"Did you finish it?"

"Yeah, I suppose I did."  He held up a thick envelope that contained all the work he had done for the past few months - his research, his own writings, the thoughts and feelings of his heart.  "This..." he paused, eyes glazing with unspoken longing and sadness, and he let out a small sigh.  "This is everything I've got.  Everything."

"Are you sure about this?" The other man asked as he took the envelope in his hands, weighing it carefully.  It seemed much heavier now that he knew the writer had put his all in it, and he had to do his part now.  "Do you want to add more?  Should I wait for a few more days?"  He was always gentle and affectionate to his writer, pushing him quietly but sternly to finish his works and cheering him on to do better.  He had always been the number one fan...the only fan.  Despite the talent with words, the young writer was never one to come up on stage to take his awards or sit behind a table and sign his books.  He was never one to be approached by people and asked if he wrote so and so, although he would love for that day to come in his friend's life.  There was a hidden reason behind this and it was something that both could not divulge, lest they both lose their jobs.

"No, that should be fine.  Tell...him to just add as he pleases."  The writer emphasized on the word as he plopped on a couch, his whole body taking up almost all the space intended for two people and stirred what smelled like a cup of dark cocoa in a white mug that said "GOOD JOB" in red letters that was too bright and too bold for his own liking.  

Eyes scanned the tired features of the other man, hidden by the dim light of the small studio apartment in downtown Seoul where the twenty-something year old lived modestly.  Feet shuffled and the two found themselves seated beside each other, a hand patting a worn shoulder and lips offered a kind, encouraging smile.  "It'll be alright...just one more and you're done for now," he mumbled, only to be answered by a soft groan of protest.  The writer hated being comforted like this.  "I'll be back tomorrow or in a few days, but most likely in a few days."

A few miles from where the two men shared comforting words, another young man sat on his desk with his nose planted on a thick book.  His brows furrowed in concentration while his eyes followed the tale of the protagonist, pupils dilating with fear with every challenge his favorite hero faced and rejoicing with every triumph.  "Just one more page," he would answer with a wave of the hand every time he was told to rest for the night.  Just one more.  This would go on deep into the night until it was lights out, the young boy blissfully ignorant of his surroundings and the change the wind has brought for the night.  The sound of page turning, breath hitching and an occasional fist hitting the table drifted through the night air and served as a comforting melody to the young boy whose mind is filled with unfinished adventures, scenarios unfolding and words flowing like river.

Not too far, another man lay peaceful in his slumber, Mr. Sandman granting him beautiful sights of joy and laughter.  He shifted in his sleep, lips parted slightly, uncaring of what the night could bring.  His fingers moved on their own as if grasping something only he could see and closing in on a secret that his heart whispered to the stillness.  The cold breeze knocked on his window, interrupting the quietness of the dark but the sleeping man paid no heed.  His lips curved into a small smile and formed words that he spoke to the person he saw behind closed eyes.

Just one more.