside and stood.
"I'm not the image of the Jeong Jaeyoon campaign. I'm just… your son."
For a moment, silence. A stiffness flickered across Jaeyoon's face.
Without another word, he turned his head away.
"I'll go first."
The door shut behind him, leaving the room in stillness.
Only Han-na remained. She had been leaning against the wall,
and now she spoke softly.
"You really are alike."
Jihyuk looked at her sharply.
"I don't want to hear that."
Han-na gave a faint smile.
"I brought medicine. And some porridge. I'll leave them here.
My card's next to it—call me if you need anything…
Even if you don't, we'll probably be seeing each other a lot,
so… try to take care of yourself."
Jihyuk turned his head away.
Her gaze was neither sharp nor gentle—just unreadable.
The front door clicked shut again.
Outside, the rain kept falling, somewhere beyond the window.
[2050, Choi Jae-hoon's Campaign Office]
The conference room door opened quietly.
A cold autumn breeze slipped through the gap, but inside the room was already filled with a quiet, heavy tension—warm in its own way.
Suyeon stepped in first.
Behind her, Ji-an, Shia, and Do-yoon followed carefully, one step at a time.
On one side of the room, a monitor displayed the newly revised policy draft:
"The 2030 Future Generations Impact Assessment Act – Citizen Petition Bill Proposal (Draft)"
Standing on the other side of the table, Choi Jae-hoon looked at the students.
He slipped off his dark gray coat, draped it over a chair, and gave them a gentle smile.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
The greeting was short and plain.
The students bowed slightly, their faces tight with nerves.
But in their eyes flickered an unmistakable mix of anticipation and awe.
As Jae-hoon took his seat, he spoke with care.
"The truth is…"
He placed his open palm on the table.
"Back then, in those difficult years, no one really listened to what I was struggling with. But then…"
His gaze softened as it fell on Ji-an and Shia.
"You listened. That conversation—what might have seemed so small at the time—became the reason I was able to keep going until now."
Ji-an blinked, startled.
Shia drew in a quiet breath.
"Just the fact that someone out there truly listened to me—it felt like a miracle."
Jae-hoon bowed his head, his voice low with sincerity.
"Thank you. Truly."
For a moment, the room was so still it felt as if even breath had stopped.
But the silence wasn't cold—it was warm, a quiet moment where hearts brushed against one another.
Suyeon looked at the students and spoke gently.
"What we did… it was never small."
Suyeon hesitated, then found her voice.
"Even though the bill we worked for collapsed…"
faint smile touched her lips.
"It's not over yet."
Shia nodded firmly.
"Then we start again. Our way."
Do-yoon opened his laptop and added simply:
"This time, we make it count."
Jae-hoon smiled.
It was the kind of smile that carried the steady weight of someone ready to begin again.
"Yes. This time, none of us give up."
Outside, the autumn wind swept past—early, brisk, almost too sharp for the season.
But within the conference room, something warmer was quietly, steadily spreading.
[2050, Suyeon's Room]
An autumn evening.
Suyeon sat quietly in her room.
It wasn't large, but it was neatly kept.
A minimalist bookshelf stood against one wall; on the opposite side, a clean-lined desk and a low-noise air purifier.
Above, an energy-saving smart light cast a gentle glow.
The air inside was on the chilly side, but she had deliberately kept the heating low to conserve energy.
A faint warmth lingered in the cup beneath her fingertips.
The window was covered with a soft, translucent film, and on the outer pane a red warning light blinked silently:
"Fine Dust Alert – Outdoor Air Quality Hazardous."
In this city, between late autumn and winter, clear skies could no longer be expected.
Compared to the crowded apartment complexes where the children lived, her space was comfortable—yet even here, the reality of 2050 seeped in without exception.
A small desk lamp cast a dim circle of light across the room.
Suyeon sat before it, flipping through her tablet, while the low murmur of a political debate flowed from the television.
A middle-aged politician spoke in a firm, confident tone:
"Economy is survival. Climate? That's just a luxury for wealthy nations."
The caption at the bottom of the screen read:
"Seven-term Assemblyman / Chair of the National Development Committee – Member of ○○ Party."
He was one of the lawmakers officially backed by JH Group, a major conglomerate.
Suyeon narrowed her eyes at the screen for a moment, then pressed the remote.
The monitor went dark, and silence filled the room again.
Only the faint hum of the air purifier stirred the air.
Under the soft light of the lamp, Suyeon steadied her breath and murmured:
"It's time… to face this head-on."
Outside, the wind stirred.
Not yet winter, but the cool, unfamiliar breath of autumn pressed against the window.