Prologue

A small bookstore on one of Seoul’s many streets was filled and crammed with a wide range of people of all ages. Some of them came to buy the books, and some just to sneak a glance at the pages of the novels of their choice, not really intending to buy anything from the store. Of the staff dressed in purple uniforms, some were busy handling the endless stream of customers flowing in and out of the store. Others were busy arranging the books according to their genres or cleaning the mess some children had made in the junior fiction section.

A light breeze from the air-conditioner spread the faint scent of freshly-printed ink on crisp paper, a familiar aroma which was almost comforting to the regulars. The place was a bit smaller than everyone’s liking, but that didn’t alter the fact that it brought them reassurance in their passion for books. However, a certain young man standing alone in the sea of people, never assumed that the place would be anything like a heaven. He actually felt suffocated; as if he was in hell.

It was another solitary day for him, just like every other day he had been through. He wore a calm face even though he was inwardly feeling quite the opposite. He was standing still in between the high shelves of books, eyes scanning through each of the displayed books casually. He took out a thick, heavy book from its original place: the one that had caught his interest. But as his eyes landed on the spine of the book, reading the title silently, he soon put it back with a sigh.

He heard a small whimper. Looking at his right side, a woman was holding a pile of several books, seemingly unbalanced. He wanted to help, but decided not to when suddenly another guy came closer and volunteered to help the woman instead.

Shrugging his shoulders, he took a few steps forward. His gaze momentarily shifted back to the neatly arranged books on the shelves. He figured that he was done for the day. Spending his free time in a bookstore was not listed in his list-to-do for the day, or forever. He hated books and anything that had to do with reading to, put it simply. But he had nothing else to do, and he had nowhere else to go other than strolling around the city doing useless things.

Seconds after, he walked from aisle to aisle, looking down at his foot as he set off at a slow pace to the exit.

When he barely managed to get out of the place, there was a faint sound of a message tone coming from his phone. He fished it out from his pocket to see that someone had sent him a text message. Another three messages were left unread though, and he didn’t reply to any of them. He just didn’t care.

He continued wandering through the streets, checking out various shops and cafes. He had been to the coffee house, cinema, abandoned alleys, and he even walked around the entire mall in just a few hours for that day. His legs felt numb afterwards, but he didn’t feel troubled at all.

If someone were to see him closely and try to read his face and mind, they wouldn’t know anything. He hid his emotions behind that stoic expression of his, and he knew that was enough. Pretending to be fine was all he could do, because he knew he could do nothing to reverse the time and change everything that was supposed to be changed back then.

As he made his way to the corner of a building, his eyes caught a glimpse of a figure sitting down on small stool just a few meters away from him. It was a small figure of an old man, and he was painting something on a white canvas. Scooting closer, he then noticed that the old man had already finished painting some pictures. The canvases were put carefully against the wall of the building and most of them were actually portraits of real people, he noticed.

But as he walked closer, he noticed that the one that the old man was painting at that moment was not of a real person. He knew that for sure, because he had seen the person on the canvas before. The same sad yet mysterious eyes, pointy ears and face that loomed of sadness and happiness at the same time: he recognized them. Nothing had changed. His eyes blinked uncontrollably, and past thoughts began playing repeatedly in his mind, finding ways to make him realize that he was too late to change everything.

A sudden realization hit him, and he managed to gather his thoughts back. Tears were now slowly forming behind his eyes, but he told himself that he’d had enough of crying. No one should know about anything that he had been through before, and he had promised himself that he would never cry in front of anyone; not even when he was alone.

“Ahjussi?”

He called out for the old man after a few seconds of hesitation. Maybe it was finally the day to start anew; to start hoping that miracle would happen again in his life. He couldn’t do anything but hope.

The old man’s hand stopped moving. He was in the middle of finishing the last on the canvas. Taking his time, he pulled away the paintbrush, resting it casually between his wrinkled yet pointy fingers. He looked at the young man, who was now squatting beside him. The old man didn’t sense his presence before, but he didn’t feel surprised with the sudden appearance of the latter.

“Yes?”

The old man sounded so nice, as if he would do anything for the man beside him. He flashed a warm smile to the younger, as if telling him that today would turn out to be a better day for him.

“W-Where did you find this person?”

It took the old man a few minutes, but he finally answered with a smile plastered on his face.

“I found him in my dream.”

His heart momentarily stopped. He didn’t expect for such an answer. It was like deja vu, but he didn’t remember when and where he had experienced the same scene before.

“C-Can I possibly buy this portrait?” he hesitantly asked, eyes shooting directly to the canvas. The painful memories came again, and he decided not to brush them away anymore. They were too beautiful, and he was happy that the day had finally come. He finally got to meet the person he had longed to meet for a long time; even if it was just a picture of him.

The old man smiled again.

“What is your name, young man?” he asked back, and his eyes focused back on the completed portrait of a fine young man on the canvas. He dipped the paintbrush in the black paint, ready to write the receiver’s name on it.

Maybe it wasn’t wrong to hope for something that might not happen. It wasn’t wrong, as long as he had faith in it, he thought. Slowly, he smiled, but it didn’t stay long before he replied to the old man’s question.

“Byun Baekhyun.”