I didn’t have that dream today.

The empty dawn that I had woken into had yet to pass.

3 a.m.

In the dark room, I thought about you.

The time we shared unfolded in my mind effortlessly, as vividly as if it were happening right in front of me.

It felt strange.

I thought of you every time.

Lee Chun-hee — the only name I could ever call you by.

Most nights, without fail, I dreamed of the shore.

You telling me not to go.

Me telling you that I couldn’t stay.

Sometimes in those dreams, I would give in, too.

I would tell you that we should stay like that forever.

You would smile.

Somehow, that was enough to make everything better.

Whenever I thought of you, time moved both too quickly and too slowly.

But in the end, it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that I wasn’t just letting time slip by; I was spending it thinking of you.

I was spending it thinking of you.

A shadow fell across the solitary cell.

“Inmate 436. Up. Step forward.”

I was not sentenced for a death that occurred in the line of duty; I was sentenced for something beyond that.

There was no room for excuses.

I had no intention of making any.

Although they said they took my position as a police officer into account, they stripped me of my title without hesitation.

It didn’t matter.

I had never planned to stay in the force anyway.

The only thing left was the truth behind the suspicious death of the chief — a truth I never fully uncovered.

Still, I believed.

I believed that he had never abandoned me.

Just as I had concealed my identity and infiltrated the Mia faction, I discovered that there were men inside the station feeding them information.

Although it was never fully uncovered, the person who called me to inform me of the chief’s “betrayal” might have been responsible.

One thing was certain: the Mia faction was behind it.

They eliminated the chief, who had started to close in on them, and at the same time they gained my trust, as I had been led to believe that he had betrayed me.

A convenient outcome.

Ultimately, the chief would never return.

I took the boss’s life in his place — a crude tribute to the chief’s death.

For that, I was imprisoned.

It took exactly one year before I was released as a model inmate.

My court-appointed lawyer told me the good news and said he would help me readjust to life in society.

He told me that there were many things I could do now.

The world had changed.

Tall apartment buildings now filled the city, and a massive stadium had been built — supposedly for the upcoming Olympics.

I read newspapers.

I listened to the radio.

I read books, learnt woodworking, and took up cooking again.

I did everything I could.

And I spoke as little as possible.

[Truth answers briefly. Falsehood argues at length.
Overcome evil with goodness, and falsehood with justice.]

As I followed the guard, I read the words scrawled on the prison walls.

I read them every day and reflected on my sins.

I had no reason to feel wronged.

I had to take responsibility for my actions.

Some might say that simply going to prison isn’t enough, but I wanted to do everything I could.

So that I could stand beside Lee Chun-hee again.

With even a little dignity.

So that you wouldn’t have to be afraid.

“Finish your preparations within the hour.”

I stepped into the communal bathroom.

On the day of your release, you can use it by yourself.

I shaved and washed thoroughly.

I had got a haircut the week before.

The inmate who cut my hair had scolded me for always cutting it too short.

“You’re still young—kids these days are growing their hair out. You should try it too.”

The phrase “kids these days” felt strangely out of place.

But when I thought about it, I realized that I was the same age as the college students — I was one of them, too!

Lee Chun-hee, who was also my age, was no different.

I wondered how you were doing.

Deep down, though, I already knew you were doing well.

You were never someone to waste time.

Not long after I was imprisoned, you came to visit me.

I didn’t see you.

I told a guard that I wouldn’t see you and that you shouldn’t come again.

I couldn’t let you keep visiting someone like me — someone who had committed a crime and ended up here.

And, for once, you listened.

You, who had never listened to a word I said before, didn’t push this time, as if you finally understood.

You didn’t come again.

But that didn’t mean you disappeared.

Last fall, you sent money to my account.

This Lunar New Year, you sent clothes — things for me to wear when I’m released.

Even though my release was still far off, you sent clothes.

With that money, you could have bought several thick winter coats for yourself and eaten proper meals every day.

I almost sent it all back.

But I couldn’t.

I wanted to keep something that had passed through your hands, anything.

The money I earned here with my thin, worn hands felt too precious to spend, so I saved every penny.

I folded the clothes neatly.

Sometimes, I would take them out and run my hands over them.

I received only one letter.

A poem you had written.

I didn’t understand it all, but I liked it.

Because it was yours.

I read it every day until the creases were on the verge of tearing it apart.

Someone who was learning woodworking offered to laminate it, saying that this would prevent it from crumpling.

However, they warned that the ink might fade, so I refused.

That letter was all I had.

It was my only possession.

I took it with me.

I put on the clothes you had sent me, and before leaving, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror.

I looked unfamiliar.

I looked away almost at once and kept walking.

Without thinking, I ran a hand over the rough stubble at the back of my head.

I followed the guards.

As we passed the rows of dark cells, a few familiar faces watched us from the narrow openings in the walls.

I only nodded to the guard who had cut my hair.

A sign hung along the corridor: No talking while moving.

Even without it, I had nothing to say.

We passed through several iron gates and stepped outside.

I lifted my gaze to the sky.

Beyond the grey prison walls, it stretched endlessly and looked no different to the sky above the yard.

Time must have passed in the same way for Lee Chun-hee.

And yet it didn’t feel real.

It felt just like the day we said goodbye, not knowing when we would meet again.

March.

The cold of winter still lingered; the wind was still sharp, and the buds were still tightly closed.

The heavy iron gate opened before me.

Not far away, someone stood alone.

My only poem.

My only home.

“Lee Chun-hee.”

Simply hearing your name made my chest tighten.

You, who entered my life alongside despair, became the reason I kept going.

Even now, I still can’t quite believe it.

Spring and flowers could never bring me the kind of joy that you do.

I opened my eyes.

And there you were.

And that was everything to me.