Prologue: A Weight of Regret
Ahn Minjae leaned back in his leather chair, staring at the sea of glowing monitors before him. The ticker on the largest screen scrolled upward, the graphs sharp and relentless, as if to climb to the heavens themselves. The digital fortune that flashed upon the screen was immense—enough to feed generations, to build empires, to turn dreams into reality.
Minjae hadn't blinked much. The room was dark, save for the screens; the soft hum of his office building's central heating system was his only companion to the silence. It was midnight in Seoul, but the city beyond the glass walls of his penthouse office pulsed with life—a stark contrast to the sterile stillness around him.
He sat impassive, like a marble statue carved into the high-rise, his tailored suit unwrinkled, a silver wristwatch gleaming under the faint light.
There was a bottle of aged whiskey on the desk, unopened, and an envelope he hadn't dared to open.
The numbers on the screen climbed higher. His latest investment strategy—a carefully calculated gamble involving overseas acquisitions—was paying off spectacularly. Shareholders would call him a genius. Again. His name would appear on yet another front page tomorrow. Again. It was just another victory in a lifetime of financial conquests, and yet…
He felt nothing.
His eyes finally fell to the envelope. He already knew the words that lay across the front in his late mother's handwriting: To Minjae. Open this when it's too late.
He had kept it for twenty years, avoiding it, yet now it was frayed around the edges, and from its vantage on the desk, the paper seemed to mock him.
"Too late," Minjae muttered bitterly, the corner of his mouth curling up in a self-deprecating smirk. The irony wasn't lost on him. He had been able to conquer markets, foresee economic slumps, outmaneuver rivals—everything except fix what was supposed to matter the most. He hadn't been able to fix them. His family.
He thought of his father's funeral three years ago—how the empty pews, whispers, and especially the thin, frail figure in the front row had seemed so desolate: his little sister, Soohee. How had it come to this? He'd been too late then. Too late to save that business his father had sacrificed his health for, too late to hold the family together after that day, too late to be a son, a brother—the person he needed to be.
Minjae picked up the envelope. His hands were steady, almost detached, as if this were another contract or business proposal. He slipped his finger under the flap and unfolded the yellowed paper inside. The handwriting was just as he remembered—neat but full of emotion, his mother's words lingering like a whisper in his ears.
Minjae,
You've always been so smart. So successful. You always worked so hard, even when you didn't have to. But life isn't about winning, my son. It's about the people who share it with you.
I wonder if you feel how much you have missed, how much you have pushed aside. The world is not short of rich men, but your father needed his son, and Soohee needed her brother.
If you're reading this, I can only pray it's not too late for you to remember what truly matters.
The words seemed to hit him like a blow. He had read them once long ago, but now they were heavier, perhaps because he could finally grasp their meaning. Success, for him, was dearly bought and at a price much greater than money or time.
He looked at the monitor; the numbers kept climbing, uncaring of his turmoil. Yes, he had built an empire, but what use was that empire if it were built on ashes?
His phone buzzed, jerking him out of his reverie. The display lit up with a reminder: Meeting with the Board, 8:00 AM. Another decision, another strategy, another step in a race that never seemed to end.
Minjae reached for the whiskey bottle. He poured a glass, though he didn't really want to drink. He wasn't actually certain about anything anymore. All that stared back at him when he looked into the tumbler—amber liquid now in one hand, that envelope still in the other—was deep exhaustion that chilled him to the bone.
"Too late," he muttered again, sipping the whiskey in slow gulps. It burned, but not enough to distract him.
He closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just to rest.
The odor was the first thing he noticed.
It wasn't the clean, faintly clinical scent of his penthouse office. It was something earthier, sharper: kimchi bubbling on a stove, soy sauce sizzling in a hot pan, and the faint scent of laundry detergent carried on the wind.
Minjae's eyes snapped open in surprise. He was not in his office. He lay on a narrow bed in a room that felt achingly familiar, though he couldn't place it at first. The wallpaper was a faded green, peeling slightly at the corners. A desk stood in the corner, cluttered with notebooks and textbooks. His old textbooks.
"What the—" Minjae sat up, his heart racing. He looked down at his hands, his body. They weren't the hands of a man in his forties, worn from years of work. They were…young.
He scrambled off the bed and stumbled to the mirror hanging on the closet door. His reflection stared back at him—black hair slightly mussed, a sharp but youthfully leaner face smaller than he remembered.
It was him. Twenty years younger.
"No," he whispered, touching his face, his chest, as if to assure himself he wasn't dreaming. Yet everything felt too real—the chill of the room, the faint ache in his legs from sleeping awkwardly, the sounds of someone rattling around in the kitchen beyond the door.
He flung the door open and stepped out into the hallway. The house greeted him with a wave of nostalgia so overwhelming, it almost choked him: the small dining table with mismatched chairs, the framed family photo on the wall, the hum of an old television playing in the living room.
"Minjae! You going to sleep all day? Come help with the groceries!"
It was his mother's voice. Alive, younger, standing in the kitchen in her flowery apron, her hair tied back as she leaned over the stove.
He opened his mouth, but no words came, just the ability to stare as his chest constricted with a mix of disbelief, joy, and guilt.
"What's wrong with you? Are you sick? You're pale," she said, frowning as she approached him.
"No, I…" he broke off, shaking his head. "I'm fine."
But he wasn't. He was twenty years in the past, in a house that no longer existed in his present. And for the first time in decades, he wasn't thinking about stock markets or board meetings.
He was thinking about second chances.
End of Prologue