I was a bibliophile, no, a "fiction addict."

From as early as I can't even remember, I was always clinging to picture books or glued to the TV.

As I got older, it became novels, comics, dramas, movies...

I voraciously absorbed anything that told a story, without discrimination.

I was someone who could never be satisfied with just reality, always searching for something imaginary.

Like so many kids with that inclination, I was also fervently dedicated to creating "my own stories."

"...Eugene, didn't you used to sell stuff you wrote to your friends when you were little? Wasn't it like 500 won per piece?"

"500? Isn't that a huge sum?"

"It's 50 cents, 50 cents."

Beside my hospital bed, my two best friends, Ned and Adele, were chatting back and forth.

Their very presence made the hospital room feel more alive.

'Though after I got busted by a teacher and thoroughly scolded, I stopped charging for them.'

Even though my body lying on the bed didn't move an inch, my mind once again drifted back into old memories.

'In middle school, I ambitiously tried serializing online.'

After moving to the U.S., my lack of English skills totally shattered my confidence.

Even so…

My passion for "fiction" continued even after immigrating to the U.S., and through all the wandering years of high school and college.

Eventually—

'Like fate, I ended up working for a publishing company in the U.S.'

It was a small place with low pay, but I found the work of editing to suit me well and I enjoyed it.

To read new and interesting manuscripts every day and even get paid for it!

Collaborating with authors to raise the quality of their manuscripts was also a joy and gave me a great sense of accomplishment.

Naturally, I gained recognition for my editing skills and quickly rose through the ranks, eventually becoming a well-known editor in a major New York publishing house, handling popular titles.

"Do you remember that, Eugene? Your editor almost fainted when they saw the manuscript you wrote."

"Pfft, Ned, you were there too, right? Wasn't it during a meeting for the next project?"

"Yeah, yeah. Seeing that stern guy's eyes almost pop out of his head..."

Ned, my best friend since high school and a promising graphic novel artist.

If it hadn't been for his advice, I might never have shown my manuscript to the world.

"I still get goosebumps thinking about it. The way it sold like hotcakes as soon as it was published—totally insane."

"No, no, insane doesn't even begin to cover it. It was a cultural phenomenon."

Then Adele, who worked as a high school teacher, flipped her straight hair back and chimed in.

"That's true. Do you know how many of my students talk about your book? Even the ones who used to hate reading…"

They were both passionately discussing my first book, which had become a bestseller.

'It wasn't just any bestseller, though.'

It immediately topped the New York Times Bestseller list.

10 weeks straight at number one on Amazon.

Published in 37 languages, adapted into a movie by Warner Bros.

Selected as Book of the Year by Time Magazine, People, and Vanity Fair...

'I still remember the headlines: Kwon Eugene, Korean-American debut novelist, wins World Fantasy Award.'

My debut novel, The Forgotten Saints.

It gained widespread popularity across the U.S.

And it eventually topped the global bestseller lists.

But…

"Just going to check your blood pressure, ma'am."

Knock knock—

A nurse entered the room and rolled up my sleeve.

My arm, which hadn't moved even once in the past year, was covered in needle marks from IVs.

'...'

I wanted to smile wryly, but I couldn't.

…The dream of becoming a novelist, a dream I had long cherished, had come true—if only briefly. Just three months after my book was published...

"Locked-in syndrome."

At just 34 years old, I suffered a stroke that left me bedridden, unable to move.

'A disconnection between the brain and the body's muscles, leaving the body paralyzed but the senses and cognitive functions intact.'

I could feel and think clearly, but I couldn't move or speak.

'Your alcohol consumption and smoking habits are pretty average, but you do have a family history of aneurysms.'

I was trapped in a body, like being locked in a prison from which I could never escape.

The only part of me I could move was my eyes.

For a while, I sank into despair.

Whenever I wanted to surrender to the ever-increasing pain of my illness—

'I want to write another novel, tell a new story.'

Perhaps because my body was so restricted, my mind yearned for the freedom of imaginary worlds.

More than anything—

'I had just tasted the sweet success of my first novel, hadn't I?'

Though my first book had become the number one global bestseller, I was still hungry.

I was desperate to write new stories and witness readers around the world getting excited about them.

That desire—

'It was a more primal urge for me than any other.'

But with a body like mine, all I could do was use my brain to the fullest.

During my ten years as an editor, I had read countless manuscripts, novels, even practical books and comics of all genres—

'As if I was organizing folders in my head.'

I neatly categorized each one, knowing that all of it would serve as valuable references that would breathe life into my own stories.

During the remaining time, I brainstormed new ideas or mentally composed stories.

'Like gathering materials to build a sturdy house.'

I pulled out sentences one by one and memorized every word, from start to finish.

It was incredibly slow and inefficient, but—

It turned out to be an excellent way to enhance the quality of my work.

'And perhaps, this seemingly meaningless act to others...'

Was ultimately what had kept my mind intact up until now.

Writing was my survival strategy and the only way I could desperately hold onto myself...

"Eugene, do you feel any sensation anywhere in your body?"

The nurse's question suddenly brought me back to the present.

"..."

I slowly rolled my eyes to the left, lighting up the "No" lamp.

As I slowly shifted my gaze to the left, the "No" lamp lit up.

"Alright, I understand. Let us know if you need anything."

After the nurse left, a brief, awkward silence filled the room.

"Oh, right. Did I mention Allen?" Ned brought up a new topic with a smile.

"He's the head of Vertigo Label, and he's a huge fan of yours, Eugene. Oh, and there's a huge buzz about Vertigo breaking away from DC—"

"Ned, come on! Enough with the industry talk already. Anyway, Eugene, I heard Chloe visited last week, right?" Adele, cutting off Ned, started updating me about my stepmother and sister.

Kate, who had taken care of me in every way after my father passed. And Chloe, my younger sister who had always adored me since we were little... Just having so many wonderful people around me made me wonder if my life was blessed in some way.

And a little while later, after the nurse informed them that visiting hours were over, my two friends reluctantly got up to leave.

"I'll be back next month, Eugene."

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

After they left, silence settled in the room.

The only sound was the beeping of the machine, confirming that my heart was still beating.

'My vision's getting worse.'

The faint smell of alcohol lingered in the air.

The dull ache was becoming more noticeable as the painkillers wore off.

...But worse than the pain was the overwhelming loneliness that pressed down on me. The fear that I could die at any moment crept in.

I tried to ignore those negative feelings as I stared at the blurry hospital ceiling above me.

That night—or rather, early morning—I had dozed off, only to be jolted awake by an excruciating pain.

'Ugh.'

I had gotten used to pain, but this was on another level. A crushing weight pressed down on my entire body, making it impossible to breathe.

'Is this... what dying feels like?'

In the dimly lit hospital room, with the emergency lights glowing faintly, I desperately tried to fight off death.

'Eugene, what do you want to do when you recover?'

A question from my friends echoed in my mind.

What do I want to do?

'I want to live life to the fullest.'

I want to move freely, go wherever I want, and run until I'm out of breath.

I want to eat in the cafeteria at the office I used to loathe, and I want to ride the crowded subway during rush hour.

But more than anything—

'I want to write. I want to write again.'

The countless stories swirling inside me—the ones I'd spent a year lying in bed thinking about—

'I need to share them with someone.'

...Because a story only finds its true worth when it reaches someone's ears.

But contrary to my desperate wish, the suffocating pain only intensified.

'…!'

As if trapped inside a giant bell, my consciousness began sinking deep into the abyss, and a heavy realization hit me.

'Ah, this is...'

It's over, I thought, resigning myself to my fate.

[By contract, a miracle will be realized...]

Suddenly, a voice echoed in my head, and a blinding white light burst before my eyes.

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*

"...Eugene! Kwon Eugene. Snap out of it!"

The Korean I had longed to hear. And not just any voice, but the deep, resonant voice of my father, which I thought I'd never hear again, rang in my ears.

"Is your head okay? Look at me."

As my mind buzzed and hummed, my senses slowly started picking up the world around me.

The dry air brushing against my skin. The intense sunlight of Iowa beating down on me from above. The endless view of cornfields stretching out as far as I could see.

"...Dad."

I had returned to a summer day when I was seventeen.