1
Again, Seventeen Years Old (1)
I was addicted to printed words, no, to “fiction.”
Ever since I could remember, I was often found clutching a picture book or sitting in front of the TV.
As I grew older, it became novels, comics, dramas, movies...
If it was a story, I devoured it without discrimination.
Reality alone could never satisfy me, so I was always wandering in search of something from the world of imagination.
Like most children like that, I was also passionate about creating “my own stories.”
“...Yujin, didn’t you say you used to sell the things you wrote to your friends when you were little? Wasn’t it five
hundred won per story?”
“Five hundred? Isn’t five hundred won a lot of money?”
“Fifty cents. It was fifty cents.”
My two best friends, Ned and Adele, were sitting beside my bed, taking turns talking.
Just having the two of them in the hospital room made it feel much more lively.
“I stopped selling them for money after a teacher caught me and gave me a serious scolding.”
Although the body lying on the hospital bed could not move even an inch, my mind once again drifted back into memories
of the past.
“When I was in middle school, I even ambitiously started serializing my work online.”
I remembered how, after immigrating to the United States, my confidence had completely disappeared because of my poor
English skills.
Even so.
My passion for “fiction” continued after immigrating to America, throughout my high school and college years when I
wandered aimlessly.
And eventually—
“I ended up joining an American publishing house, almost as if it were fate.”
It was a small company, so the pay was low, but editorial work suited me well and I enjoyed it.
Being able to read new and interesting manuscripts every day, and even get paid for it!
Working together with authors to improve the quality of their manuscripts was also something I found joyful and
rewarding.
Naturally, my editorial skills became recognized, and I steadily rose through the ranks until I became a renowned editor
at a major New York publishing house, responsible for popular titles.
“Do you remember that, Yujin? Your editor-in-chief nearly fainted when he saw the manuscript you wrote.”
“Pfft. Ned, you said you were there too, didn’t you? Was it during the meeting for your next work?”
“Yeah. Seeing that picky old man look so shocked that his eyes almost popped out...”
Ned had been my best friend since high school and was a promising graphic novel writer.
If it had not been for this guy’s advice, I might never have shown my manuscript to the world.
“Even now, it gives me chills. It sold like hotcakes the moment it was published. It was an absolute smash—”
“No, no. ‘Smash’ isn’t enough to describe it. It was a cultural phenomenon.”
At that, Adele, who worked as a high school teacher, swept her straight hair back and spoke.
“That’s true. It got to the point where all the students at our school were talking about your book. Even the ones who
hated books like the plague...”
The two of them were enthusiastically talking about my first work, which had become a bestseller.
“It wasn’t just an ordinary bestseller, either.”
It became a guaranteed New York Times bestseller immediately upon publication.
Number one on Amazon for ten consecutive weeks.
Published in translation in thirty-seven countries, with Warner Bros. adapting it into a film.
Named Book of the Year by Time Magazine, People, and Vanity Fair...
“I still remember the headline saying, ‘Korean-American rookie novelist Kwon Yujin wins the World Fantasy Literature
Award.’”
My debut novel, The Forgotten Saints.
The book became enormously popular throughout the United States.
Eventually, it even achieved the astonishing feat of becoming the number one bestseller in the entire world.
But...
“I’m going to check the patient’s blood pressure for a moment.”
Knock, knock—
A nurse entered after knocking and rolled up my sleeve.
The arm that had not moved even once in the past year was covered with needle marks.
“...”
Even if I wanted to give a bitter smile, I could not.
I had only briefly enjoyed achieving my long-cherished dream of becoming a novelist.
About three months after my book was published, one day—
“You have locked-in syndrome.”
At just thirty-four years old, I had collapsed from a stroke and become unable to get out of bed.
“The connection between the brain and the muscles of the body has been severed, leaving the limbs paralyzed, but
sensation and thought remain normal.”
I could feel and think everything, but I could neither move nor speak.
“Your alcohol and smoking habits are factors, but it also appears that you have a family history of aneurysms.”
It was no different from being imprisoned in a prison from which I could never escape, with my entire body restrained.
...The only thing I could move was my eyes.
For a while, I lived in despair and disappointment.
Whenever I reached a moment when I wanted to surrender to the pain of my worsening illness, day after day—
“I want to write my next novel. A new story.”
My intense desire to create held on to me.
Perhaps it was because, trapped inside an immobile body, I wanted my mind to remain free in a world of imagination.
Above all—
“I’ve only just tasted the sweet success of my first novel, haven’t I?”
Even though that first novel had become the number one bestseller in the world.
I was still hungry.
The desire to create a new story, to see those words shine in the world and watch readers become passionate about them—
“That was the most primal desire of all my desires.”
But my body was incapable of doing so.
So I lay in my hospital bed and made the fullest possible use of my brain.
The countless manuscripts and novels I had read during nearly ten years of working as an editor.
The contents of books spanning every genre, including even practical books and comics—
“I made folders in my mind.”
I organized everything one by one according to category.
...I knew very well that all of it would become references that could breathe life into my own stories.
With the rest of my time, I came up with new stories or wrote them in my head.
“Like gathering materials and building a sturdy house.”
I formed each sentence one by one.
Then I memorized the entire story from beginning to end.
It was extremely slow and inefficient—
But it was actually a good method for improving the quality of the story.
“And perhaps this act, which might seem meaningless to someone else...”
In the end, it seemed to be what had kept my mind intact until now.
Writing was my survival strategy and the only way I could desperately keep myself together...
“Mr. Yujin, is there anywhere on your body where you can feel sensation?”
The nurse’s sudden question brought me back to reality.
“...”
I slowly moved my eyes to the left, and the “No” lamp lit up.
“All right, I understand. Call us immediately if anything happens.”
After the nurse left, an awkward silence settled over the room for a moment.
“Oh, right. Did I tell you about Allen?”
Ned brought up a new topic with a smile.
“He’s the senior person in charge at Vertigo’s label, and apparently he’s a huge fan of yours, Yujin. Oh, and Vertigo is
making a huge fuss because there are rumors that they’re going independent from DC—”
“Oh, Ned, enough! Stop talking about the industry for a while. Anyway, Yujin, you said Chloe came to visit last week,
right?”
Adele cut Ned off and gave me news about my stepmother and younger sister.
Kate, who had continued to take care of me in every way even after my father passed away.
My younger sister Chloe, who had followed me faithfully ever since we were children...
Perhaps my life really was blessed, simply because I had so many wonderful people by my side.
And a little while later.
When the nurse told them that visiting hours were over, the two of them reluctantly got up from their seats.
“We’ll come again next month, Yujin.”
“Take good care of yourself, okay?”
After the two of them left, silence descended upon the hospital room.
The only sound was the beeping of the machine informing me that my heart was still beating properly.
“My eyesight is getting worse.”
The smell of alcohol lingering in the air.
The dull ache I could faintly feel as the effects of the painkillers began to wear off.
...And even more overwhelming than that was the terrible loneliness.
The anxiety that it would not be strange if I died at any moment.
I desperately pretended not to notice those negative emotions as I stared up at the blurry ceiling of the hospital room.
That night, or rather, early the next morning.
I had dozed off when my eyes opened on their own from a horrifying pain.
“Ugh.”
Although I had grown accustomed to pain, this time was different.
For a moment, it felt as though my entire body was being crushed beneath an enormous gravitational force, and I could
not breathe.
“Is this... is this what death feels like?”
Inside the dim hospital room illuminated by the emergency lights.
I desperately struggled to escape death.
“Yujin, what do you want to do once you recover?”
The words my friends had once asked me echoed through my mind.
What did I want to do?
“I want to live a complete life.”
I wanted to move however I pleased and go wherever I wanted.
I wanted to run down the streets until I was out of breath.
I wanted to eat at the company cafeteria I had grown sick of.
I wanted to ride a commuter subway packed with people.
More than anything—
“I want to write. I want to write.”
The countless stories overflowing inside me.
The countless stories I had thought of while lying in bed for a year—
“I have to tell them to someone.”
...Because a story only gains its true value when it reaches someone’s ears.
Contrary to my desperate wish, the suffocating pain grew even stronger—
“...!”
As if I were trapped inside an enormous bell.
At the same time my consciousness sank into the deepest depths, a heavy realization came over me.
“Ah, now...”
This is the end.
Just as I was about to resign myself to it—
“According to the contract, the miracle will now be realized...”
A voice sounded inside my head, and a blinding white light burst forth before my eyes.
“...Yujin, Kwon Yujin. Wake up!”
The Korean language I had dreamed of hearing.
And more than that, my father’s deep voice, which I had thought I would never hear again, reached my ears.
“Is your head okay? Look over here.”
While my head rang painfully—
All five of my senses faintly began to perceive my surroundings.
The dry air against my skin.
The intense sunlight of Iowa pouring down from above.
Even the endless landscape of cornfields.
“...Father.”
I had returned to one summer day when I was seventeen years old.