If you ask your mother whether she could remember the days when she had been a child, more likely than not, she would have said, “Why, not much of it, dear.” And if you were to ask your grandmother whether she remembered her own, she would likely say, “Why, of course, child. As though it was yesterday.” What all this could possibly mean is for you to decide.

Here is a clue: we never really forget.

Now, back to the year 2014, which was such a long time ago, however so, it remained the year I could soon forget as I am ever able to cease to exist. The name Solomon Caw would not ring any bells to you. That is because the twenty-first century had no Solomon Caw but they did have a Woo Jiho, which in my very humble opinion, was not so different at all. Except in appearance, of course. Nobody could ever look exactly the same as their past selves; reincarnations give no gimmicks.

As Woo Jiho, I was trouble prone and had a thing for music. Oh, I was a talent despite the public’s hateful opinion. They were behind the time, and here I am, still living through the centuries with different aliases and in different forms. The twenty-first century edged on my vision, even to this day, for it was the only century where Peter and Wendy ever— all right, then, no spoilers.

Intriguing isn’t it? How those who were gifted with the ability to recall were like magnets. Trouble-magnets. Excluding myself, take little Choi Junhee for Exhibit A (I’d gladly make myself Exhibit B). I stumbled into questionable issues that trembled the ground beneath my feet, for I once was Solomon Caw and I too could remember—exactly the way our Juniel did, only so much more vivid.

We aren’t bad people, my fellow friends—bad things find us attractive, that is all.

That day, as I and my reincarnated crew got out of the elevator, the members were having unrestrained conversations, however, I instantly caught a whiff of something familiar.

Peter’s little Wendy.

There she was, soaked and wet, huddled on the torn leather sofa, arms around herself as she stared at nothing. Ran into another trouble again, I supposed.

I caught her in the corner of my eye as we slipped past the unused lobby. I sensed that little moronic reincarnation of Peter somewhere nearby. Oh. There he was at the other end of the corridor conversing with a human girl who was once a dung beetle.

A hum coursed through me, and absently, I snapped my fingers. A muffled thunk rang from where the little soaked Wendy was.

The malfunctioning Vending Machine.

I wonder what she would do with my little gift.

“Jiho, what are we doing here?” complained U-Kwon. “We don’t even have a stage today.”

I ignored him.

“Surveying,” Kyung answered anyway. I rolled my eyes. U-Kwon had always been slow at these things; he’d never caught on. Some of the members still thought Kyung and I were mad. Aside from P.O and Taeil, the other reincarnations originated from a different time.

Taeil was a converted Smee, surprisingly. He remembered being Smee and he remembered having thrown that ticking clock down P.O’s throat. He regretted it very much, now that he had left Hook’s side. Luckily, P.O never recalled being a vengeful crocodile, and we were quite content to keep him in the dark. Kyung had been a boy who remembered his bird days—Exhibit C. He may look grown up now, but having been around me almost all his life, he understood enough to stop understanding anything at all.

Quite paradoxical, yes, but very helpful when you are born a human.

So, have you ever wondered why Block B got into a lot of trouble? Well, I hope our little discussion was of any use. We have three reincarnations who remembered their bird days—I (Woo Jiho), Kyung and Taeil—of course the Law of Attraction would specially favour us.

But let’s get back to our love story of the century. I am quite already bored with myself.

The trail…

(we are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men…) Zelo absently sang dully in his head. He had two options. The water trail splitted into two paths. One was a long way towards the right, the other was straight forward, into another corridor. (leaning together, headpiece filled with straw. alas…)

The right trail unquestionably would lead him to the lobby which he was sure would not give him what he needed. (our dried voices, when, we whisper together, are quiet and meaningless…) What he so needed was to figure out what kind of joke this was, and who thought it would be funny to play tricks on him. Or was it just a kind act? He would not know until he acquired more clues.

(as wind in dry grass, or rats’ feet over broken glass…) Straightening himself, he took the path towards the other hallway. He walked quickly, each steps more urgent than the last, his eyes constantly glued to the ground and as he swerved right, a mop collided with his foot. (In our dry cellar…)

His head snapped up.

An old wrinkly janitor looked up at him.

His insides boiled.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

The janitor blinked at his hostility.