SEOUL Meantime, in the haze of Seoul’s early spring, the classroom pulsed with a quiet rhythm, a hum of expectation filling the air.
Kim Nari, not much older than her students but carrying the aura of someone who had already achieved peace, stood by the projector.
The light from the screen cast a halo around her silhouette, her delicate yet resolute features illuminated as though by divine design.
Nari stood confidently at the front of the class, trying to hide a shyness that had always bothered her.
The screen flickered, and Salvador Dalí’s surreal dreamscapes emerged, the colors and forms vibrant yet unsettling, like memories dredged from the depths of the subconscious.
The students sat in neat rows, their faces were a mosaic of curiosity and awe.
Kim Nari’s voice, delicate but commanding, wove through the students like a spell.
‘Dalí,’ she continued, her eyes glinting with the fervor of someone who had stared into something singular, ‘was one of the most eccentric artists of his time.
He was a narcissist, a megalomaniac, always desperate for attention.’ Her words hung in the air, not as criticism, but as an invitation to step closer to the man who painted clocks melting like forgotten dreams under a scalding sun.
She paced the room, the click of her heels against the polished floor seemed a metronome to her storytelling.
‘His critics,’ she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘said his eccentricities were more striking than his art.
But look at this…’ She clicked to the next slide, a parade of Dalí’s peculiar visions filling the room.
‘beyond his character, Dalí was a true genius.
You could look at his paintings and constantly discover something new¨.
The students leaned forward, the weight of her words pulling them closer to the strange and wonderful worlds on the screen.
‘Dalí wasn’t just an artist,’ Nari explained, her voice rising with enthusiasm.
‘He explored the dream world as few painters have done throughout history.
Remember that Dalí was a contemporary of Freud, and the world of dreams made a significant appearance at this time in all fields, not only in psychology but also in art, literature…Every detail in his paintings was meant to provoke, to make you think, to pull you into a different reality.’ She pointed out hidden details in the paintings, a tiger leaping from a fish, a clock draped over the edge of nothingness, and the students nodded, their minds beginning to drift into Dalí’s kaleidoscopic reality.
The clock on the wall ticked, unnoticed by all but Kim Nari, who saw the time and let out a small sigh, tinged with regret.
‘It’s getting late,’ she said, her voice softening, pulling the students back from the surreal into the mundane.
‘For the next class, I want you to choose a painting by Dalí—just one.
Look at it, and let it speak to you.
Don’t read the critics.
Don’t worry about being right or wrong.
Just let yourself…
go.’ A murmur of excitement rippled through the room, a warmth that broke through the chill lingering outside.
‘Thank you, Professor Kim!’ the students chimed as they gathered their belongings.
‘See you on Tuesday!’ she replied smiling.
‘And have a good week—filled with art.’ As the last student filed out, the room fell silent.
Nari began to collect her things, her movements unhurried, almost reverent.
The projector clicked off, leaving behind the ghostly afterimage of Dalí’s dreamscapes on the blank white screen.
She lingered a moment longer, standing alone in the emptied room, her eyes tracing the lines of where students had been, as though their burgeoning thoughts and dreams still hovered there, suspended like invisible threads of inspiration.
Then, with a final glance at the now-darkened projector, she left, the door closing softly behind her, the echo of her steps fading into the endless labyrinth of the university halls.
… BCN Far from Seoul’s academic corridors, in a sunlit conference room in Barcelona, Sara sat at the table, her fingers poised on the edge of a mountain of documents, the weight of generations pressing against her thirty-year-old shoulders.
Across from her, her father exuded a calm that belied the worry within, while Jan Claver, their business partner, fingered his chin as though hoping to conjure clarity from his touch.
The room was sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the warm Mediterranean light.
Papers and blueprints were spread out before them, symbols of the high-stakes world they inhabited as construction engineers.
Sara leaned forward, her brow furrowed as they discussed a potential project in Italy.
Dong-Hyun’s voice measured, cut through the stillness.
‘So, we already understand what they want.
Now we must decide whether to participate in the construction tender.’ Jan Claver leaned back, his eyes narrowing under the weight of unspoken reservations.
‘It is a very ambitious project,’ he began, each syllable heavy with caution.
‘One of us would have to be in Italy to supervise.
I see it as complicated.
We could invest months of work and still gain nothing.’ Sara’s impatience showed as she interrupted, her voice carrying the sharp edge of youthful defiance.
‘Since when are you so pessimistic?’ Jan sighed, as if burdened by the necessity of justifying his realism.
‘Pessimistic?
No.
Realistic.
Companies far larger than ours will bid.
The risk isn’t just losing the tender; it’s losing focus on other projects within our reach.
And then… who would go to Italy for a couple of years?
You?’ Sara hesitated, her tone light but challenging.
‘Why not Joel?
Once he finishes his studies?’ Jan sighed, leaning back in his chair.
‘Joel?
He still has a year of college left, and he’s planning to do a master’s in Germany after that.
Would you entrust such a massive project to a rookie?’ His tone softened slightly.
‘Even if he is my son, he’d need to gain experience first.’ Sara bit her lip, realizing her misstep.
‘You’re right.
I hadn’t thought of that.
I guess I was looking for an easy way to slip away if we did win the tender.’ Dong-Hyun’s voice, firm yet tinged with patience, broke the silence.
‘It seems we have to think this through more carefully.
Sara, prepare a development plan focusing on costs.
We’ll discuss it again in a week.’ Jan nodded in agreement.
‘That sounds reasonable.
We need to think this through.’ As the meeting wound to a close, the trio began to gather their papers, easing into a more relaxed atmosphere.
Jan reached into his notebook and pulled out two tickets, a small smile playing on his lips.
‘I have two tickets for the match on Saturday,’ he said, holding them out.
‘Joel’s not around this weekend, and I don’t feel like going alone.
Interested?’ Sara glanced at her father, who smiled approvingly.
She took the tickets with a grin.
‘Are they VIP tickets, like last time?’ Through her father, she had become a football fan, especially of Barcelona.
Since they had moved to the city—perhaps to make it their own—they took every opportunity to spend time together and go to the stadium.
Jan chuckled, shaking his head.
‘Don’t push your luck.
They’re very well located, but not in the VIP area.’ ‘Great.’ Sara exclaimed, snatching the tickets with a grin.
‘Thank you so much, Uncle Jan!’ Sara teased with a playful glint in her eye.
Jan raised an eyebrow, his expression caught between amusement and mock reproach.
‘Ah, you only call me ‘uncle’ when you want something.’ ‘That’s not true!’ Sara protested with a laugh, then added, ‘Well… maybe a little.
But don’t you think it would be odd if I called you ‘Uncle’ in front of the workers?’ Jan Claver smiled warmly.
‘I like it when you do.
But I understand—you want to appear older and more professional.’ Sara clutched the tickets.
‘Thank you, Uncle Jan!’.
Cheong Dong-Hyun, who had been watching the exchange with quiet amusement, clapped Jan on the back.
‘Joel always calls me Uncle,’ he said with a knowing grin.
… Taipei Airport In the golden aura of the airport’s VIP lounge, where soft lights cast gentle shadows on leather chairs and a buffet gleamed with the decadent offerings of indulgence, Kim Seon-woo, bent his head over the day’s urgencies.
As President of Sapiens Publishing House, his life revolved around meticulous planning that often extended far beyond the professional sphere, involving his personal life as well.
Papers lay spread before him while his voice, clipped and precise, shifted between reviewing documents and conducting conversations over the phone.
But then, a ripple disrupted the tranquil mask of his concentration.
Like a bird flitting into a small church, a girl of no more than ten years materialized before him.
Her cheeks were as round as ripe peaches, her smile impish and unwavering.
She carried two plates laden with more food than her small frame, although slightly rounded, seemed capable of consuming and, with an air of unshakable authority, deposited them to the side of his papers.
‘Korean?’ she asked, her voice clear and unceremonious.
Seon-woo, startled but intrigued, ending his call, set his phone down.
‘Yes.
How did you know?’ The girl’s eyes sparkled with mischief.
‘Because you’re handsome, and my mom is Korean.
So, I’m also half-Korean.’ ‘And the other half?’ he ventured, leaning back in his chair.
‘I’m not telling,’ she declared, tilting her head theatrically.
‘That way, I’ll look like a mysterious girl.
It’s what’s in fashion now.’ Seon-woo laughed, the sound genuine, unbidden.
It surprised him, like finding a rare book by chance.
For a moment, he returned to his papers but found himself too drawn to the girl’s audacious charm to focus.
He needed a break from work and perhaps for this very reason the little girl’s sincerity amused him even more than it would have done at any other time.
‘Looks like someone is hungry’ he remarked, watching her arrange her feast.
‘It’s because it’s free,’ she said with an emphatic nod.
‘I like to choose from everything, without limits.’ ‘I see.’ ‘Our plane is very late,’ she continued, pausing only to take a hearty bite of what appeared to be a miniature quiche.
‘So, they let us come here.
What do you think?
A nice change, right?’ ‘For you, without a doubt,’ Seon-woo said, smiling.
The girl sighed theatrically, gesturing with her fork.
‘My mother worries too much, though.
She’s always stressed.
But I told her, in the end, we’ll get where we’re going.
So why not enjoy the meantime?’ Seon-woo leaned back, studying her with newfound respect.
‘You’re right,’ he said at last.
‘But it’s not always easy to think like that.’ ‘The easiest thing is to worry about things’ she said with the gravity of someone far older.
‘Even when you don’t need to.
But then, everything ends well.
We’re taught to see the bad first, and maybe the good later.
It shouldn’t be like that.’ ‘And you, at your age,’ Seon-woo asked, leaning forward, ‘where did you learn so much wisdom?’ She considered this for a moment, then shrugged.
‘I don’t know.
From life?’ The man laughed again, a warm, unrestrained sound that seemed to lighten the air around them.
‘I hope to be like you when I grow up.’ ‘Why wait?’ she retorted, fixing him with a serious gaze.
‘How old are you?
Thirty?
Thirty-five?
You don’t realize it, but almost half your life is gone.
I saw you before I sat down—tired and stressed.
Do you want to spend the rest of it like that?’ Her candidness caught him off guard.
He chuckled, shaking his head.
‘Seneca would be proud of you.’ ‘Who’s Seneca?’ she asked, frowning.
‘An influencer?’ ‘In a way,’ Seon-woo replied, still amused.
‘You could call him an influencer of his time.
He also said that anxiety is bad for men.’ ‘You see?’ she said, triumphant.
‘This Seneca guy is wise.
I’ll look him up on the Internet.’ As she savored her meal with a contented hum, Seon-woo watched her with amusement and a touch of reverence.
There was a purity in her that felt ageless, a reminder of truths long buried under the weight of his responsibilities.
‘Are you going back to Korea?’ she asked, licking a bit of sauce from her finger.
‘Yes,’ he said, glancing at his watch.
‘In fact, I have to leave now.
It was a pleasure talking to you, Miss Wisdom.’ ‘Me too!’ she answered.
‘You’re handsome and educated.
As my grandmother says, there aren’t many men like that anymore.’ He stood and gave her an elegant bow, his belongings gathered with newfound ease.
As he walked away, his step felt lighter, his thoughts less clouded.
Behind him, the girl shrugged, turned back to her plates, and resumed her feast.
… BCN That day the streets shimmered under the afternoon sun, the kind of light that seemed to set the whole city aglow and that only in that period of the year could be fully enjoyed in Barcelona.
The skyline was a mix of modern glass structures and iconic, intricate architecture.
It was a city of constant movement, amidst all the beauty, one construction site stood like a playground of steel beams and scaffolding.
Sara emerged from a sleek office building, her silhouette sharp.
From her bag, she pulled out her phone, scrolling through an endless playlist until she found the perfect song.
With one earbud firmly in place, she approached a nearby bike rack, her fingers deftly unlocking her bicycle.
Sara, in her sharp business attire, pedaled swiftly through the vibrant streets.
She had swapped her high heels for a pair of comfortable sneakers, an everyday ritual that shift her from boardroom meetings to her element on the construction grounds.
The rhythmic cadence of Sara’s pedaling matched the heartbeat of the city, a non-frantic pace that still knew how to appreciate the sweet doing nothing.
The moment she reached the construction site, she dismounted her bike and secured it to a nearby rack, brushing off the dust as she straightened her jacket.
A construction helmet tucked under her arm, she glanced around, absorbing the scene.
The construction site was alive with activity as always—men in hard hats scurried between steel frames, machinery hummed in the background, and the rhythmic clanking of metal against metal filled the air.
The site was the skeleton of what would soon become a luxury hotel rose toward the sky, its scaffolding braced to cope the salty breeze.
Despite the intensity of the work going on around her, Sara was undeterred.
The workers paused in their tasks to greet her with nods and murmured respect.
She was the only woman in sight, but her presence commanded the space effortlessly.
‘Hi, Victor!’ Sara called out, her voice carrying across the site as she spotted the construction manager.
Victor, a burly man with weathered skin, turned to her, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
‘Boss,’ he greeted her with a respectful tone.
‘Everything’s going well, except for a small problem today.
A worker got injured, but it’s nothing serious.
We took him to the hospital, and he’s doing fine.’ Sara’s expression tightened with concern, but she quickly nodded in understanding.
‘Glad to hear it wasn’t serious,’ she replied, her eyes scanning the site.
‘We’ve been lucky this month with no major incidents.’ She walked with purpose, her sharp eyes scanning every corner, from the placement of materials to the alignment of beams.
As she and Victor discussed the day’s progress, a slight delay in the delivery of materials caught her attention.
‘They’re delaying again?’ Sara asked, irritation creeping into her voice.
The worker sighed, shaking his head.
‘Their supplier is behind schedule.
They’ve promised the rest will arrive next week.’ Sara’s lips pressed into a thin line, her mind already calculating the potential losses.
‘Let them know this is the last time we’ll tolerate delays.
If they don’t deliver on time, we’ll have problems with the final handover, and that’s not something our clients will take lightly.
The clients for this project are already…
difficult.’ He chuckled lightly, appreciating her determination.
‘Understood, boss.
I’ll make sure they get the message.’ ‘Thanks, Victor.
I don’t know what we’d do without you.’ Victor softened his face.
‘Same here, Boss.
Same here.’ As the day came to an end, Sara stood at the edge of the construction site, staring out at the horizon where the sea met the sky.
It was a breathtaking view, one that usually filled her with peace, but in the last weeks something was different.
She felt a gnawing emptiness, a sense that despite all her hard work, something was missing.
She had been putting in extra hours for weeks, and it was taking its toll.
‘If everything’s good here, I’ll leave a little earlier today,’ Sara said to Victor, forcing a smile.
‘I’ve been finishing late every day.’ He nodded, softening his gaze with concern.
‘Boss, you really need a break.
After we wrap this project, you should treat yourself to a tropical paradise or something.’ ‘A paradise in my dreams,’ she joked lightly.
‘Anyway, I’ll see you Monday.
Tomorrow I’m working in the studio, so I won’t be able to stop by.’ ‘Have a relaxed weekend,’ Victor said with a wave as Sara left the site.
… SEOUL The afternoon light filtered through the high, crystalline windows of Seoul Airport, casting shifting patterns on the polished floors.
Kim Seon-woo moved through the tide of humanity with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to slipping unnoticed through crowded spaces.
He was returning from Taipei.
His suit, impeccably tailored, shimmered faintly in the glow of the terminal’s artificial lighting.
Yet, despite his polished exterior, his eyes betrayed the faint shadows of a life wearily lived.
His face bore the harmony of a sculpture—imperfect, and thus unmistakably real, belonging wholly to this world.
His eyes—twin hollows of obsidian veiled in perpetual questioning—could seduce without effort, without even his awareness.
His nose, gentle in its proportions, gave him the air of calm assurance—an assurance that did not quite exist within him.
His lips, full and finely curved, spoke of an ineffable sadness—a sadness that softened his beauty and gave it depth.
And to counterbalance that softness, his jaw was angular, resolute—a line of quiet determination, a symbol of distance.
It held people at bay even as it drew them irresistibly closer, like a contradiction made real.
As he approached the central atrium, something caught his eye—a vibrant advertisement glowing from a digital screen that stood like a signal amidst the bustling crowd.
The screen displayed the image of a runner, frozen mid-sprint, their figure cutting through a trail that seemed to straddle two worlds: the steel and glass of an urban skyline on one side and the lush serenity of verdant mountains.
Beneath the image, bold letters stretched like a proclamation: ‘Free yourself from stress.
Run to freedom.’ Seon-woo stopped mid-stride, the endless current of travelers surging past him.
His eyes lingered on the words, thinking of what had been said a few hours before by the child at Taipei airport.
In that moment, the world around him seemed to soften, the cacophony of announcements and footsteps dissolving into the muted hum of his own thoughts.
Seon-woo’s lips curved into a thoughtful smile as he adjusted the strap of his leather briefcase.
The crowd surged onward, but he remained still.
After a lingering glance, he resumed his walk, his polished shoes clicking against the terminal’s glossy floor.
The advertisement disappeared into the crowd behind him, yet its words seemed to follow, etching itself into a corner of his mind.