Jin Rak sat alone that night, watching the firelight dance across the rough stone walls of the cave.
The air smelled of smoke and damp earth, the kind of scent that clings to clothes and skin.
He didn't mind it. It reminded him that he was alive.
Beside him, Seo-ah was fast asleep, curled into herself like a kitten, lost under blankets far too big for her little body.
Her breathing was soft, steady. Peaceful.
He stared into the fire for a long while.
The flames crackled gently, a rhythm he knew too well.
It sounded like rain.
And rain…
Rain reminded him of a window.
Of a hospital bed.
Of a body that never worked the way it should have.
****
Flashback to a raining day– Seoul, 1968
The memory drifted in like morning fog.
It wasn't sudden. It never was.
It just… crept in. Quiet. Inevitable.
He had been six years old.
A skinny little boy with too-big shoes and a pencil case full of cartoon stickers.
He remembered that day clearly.
Sitting near the window in a bright classroom, sunlight pouring in.
The teacher was writing on the board. Something simple. Multiplication tables.
He had always been quick with numbers.
He shot his hand up, heart pounding with pride.
But the second he stood—
The world shifted.
His knees gave out.
His head spun.
The room tilted sideways.
And then the cold, hard kiss of tile on his cheek.
He didn't remember the pain.
Just the way the floor felt against his face.
And the sound of the teacher screaming his name.
****
Days Later at a public hospitals at the centre of Seoul.
They told his parents it was probably just fainting.
Kids faint sometimes. It happens.
But it didn't stop.
The falling. The weakness. The strange heaviness in his limbs.
More tests followed.
More doctors with clipboards and serious eyes.
And then… the word.
Degenerative.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he saw his mother's face fall.
He saw the way his father clenched his fists when he thought no one was looking.
And even at six… he knew.
Something was wrong.
Not something you could just wait out.
Not something a few pills could fix.
Something deeply, permanently wrong.
****
At age of 7 they finally gave it a name.
It was long and impossible to pronounce. Latin, maybe.
It didn't matter.
What mattered was what it meant:
He would never run again.
Never play tag in the schoolyard.
Never race through the hallways like the other boys.
His muscles were wasting away.
Slowly. Quietly.
One year at a time.
Eventually, walking would be hard.
Then impossible.
Even breathing would become a battle.
He wasn't a boy anymore.
Not in the way the others were.
He had become something fragile.
Like glass.
Like a bird with broken wings.
****
Years passed, depts accumulated, no changes.
But still… they never gave up on him.
His mother came every morning. Always smiling, always humming that same lullaby from when he was a baby.
She brought warm rice porridge in a little thermos with his name written on the side.
His father came every night after work, tired but cheerful, carrying comic books and terrible jokes.
They taped paper stars to the ceiling above his bed so he could fall asleep under a sky, even if it was fake.
They never cried in front of him.
But sometimes, at night, when the hallway lights were dimmed and he pretended to sleep…
He heard them whispering.
"How are we going to afford this…?"
"He needs that treatment, Hye-jin. We can't wait."
"I'll sell the car. It's fine. I can take the bus."
"Maybe we can move into a smaller apartment…"
He never said a word.
Just laid there, eyes closed, heart aching.
He knew.
And in some strange way, that made him love them even more. Only tears could fall from his eyes, the pain of his parents suffering because of him.
****
At the age of 10, death struck... Not at him but his parents.
It rained that morning.
The kind of rain that fell sideways. The kind that soaked through shoes and coats no matter how fast you ran.
He waited by the door of his hospital room, tray of untouched food on the table beside him.
He kept glancing at the clock.
They were late.
They were never late.
The cartoons ended.
The porridge got cold.
Still, no one came.
And then a nurse stepped in. Her eyes were red. Her hands shook.
She opened her mouth, but he already knew.
"There was an accident, sweetheart…I'm… I'm so sorry…"
The world didn't break.
It just stopped moving.
He didn't cry. Not right away.
He just stared at the floor.
At the exact spot where his porridge had spilled. Mixed with emotions, but maybe that was the breaking point for him...
****
The next few years were… quiet.
An uncle came once with a board game.
An aunt sent a blanket with cartoon cats.
Then even that stopped.
He stayed in the hospital. Always in the same bed, by the same window.
He stopped asking questions.
Stopped expecting visitors.
Stopped hoping for birthdays.
He just smiled when nurses came in.
They were kind. They meant well.
But they weren't family.
Books became his new world.
He read everything—stories of knights, dragons, gods, demons.
He imagined holding a sword. Standing tall. Breathing deeply without pain.
But most days, he just watched it's rain through the window.
****
As years passed as his life continues being confined to the corners of the hospital room, not only growing physically but also mentally. Probably thanks to all he had been through.
He learned to be patient.
To live in silence.
The beeping of machines became background music.
He learned the difference between each alarm, each tone.
He became calm.
Even wise, in his own quiet way.
But never happy.
Not truly.
Just still.
Like a pond with no ripples.
****
Final Night – 2001, Age 39
The storm that night was loud.
Thunder shook the windows.
Lightning painted the sky in white streaks.
But he wasn't afraid.
That hospital room had become his home.
He had spent more years there than anywhere else.
He turned his head to look at the window.
Rain blurred the glass.
He could barely see the city lights outside.
His chest tightened.
This pain was different. He knew it.
He closed his eyes.
No panic.
No fight.
Just a thought—soft, quiet, and selfish.
"If there's another life…I wish I could be healthy. Just once. Just enough to walk. Even if it's only one step…"
To be continued...