Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Regression
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“Then, for our final interview question. Is there a moment in your life that you regret the most?”
The reporter asked.
The moment I regretted the most.
The reporters had probably anticipated my answer.
Declining health leading to the restaurant's closure, loss of taste buds stripping away my Michelin stars. Fraud, alcohol addiction, depression.
It was prime clickbait material. But what I truly regretted wasn't any of that.
Declining health? That was terminal lung cancer from chain-smoking after my wife died first.
Losing my sense of taste came from overwhelming stress.
The fraud and alcoholism hit when my sister died, and I wasn't in my right mind. I couldn't sleep without booze, which spiraled into depression.
Looking back, my life—Michelin three-star success and all—started crumbling after her death.
Lee Juyeon.
The name lingered bitterly on my lips, too painful to speak aloud.
“What I regret most is my wife.”
“Do you mean you regret the marriage itself?”
Is this guy insane?
I nearly swung at him but stopped. With lung cancer spread to my limbs, I could barely lift an arm.
I stifled a groan of pain and said,
“Truth is, I wasn't a good husband. After opening the restaurant, I devoted myself entirely to cooking. I skipped anniversaries for work, canceled plans with her constantly, obsessed over Michelin stars.”
Those damn Michelin stars.
Now I see it: I went mad chasing others' validation and overlooked what mattered most.
My sister was different. She followed me all the way to Europe for my studies, abandoning her own dreams.
Even now, I know I was trash. The kind of food waste that doesn't fit in recycling or regular bins.
If she'd broken up with me like the reporter suggested and married someone else, she'd have been happier.
“So, if you could meet your wife again, what would you do?”
“Meet her again...”
So much I want to do. My will alone lists a bucket list for the afterlife with her—100 items strong.
But they all hinge on item number one.
I swallowed the bitterness and said,
“I'd beg for forgiveness. And cook for her. Not restaurant scraps, but a dish made just for her.”
I even had the menu planned.
Seaweed soup and fresh kimchi—the Korean staples she always craved.
“I hope you keep that promise.”
“Huh? What the f...”
I couldn't finish. Exhaustion crashed over me, and my mind faded.
When I opened my eyes, it was twenty years ago. And my sister lay beside me.
“Does this make any sense?”
I stared blankly at the mirror. A young man in army running shorts, buzzed head—straight out of my memories.
No doubt about it: 23-year-old me. If my cheeks weren't red from pinching to test if it was a dream.
“What was that reporter's outlet again?”
I racked my brain and searched on my cracked old flip phone.
Results: [No matches found].
He was from a prestigious French media company, steeped in history. It should exist twenty years ago. But no trace, no matter how I searched.
I had to admit it.
That reporter was tied to my regression somehow.
“...No point overthinking it. That's not what matters now anyway.”
I shut the bathroom door and entered the master bedroom. Our two-room apartment. My sister slept soundly on the bed.
It was pitch black, but she stood out clearly.
Maybe because I'd longed for this reunion so desperately. Even the stray hair on her forehead was vivid.
I wanted to hold her, kiss her, pour out all the words I'd held back. But I restrained myself.
We have time. Step by step. Carefully. This life, I'll live selfishly, doing everything I want.
I tucked her blanket back in, grabbed my wallet, and slipped out. I stubbed my toe on the bookshelf but bit back the pain.
“Ow. Suck it up. Who puts a bookshelf there?”
Too long away from this place—the layout felt foreign.
I called a cab on my phone and headed to the nearest supermarket.
Back in the past, one thing to do.
Atonement with a meal just for her. Even if she doesn't remember that past.
“Good, it's open.”
I grabbed a basket and picked seaweed soup ingredients.
Dried seaweed, factory sesame oil, mediocre beef, minced garlic, cooking wine. Nowhere near restaurant quality—half of half.
Best the corner store offered, though.
I compromised with reality.
“Wanted to make fresh kimchi too, but no choice.”
Laden with bags, I tiptoed in to avoid waking her. The gas flame roared louder than usual—heart pounding.
Whoosh. Crackle.
“...She didn't wake, right?”
I pressed my ear to the door. No sounds. Safe.
I started the seaweed soup.
First, kitchen towel to blot beef blood. Soak the seaweed, heat a pot medium with sesame oil and garlic. When fragrant, add beef.
Chop-sized pieces, flipped one by one with chopsticks for perfect doneness.
Mess this up, and the soup loses flavor.
Then seaweed and water, bring to boil.
Done. Nutty sesame aroma wafted up.
“Heh. Slurp.”
Rich beef broth from long simmering. Seaweed's ocean tang, fried sweet in oil, wrapped my tongue. Salt just right—not overpowering, cutting the richness perfectly. Irresistible.
“Classic seaweed soup taste.”
Home-cooked comfort.
I hope she loves it.
I timed the rice to her wake-up. The pressure release steam would rouse her anyway.
As planned, she emerged rubbing her eyes as it finished.
“What's with the early morning racket?”
She spread her arms for a hug but froze, sniffing toward the steaming pot.
“What's that smell? Order food? It smells insane!”
She lifted the lid. Steam billowed. She swallowed hard.
“You made this?”
Her wide-eyed stare was adorable. I stole a quick kiss.
“Hey! I haven't brushed yet!”
“Sit. I'll serve.”
I ladled soup. Scooped rice, let it cool a bit. Too hot, and flavor fades or it's hard to eat.
She never handled scalding food well.
A simple meal on the empty table.
“Kinda pathetic.”
As a pro chef, I'd use caviar, truffles, premium wagyu—artistic plates galore.
This? Laughable by comparison.
No sides. Just soup.
“Pathetic? This is a feast. Looks delicious.”
She sat, then tilted her head at my empty spot.
“You not eating?”
“Not hungry.”
“Eat with me.”
She filled an extra bowl. Same as always.
If I skipped meals from laziness, she'd cook. Her skills were average, but I'd critique like a pro.
These little habits stirred nostalgia—and guilt over my past garbage behavior.
“Not my birthday. Why seaweed soup?”
“Just wanted to. And sorry. I've been neglecting you.”
“...You were in the army. What more could you do? The calls not enough?”
I stayed silent. My sins ran deeper.
The quiet stung like thorns.
She ate without a word.
“Mmm! What is this? You really made it? It's too good!”
“Good? Glad.”
“Good? Best seaweed soup ever! Best thing you've ever cooked me!”
Her eyes widened as she dug in. Humming over the carefully seared beef.
As she neared the end, I dropped the real talk.
“Sis, I'm not going abroad to study.”
“Huh?”
Her spoon paused. She wiped her mouth with the tissue I'd given and met my eyes.
“We talked about it on calls—what you'd do, what I'd do. Why the sudden change? Money issues...?”
“Not that. Just... after discharge, I thought it over. Doesn't feel right. You have your own dreams, and going means throwing away 24 years of buildup.”
Connections, aspirations, money. Our relationship too.
She didn't argue, lips pursed.
“I can cook here anyway. Gonna try that.”
“Still, studying abroad is huge for a chef...”
“I dunno, dunno, dunno.”
I plugged my ears, chanting. She glared sharply—chilling reminder of old times.
She surrendered first. Deep down, she preferred staying in Korea.
“Think it over. It's a real opportunity for a chef.”
I know.
In my past life, I went, succeeded. Michelin three stars, top five influential chefs.
My name trended on cooking channels; Korean news hailed me as national pride.
But I lost what mattered.
Even if the god of cuisine offered legendary skills for studying abroad, I'd refuse.
Cooking mastery doesn't equal happiness.
To lighten the mood, I changed topics.
“Anyway, I'm out now. Wanna trip?”
“Trip?”
“Yeah. You've been singing about camping forever. Got time and cash. How about it?”
Her eyes sparkled at "camping."
She loved wandering. Couldn't abroad—safety issues for a solo woman.
Bucket list item two: her favorite missed hobby.
“Got a spot in mind. What about here? BBQs, communal kitchen, clean bathrooms...”
She whipped out her phone, showing details. Facilities, prices—none registered.
Anywhere with her was paradise.
I just soaked in her long-missed excitement.