By the time I stepped out of the library, it was already evening.
Freed from the musty scent of old books and stale dust unique to libraries, I was hit by the humid breath of asphalt that still clung to the day's heat.
A typical July night—thick, sticky air wrapping around my entire body.
In my hand was an old notebook, its pages crammed with scrawled notes spelling out everything I needed to do over the next few months.
Monitor the progression of the subprime mortgage crisis and identify the true bottom of the market.
Analyze the so-called "Grand Canal" theme stocks in step with the presidential election cycle and pinpoint the optimal buying window.
And search for hidden "pearls" being dumped at bargain prices in the frozen real-estate market.
The blueprint in my head was fairly convincing.
If everything went according to plan, multiplying my current money dozens—maybe hundreds—of times within a year wouldn't be impossible.
And yet… something felt off.
Despite the thrill of planning, despite the excitement, there was a hollow ache somewhere deep inside me.
The exhilarating sense of freedom I'd felt when I handed in my resignation, the burning passion I'd felt while mapping out the future—both seemed to fade the moment I stepped out of the library.
So in the end… it's still about money, isn't it?
My last eighteen years had been suffocating because of money.
And now, the beginning of my second life was once again filled with plans revolving around it.
The irony tasted bitter.
I stopped walking toward my empty studio apartment.
I didn't want to go back yet.
I didn't want to trap myself inside that square room and face solitude all over again.
Grrrk—
As if on cue, my stomach growled, perfectly capturing my current state.
Almost unconsciously, my feet carried me elsewhere.
A familiar neighborhood alley.
The scenery of 2007 was both similar to 2025 and subtly different.
The shop signs were louder, more garish. People's clothes looked just a bit outdated.
Students in baggy hip-hop pants. Women in skinny jeans and oversized horn-rimmed glasses.
Everything felt nostalgic—and strangely foreign.
In front of the movie theater hung a massive poster for the upcoming film D-War.
"Grand Opening August 1."
I let out a dry chuckle as I stared at it.
A movie fueled by nationalism and controversy, eventually drawing over eight million viewers.
Back then, online communities never had a quiet day—endless praise and ridicule clashing nonstop.
I already knew how all those arguments would end.
My gaze drifted to a young couple walking past the theater.
They were laughing carefree, arms linked, completely absorbed in each other.
Watching them, a wave of crushing loneliness washed over me.
Who was I supposed to laugh with now?
Who could I talk to?
Trapped in the body of a thirty-one-year-old while carrying the memories of forty-nine, I was a complete outsider in this era.
I must have walked for quite some time when I spotted a small pub I used to frequent eighteen years ago after exhausting workdays.
Beer Castle.
A painfully cheesy name, paired with an old wooden sign.
Without hesitation, I stepped inside.
"Welcome!"
The owner's voice sounded exactly the same as it had eighteen years ago.
Of course, he wouldn't remember me.
The air inside was thick with the smell of fried food and beer, and posters of once-popular beer brands lined the walls.
I took the seat farthest in the corner and ordered a cold draft beer.
Condensation slid down the chilled glass, soaking my fingers.
On the TV, a professional baseball game was playing.
Doosan Bears versus SK Wyverns.
On the mound stood a pitcher who would one day become a legend of Korean baseball.
I knew how this game would end.
I knew what kind of career that pitcher would go on to have.
The realization hit me again—that I alone knew the endings to everything in this world.
A strange mix of comfort and inescapable loneliness.
That eerie solitude forced open another long-forgotten drawer of memories.
It was this very pub.
Late autumn of 2007, on a chilly Friday night.
This was where I first met my wife.
I'd been drowning in work stress. She'd come alone after her plans with friends fell through.
I remembered her sitting by the window, absentmindedly fiddling with her beer glass, looking slightly downcast.
Long straight hair. A white knit sweater.
I couldn't recall exactly how we started talking.
Did we laugh together at some stupid variety show on TV?
Or did I strike up a conversation with liquid courage?
Probably the latter.
At thirty-one, I'd been far more reckless and impulsive than I was now.
What mattered was that meeting her changed my life completely.
I dated her. Married her.
And gained a daughter, Seoyoon—someone I wouldn't trade for anything in this world.
Of course, the journey wasn't smooth.
Our newlywed life began in a cramped rental apartment, constantly scraping by.
Payday brought brief smiles—until credit card bills and utilities erased them.
After Seoyoon was born, things grew worse.
Sleepless nights caring for a crying baby made us snap at each other.
Crushing childcare stress stole our conversations.
The love that had once burned so brightly felt like it had gone cold.
There were moments when we blamed each other amid conflicts with our families.
Even just before my regression at forty-nine, perhaps we'd only been enduring life under the name of family—bound by obligation rather than love.
Love had long since worn away, leaving behind only something like comradeship forged in survival.
What if…
My hand holding the beer froze.
What if I hadn't come here that day?
Or if I had, but never spoken to her?
The chilling thoughts spiraled.
I had a choice now.
I could choose not to meet her.
I could avoid all the pain, stress, and suffocating money worries that came with our marriage.
Knowing the future, armed with wealth and success—did I really need to meet her again?
Couldn't I meet someone younger? Prettier? With better circumstances?
Someone from a comfortable family, free from financial anxiety.
A life of wine, overseas trips, elegance.
That kind of life would make my second run far easier.
I swallowed hard.
This wasn't comparable to the A Electronics project.
This was a decision that shook the foundation of my entire life.
"Haah…"
I drained the rest of my beer in one gulp.
The cold liquid slid down my throat, but the heat in my head remained.
A new life.
A completely different life.
The temptation alone was intoxicating.
With eighteen years of memories, I didn't have to follow the same path again.
Wasn't correcting everything I regretted the very essence of the chance I'd been given?
Then—was my marriage also one of those regrets to fix?
The moment that thought surfaced, chills ran down my spine.
This was dangerous.
This was betrayal.
Toward a woman I hadn't even met yet.
And toward a daughter who hadn't even been born.
Seoyoon…
The instant her face came to mind, the runaway fantasies shattered.
If I didn't meet my wife, Seoyoon would never be born.
The one light of my life—my everything—would vanish from existence because of a single choice.
Her babbling.
The first time she called me "Dad."
The warmth of her tiny hand gripping my finger.
All of it would disappear.
Could I bear that?
No.
Absolutely not.
No amount of money—billions, trillions—could replace Seoyoon.
Then the answer was obvious.
I had to meet my wife again.
I had to marry her.
I had to give birth to Seoyoon once more.
"One more beer!"
The words burst out before I realized it.
A fresh glass landed on the table.
I drank it like water.
I wanted to drown this unbearable guilt—even if only for a moment.
But was that truly the only path?
A devil's whisper crept back in.
You could still have a child with someone else. Maybe even a son. Or a prettier daughter. A child just as lovable—maybe more so.
Yes.
That was possible.
A child carrying my genes.
If it were a daughter, I'd name her Seoyoon again.
If a son, I'd call him Siyoon—the name my wife and I once joked about.
Either way, it would still be my child.
Wouldn't I love that child just as much?
The rationalization made me nauseous.
This was a complete betrayal—of Seoyoon, and of my wife.
Yet at the same time, the logic was dangerously sweet.
It gave me an excuse not to relive a painful past.
I clawed at my hair in anguish.
I didn't know how much I'd drunk.
When I stumbled out of the pub, the world spun.
The cool night air brushed my cheeks, but the intoxication lingered.
I staggered back toward my apartment.
Inside my head, two versions of myself were locked in a brutal argument.
I can't abandon Seoyoon.
But a new child would still be yours.
You're a traitor.
No—this is the smart choice.
Turning on the light in the narrow room, cold air rushed in—followed by crushing loneliness.
I collapsed onto the bed.
Only now did I understand.
Knowing the future was both a blessing and a terrible curse.
Having the freedom to choose meant bearing the full weight of every choice.
I would face countless crossroads.
Which stock to buy. Which property to invest in.
And more importantly—who to meet, who to love, what kind of life to live.
I wasn't ready to decide.
No. I have to decide.
If I carried this dilemma until the day I met my future wife, I'd drift into the relationship just like before.
And repeat the same life.
That was unacceptable.
I stood and stared at the desk calendar.
My eyes fixed on a faintly circled date in November 2007.
The day I first met her.
With trembling hands, I opened the drawer and pulled out a red marker.
Then, roughly, I drew a bold X over the circle.
I'm sorry…
The words rose to my throat—an apology to someone I couldn't even name.
But I swallowed it back.
I was no longer the old Park Cheolmin.
Regret. Guilt. Hesitation.
That all ended here.
I chose a new life.
A path that belonged only to me—unbound by the past.
Even if it was selfish.
I stared at the red X on the calendar for a long time.
It was my blood-soaked declaration—
a severing of the past.