Yoochun arrived at home after another week's worth of hard work. Never in his life had he thought that life away from TVXQ and all the hectic schedules would be difficult, but apparently, he was wrong. This was harder. He did not have his brothers to lean on for support nor to share the burdens with.

Once in a while, he'd caught his thoughts drifting... How much harder was a soloist's life to that of an idol group member's?

He shook his head. Now was not the time to be thinking of it! He was home for the weekend. It would be best to spend the weekend well and rest up. Another week loomed in the horizon.

With a sigh, he walked into the kitchen, hoping to find something filling among the cupboards or the fridge. He flicked on the light as he entered and a strange box immediately caught his attention.

It sat on the table with his name scrawled on it--in his grandfather's handwriting. Beside his name, there was a sticky note, this time in his younger brother's penmanship.

He plucked the note and quickly read it. The box was for him, from his grandfather.

Simply looking at it, tears began to form in his eyes. He took the box, just a little bit bigger than your average shoe box, and brought it into his room. At least there, he could cry all he wanted, if he needed to, without having to worry about someone barging in on his precious moment. Just because his brother was out did not mean that he would be left alone for the rest of the day by other people.

With shaky hands, he lifted the lid to see its contents. It wasn't filled to the brim, but it wasn't sparsely filled either.

The first thing he took was a long, thin object wrapped in a thick, soft, brown fabric with a string around it. He tugged at the string and the cloth fell away, revealing its precious content--an intricately designed fountain pen.

It was the one he wrote in his journal with, he thought.

He wrapped it up again, unable to believe that the prized pen that his grandfather had written countless words with was in his hands. 

I'll do my best with it. I'll write my most heartfelt songs with it, he promised.

He drew another object. This time, a small, metallic box about two inches by two inches. On its aged cover, there, engraved, was a stag with intricate horns. Inside lay a compass, one which he used to play with all the time when he was younger, pretending to be a huntsman or an outdoorsman.

No matter where he ended up, once he'd learned how to read it, he was always able to find his way home again.

Home.

That word echoed inside his head and in his heart.

There's no place like home. 

He reached in and pulled out a small object wrapped in a handkerchief.

This object puzzled him. It was quite heavy for such a tiny object and it was oblong, with little bumps on the side.

Warily, he unwrapped it, and it turned out to be a Swiss army pocket knife. He wondered what his grandfather did with a pocket knife, but then again, he did have a compass which is practically useless when you live in a city... Then again, Seoul wasn't exactly anything like it is today all those years ago. Maybe he did need it then.

Exactly three things were left in the box: a shiny, metallic thing, a leather bound book whose title he could not make out because it had faded over time, and an object wrapped in a scarlet silk cloth.

Among these things, the first thing he drew was the shiny metallic thing.

A curious object it was, and it turned out to be a lighter. If arranged properly, it could also become a make-shift flashlight. Though the body was of metal, when he turned it on (despite its age, it still let out a few flames), it did not heat up as he'd originally thought it would.

Perhaps its one of his tinkerings, he thought. He'd seen far more curious objects at his grandfather's house, more than half of which ended up becoming decorations than anything really useful, as he'd originally intended.

He set it aside with the others and reached for the book. He opened it to the first page and immediately recognized what it was. This was the book that had kept his grandfather company in the last years of his life, just a few older copies of it had accompanied him throughout his life. A smaller one had kept his grandfather company, kept him hoping and loving when he was serving in the army during the Korean war.

It struck a few chords with Yoochun himself. It was a book that, too, kept him sane, kept him hoping against all odds and kept him looking forward when events in his life simply screamed at him to give up, shut himself in a hole and die.

Why? Because it was the book that contained the message of hope, the message of love.

He wiped his tears, worried that his tears would ruin the precious book because now, it was no longer just a book that gave him love and hope. Now, it was a book of his memories, of his joys and pains.

Before this, he'd already considered the book dear, like a favorite toy, a source of comfort. But today, holding the copy of his grandfather's in his hands, it had become something of an heirloom, far more precious than a diamond.

Perhaps the world would not see it the way he does, because to the world, it was just another book. Nothing more than pieces of paper with printed words bound together by a leather cover...

But aren't memories and sentiments what make objects priceless in our eyes? Aren't they, in the end, what make diamonds and gold nothing more than commodities of trade?

It was something he would forever treasure. 

Last. The last thing that lay in the box was the object wrapped in scarlet silk. It was heavy, much like the knife, but felt more compact, sleek, round.

The silken cloth was not tied, it was simply wrapped, but wrapped well that its precious content would not slip out and fall.

He unwrapped it and there, in his hands, lay a pocket watch. Its glass had a tiny crack,and it bore tiny scratches on its surface, testaments of its years of faithful service.

He wound it up, knowing that that was all it took to bring it back to life. After a few winds, it began ticking back to life. As he watched the seconds hand tick, following the rhythm of the clockwork inside of it, tears began to flow freely from his eyes. Memories flooded back to him. They were not only of his grandfather, but also of his parents, his younger brother, his groupmates Jaejoong, Junsu, Yunho and Changmin.

Memories as a child, as a trainee, as a young man facing the world for the first time. The feelings of torment, anguish and loss whenever he felt down as well as feelings of joy and thankfulness. Yes, he was away from them, but that did  not mean they no longer mattered. He was eternally grateful to the man that had put them together as a team, as a family. And even if it was just for a brief period, what he got from those times were precious memories never meant to be forgotten nor locked away.

Yes, it hurt. A lot. But people sacrifice so much more in the search of happiness and fulfillment that may never come, yet he had gained it for the price of a few emotional scars.

As he sat there, gazing at the few things, few precious things, that his grandfather had left him, he realized that for a few more scars, a few more painful times and a couple more sad memories that he would-and could-humbly endure, he could gain more happiness.

He realized that that was probably what Paul had felt in his ministries. For a greater cause, to be able to spread love and hope, pain was a worthy price. At least he'd have lived for something. And living was a greater sacrifice than dying, because once you're dead, you can't do anything any more. You're just another memory; and though there's no such a thing as a memory that's okay to forget, memories can fade and they can be forgotten.

But a life well lived, a life that had given, cannot easily be. It is like footprints in the shifting sands: though they vanish when the sands shift, you know they were there because you felt it, and they gave you much more than what you'd expect a stranger to give. It was a gift akin to the gift of life, one not easily attained.

Placing the objects back into the box, Yoochun's hope was renewed. He'd see his brothers again, he'd perform with them again. That, he knew for certain because they were brothers. And the things in the box? They were more than just trinkets; they were his grandfather's gift, his reminders and his advice.

He needed the pen to write his memories with, to store them away in ink, so that he could always go back to them if he needed to. The compass--to find his way back whenever he got lost, be it reality or fantasy, just as how he had recently lost himself in a forest of shadows. The knife was to cut through the lies, no matter how thick, so he could find the truth again. It was after all, the only thing that can really set you free. The lighter-flashlight was to give him light, his own tiny beacon of hope whenever he felt like there was no hope. The watch, to help him remember that he only had so much time: he should not waste it by burying himself in self-pity nor allowing others to pull him down! Time was given to him to prove that he could stand back up.

Then, there was the book. The book was to help him make sense of it all, to help him see what truly matters and what does not, for it only speaks the truth, but only to those who are willing to listen. Because it merely whispers. Its message, so that it may be easily carried on the wind is light, but powerful.

Tomorrow is another day, and it would be the day he began changing the narration of his life.

Because I have in my hands a message, no, the message of life, I must live it out and show everyone that there's such a thing. I want to be, and I will be, a life that will shine the light for them, he thought resolutely.

Last, but not least, there was the box which represented his life. Though he had yet to realize it, the things that had been placed in it were things that symbolized the things that he had just placed in his heart: hope, love and life.