The world was gray, but not the same gray as before. Han-woo stirred in his crib, tiny fists curled, eyes half-lidded, drifting between sleep and waking.
He did not understand the stillness, the gentle hush that pressed the air around him. He only sensed it—a soft weight settling over his chest, brushing against the fragile edges of his awareness.
It was not warmth or cold. Not sound or silence. It was something in between, a presence that bent the room without being seen. It folded him in, pressed against him, and he felt it like a breath he could not name.
The shimmer—the faint, colorless pulse of something he had glimpsed before—trembled at the edges of his dream. And though he could not call it Qi, could not even comprehend its meaning, he sensed its shape adjusting, as if respecting a hidden rule he did not yet know.
His limbs twitched, tiny muscles straining, and the soft hush returned. It pressed back against his struggles, guiding, folding, sheltering him. He whimpered, and the hush responded—softened, then held him in place again.
He dreamed in fragments. Colors bled into gray. Shapes rose and faded. And in that strange twilight, something whispered to the deepest corners of him—protection, secrecy, care. Not words he could understand, only sensations, textures pressing against his small mind.
And though he could not yet recognize the meaning, a fragile thread took root. He felt the world bending around him, quietly, insistently, as if every breath, every fold in the air, every careful motion of his parents were shaping him—without a single word spoken.
Somewhere deep inside, the half-formed echo of his former self stirred, brushing against the new. Gray lingered. Fear lingered. Helplessness lingered. But so did a faint, almost imperceptible tether to something larger, something unseen, yet protective.
And in that drifting, half-conscious state, Han-woo clung unknowingly to it.
Han-woo's tiny chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, each breath brushing against the unseen currents that pressed lightly around him. The hush of the room, his parents' careful presence, even the crib itself—it all seemed to pulse in tandem with something larger, something alive beneath the air.
A faint vibration ran through his limbs. Not pain, not warmth, not cold—something else. A pressure, like the pull of tides in a body too small to stand against them. He kicked once, and the air seemed to bend, flowing around him in subtle ripples. He whimpered, tiny fists curling, but the pull did not stop.
It was gentle, yet insistent, like a thread tugging at the edges of his awareness. Shapes flickered in the gray beyond his eyelids: spirals of light, faint glimmers that coiled and uncoiled in time with the pull in his limbs. He could not reach them, could not name them, yet they brushed against him, leaving a shiver across his fragile skin.
When his mother shifted beside him, the movement caused a ripple in the current. The shimmer bent around her, flowing into him in soft, tremulous waves. He gasped, tiny and helpless, feeling a sensation that was neither fear nor comfort but a mixture—something new, something alive pressing against the borders of his body.
His father's shadow passed over the doorway, and the pull deepened for an instant, then softened again. It was as though the presence outside the crib recognized him, acknowledged him, but waited, patient.
Han-woo could not move with purpose. His tiny hands twitched, legs kicked weakly, and still, the currents flowed through him, shaping, touching, hinting at a rhythm that was not yet his own. His mind did not know why, did not know how, could not understand the faint pulse of life beneath the air—but a part of him remembered. Gray lingered. His past life stirred faintly in the edges of these sensations, whispering that he had always been shaped by worlds larger than this one.
And so he lay, swaddled and helpless, yet alive in the first tender embrace of something greater. A pull, a shimmer, a rhythm he could not name—but which would, in time, shape everything he had yet to become.
The air shifted again, faintly, as though carrying sounds from far beyond the crib. Han-woo's tiny ears caught them—not words, not meanings, only vibrations that made the edges of his consciousness tremble. The scrape of wooden feet against stone, the distant clang of something metallic, the low murmur of voices—he could feel them all as pressure in the air, brushing against his small, curled form.
A ripple of warmth brushed his cheek. His mother adjusted him, murmuring softly, her breath folding the room back into quiet. But the sounds beyond the walls persisted, threading through the hush.
Something stirred in him. Not thought, not memory, not understanding—but recognition. A pulse, faint, dancing beneath his tiny muscles, brushed against the tips of his limbs. He kicked once, and the shimmer around him trembled, responding as if aware.
The father's shadow passed again, lingering in the doorway. Han-woo could not see clearly, could not comprehend, yet he felt the pull of attention, the subtle shaping of the air. It moved around him, sometimes brushing gently, sometimes pressing lightly, always guiding, always containing.
Outside, the noises grew a fraction sharper—a clatter of wood, a distant shout. The room seemed to pulse in response. Han-woo whimpered softly. He could not move fast enough, could not reach, could not protect himself. And yet… the currents wrapped around him, pressing gently, as if reassuring: you are here, you are safe, for now.
Shapes flickered in his half-dream: colors bending into spirals, pale threads of light coiling like ribbons. He reached toward them instinctively, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. The shimmer followed, teasing, playful, insistent.
His mother hummed again, and the threads pulsed in tandem with her voice. His father's careful presence—back, hands hovering, eyes alert—bent the currents, and Han-woo could feel the subtle rhythm of control. It was the first faint lesson of the world beyond the crib: that there were forces everywhere, some unseen, some near, all shaping him whether he knew it or not.
And yet he did not cry. He did not fight. He simply felt. Every twitch, every pulse, every whisper of sound from beyond, every shimmer that touched his skin—it was overwhelming, terrifying, intoxicating. The infant body could not contain it, the mind could not comprehend it, but a small, fragile part of him—the part that had lived in gray—stirred with recognition.
This was the world. Not yet a place he could act in. Not yet a place he could name or claim. But a place that brushed against him, folding him into its rhythm, whispering promises and warnings he could not yet understand.
And so Han-woo lay, drifting, dreaming, half-alive in the gray, half-pressing toward the shimmer beyond, while the world hummed and breathed just beyond the walls of his crib.
The world outside the room began to breathe louder, though still distant. Han-woo stirred in his crib, tiny fists curling and uncurling, eyelids fluttering in half-dreams.
A rhythmic pounding echoed faintly from the courtyard—wood striking wood, like slow, deliberate pulses. Somewhere a voice shouted a command, followed by a grunt, and the vibrations ran through the floor into his small body. The sensation made his muscles twitch, though he could not understand why.
The shimmer of light within his dream bent in response, spiraling toward the sound, then recoiling as if startled. Han-woo's tiny chest rose and fell faster. He kicked weakly, reaching for the ribbons of color, for the threads of light that danced just out of grasp.
Another sound: a clap, sharper this time, and the threads recoiled again, weaving closer to his body as if shielding him. He whimpered softly, tiny cries swallowed by the hum of distant movements.
The mother shifted beside him, rocking him with measured care. Each subtle motion folded the currents around him tighter, shaping the invisible threads, bending them gently. The father's shadow appeared at the doorway again, his posture rigid but silent. Even without touching, Han-woo could feel the presence of a guiding hand in the air itself—a quiet enforcement of safety.
Every so often, a sound from beyond—the scrape of sandals on stone, a distant shout, the clash of wood against wood—made the shimmer shiver. The colors bled more vividly in his dream: spirals, arcs, and pulses that seemed to echo the rhythm outside, though he could not yet connect cause and effect.
Han-woo's tiny fists flexed, his body curling and unrolling, feeling the push and pull of forces he could not name. Fear, curiosity, and instinct intertwined in his mindless awareness. He felt the patterns, but understanding was far away.
And beneath it all, a faint hum persisted—the same presence that had brushed him before, now tinged with the subtle rhythm of the outer world. It pressed against him, teasing, protective, and insistent. Even as a helpless infant, he felt a tether: to the shimmer, to the unseen currents, and to the vigilant guardians at his side.
His half-conscious mind could not grasp their meaning, but a tiny spark, fragile and tremulous, began to recognize:
The world is alive. And I am in it.
He did not understand. He could not act. He could only feel.
And in that fragile perception, Han-woo drifted deeper into the gray, teetering on the edge between helpless infancy and the first whisper of awareness.
Han-woo's tiny fists flexed and relaxed, the shimmer of colors twisting faintly in rhythm with the distant movements outside. He felt the pull, the push, the currents pressing gently against him—but he could neither name nor control them.
All he could do was lie in the gray, half-dreaming, half-feeling, as the world around him stirred and breathed.
Somewhere deep within the haze, a tiny spark flickered—a first hint that he was not entirely alone in the currents, that something larger brushed against him.
And then, slowly, imperceptibly, the gray deepened and held him still.