This story begins with a man in a noodle bar. He was a young man, somewhere on the lower side of thirty, with a soft appearance and the complexion of a girl. On this particular night a look of gloom marred his handsome features. He was a police officer - or had been, until a violent siege had ended in bloodshed no longer than a week ago. He now sat alone with an empty bowl as he stared up at a small television screen.

There’s a whole different world inside the television, he thought. It was like watching a scene from another planet, where everyone seemed cheerful and unreal, so unlike his own reality. The program he was watching was a singing contest. Young contestants would perform and attempt to win the audience over with a rendition of an old song. Those who sung well progressed to the next round, those who sung poorly were struck out. He watched them with a sense of distance. He felt so far away from their excitement, revelry and their fresh youthfulness. He was a young man himself, but on that night he did not feel it.

As he continued to watch the trivial program, a seemingly unremarkable boy came on stage, and taking the microphone with a charming shyness, went on to sing a melancholy ballad. The words of this painful song seemed to be sent straight into his heart, and for the first time that night he felt moved by the program. The more that the boy sang, the more he became hypnotised by the music. It was as if that small person, that unremarkable television boy was singing directly to him, and it almost brought him to tears. “What a brilliant rendition,” he thought. “But never has a song made me feel so despairing! It is the sum of all my sadness wrapped up into a few lines...” He watched carefully as the singer finished his song. There was something unusual about him, intriguing in fact, and he suddenly seemed quite familiar. “I have seen him before somewhere...” he said out loud, startling the idle waitress who had almost forgotten his presence. “But who can it be?” He continued to stare at the screen with building frustration until it became clear.

The waitress returned to his side to take the bowl. “Hey there, Sung-min,” she said softly. “Are you finished for tonight?”

He turned to stare at her with eyes wide, but he did not process the question. “I know him!” he said, motioning to the television. When he turned back, the screen had gone blank. “He was there a minute ago, and I’ve definitely seen him before. I knew him as a kid.”

“That’s swell, Sung-min,” she said, smiling kindly. “You know someone from the television! Let me clear the table.”

The waitress took the bowl away and she did not return. Sung-min was left alone in the noodle bar, his mind now swimming with euphoria and excitement.

“How extraordinary...” he said to himself, “Little Kim Ryeo-wook is on the television!” He suddenly wished that there was someone he could share this discovery with.

The boy’s father had been Inspector Kim, a senior detective active around the time Sung-min first joined the police force. Sung-min remembered him well. He had been a kind and fair man, and something of a mentor to the younger officers. When he took ill, Sung-min had visited him often. This was how he came to know Kim's teenage son, a filial and loving child who remained faithfully beside his father right up until his death. He had been especially fond of Sung-min and always looked forward to his visits. Sung-min scrunched up his face and he tried to remember more. Since old Kim's passing, Sung-min had not spoken to him at all and had almost forgotten that sweet and affectionate boy. Up until this night that is, when he saw him reappear, like a vision of a ghost, on that small and blurry television screen.