Left-Hand Practice and the Wheelchair Return
Next to the hospital bed, on the bedside table, a stack of scrap paper piled up like sedimentary layers. The white sheets were soaked in graphite dust, taking on a sooty sheen, and etched across them were the dense traces of lines repeated thousands, tens of thousands of times. Kyung-ho gripped a pencil clumsily in his left hand. His fingertips trembled. Commands from his brain were constantly disrupted by spasms in his wrist tendons and muscles, interfering with the proper motion. Forcing open unfamiliar neural pathways demanded far more focus and stamina. It hadn't even been that long, but his forearm muscles had already stiffened, screaming in protest, and beads of sweat gathered on every knuckle, dampening the pencil.
The door opened, and his mother entered, cradling a few apples wrapped in newspaper. She set them on the table, spread out the newspaper, and pulled out a knife to start peeling. Scrape, scrape—the unbroken curls of peel unspooling filled the silence.
"Kyung-ho, why are you drawing with your left hand? Your body's already going through enough."
His mother didn't lift her eyes from the apple as she asked. Kyung-ho kept his gaze fixed on the paper, finally managing to scratch in a single semicircle with his quivering fingertips before replying.
"To keep inflammation from building up in my right wrist, my left hand has to take some of the load. I need to be ambidextrous to boost my workflow efficiency."
"Workflow? Jeez... you planning to become some kind of artist or what?"
His mother feigned ignorance as she plated the apple slices and offered them, but she couldn't hide the worry lacing her words. She held a piece to his lips and continued cautiously.
"But Kyung-ho, about rehab... The doctor said you need to start now. You really not gonna do it?"
"Yeah. No plans to."
In this era, heading to Japan wasn't as simple as booking a flight. Liberalized overseas travel was still years away. Passports were a selective privilege doled out by the state, and employment in Japan was treated as national "manpower export"—next to impossible without special circumstances.
The visa system's a mess in this time, too.
There was no such thing as a visa for professional animators in Japan right now. At best, you'd go as a technical trainee or student, but even that often got rejected without a guarantor before the '80s, as a Japanese director who'd mentored him had once explained. And for an adult male, military service loomed as yet another iron wall atop all those barriers. Three whole years. Not building a career during that stretch was bad enough, but according to stories from seniors who'd served back then, picking up some ailment in the army was par for the course.
From a 21st-century perspective, the military was the last place anyone wanted to go.
But if he stayed paralyzed from the waist down like this?
Military exemption.
His abnormal condition might actually be a stroke of luck—the surest key to legal exit permission. Once exempt, he wouldn't need to waste money and time on uncertain rehab in Korea's backward '70s medical system; he could head straight to Japan, where advanced medicine was already available, and get treated there. Not being able to move his legs was still a shock, though.
His mother plated the peeled apple and pressed gently.
"If it's about money, don't worry. We'll figure something out. Your father... he got mad about the cost, but he still said a boy's gotta serve his duty to be a real man, so we should do the rehab."
Even in his previous life, his father had clung to that "real men serve" mindset, but it seemed the era had only hardened it further. Kyung-ho gave a wry internal smile. The army might be duty and pride to his father, but to him, it was just three years of wasted time.
"I'm a senior this year. I'll think about studying first."
The decision was set, but he could pretend to mull it over.
A few days later, on discharge day, he rode home in his father's borrowed, battered wheelchair. The alleyway, lined with red brick walls, was rutted and uneven. The wheels snagged on a stone, jolting hard; the notebook on his lap spilled to the ground and fluttered open. The exposed pages brimmed with left-hand anatomy studies and enigmatic geometric lines, crammed relentlessly into every margin.
His father, pushing from behind, stopped short. He picked up the notebook and stared piercingly at those freakishly intense practice marks. Deep furrows creased his brow.
"You been doing nothing but this crap in the hospital?"
Even in his past life, clashes with his father over drawing had been frequent. Apparently, it had been the same before he woke up in this body.
His father tossed the notebook roughly onto his lap.
"You're a senior this year. With your legs like this, get your head straight and study—don't waste energy on this useless nonsense. One more time it catches my eye, and you're done."
"...Got it."
Kyung-ho mumbled and clutched the notebook tight. His father's yelling, the stifled vibe of 1978—it was all just another mountain to climb. If he could just draw well, everything would fall into place. Why were there so many distractions?
The next morning, with his mother's help, he donned his school uniform. The stiffly starched collar chafed his neck, but it didn't feel bad. He wheeled out the front door. The 1978 morning air—thick with exhaust and coal briquette ash—seared deep into his lungs. He flung open the creaky tin gate and rolled slowly out. Sulfurous fumes rose from briquette ash piles at every corner. A tofu vendor's bell clanged in the distance, slicing the quiet dawn.
A landscape his original early-21st-century body had never known. Yet this body's retinas took in the crude hues of the alley with utter familiarity. It felt like stepping onto a movie set shot on grainy film, but there was no time to dwell. School start times weren't any kinder in 1978.
Thankfully, the school was on flat ground. After five minutes of wheeling, the weathered iron gate appeared.
Jungang High School.
Peeling paint exposed rusty frames screaming in protest. In the center of the playground, the assembly platform and a staticky anthem from the speakers. Students stood in rigid, ruler-straight lines. He veered around the stiff formation toward the classroom. The hallway floor creaked underfoot—or wheel. Walls plastered with posters blaring slogans like "Torch Against Communism."
Pushing open the classroom door drew dozens of stares. Each bump over the threshold vibrated up his spine to his brain. Whispers rose, but he brushed them off. Ignoring stares was both his flaw and his strength.
The homeroom teacher, closing the attendance book on the podium, gave him a quick once-over.
"How's the leg."
Perfunctory tone. Mechanical, like he couldn't care less.
"Fine."
"Good. Take care. Don't get hurt again. You all hear that? Look out for Kyung-ho."
That was it. The teacher's gaze had already drifted past the wheelchair, out the window.
Tch.
He clicked his tongue inwardly. Classrooms in this era were less schools than massive holding pens. No way his rehab-stingy father had slipped an envelope here. His mother, maybe.
"Over here, over here."
Confused about his seat, he heard a chubby, buzz-cut kid at the back shove a chair aside and wave. Han Seung-gyu. Seeing the guy—much like his memories, just with a shorter crop—drew a chuckle.
"Kyung-ho, figured ya'd have a tough time gettin' in, so I switched seats on my own."
"Yeah, thanks."
Seung-gyu eyed him oddly at the casual reply, then slapped his chest and sidled up once the teacher left.
"Man, ya really okay? Ya voice got no bite! Oh, right—didja bring my notebook? Ya said just once, so I lent it, but ya skip school, whaddya want me to do? Got chewed out 'cause of ya homework! Buy me some tteokbokki later."
This blabbering pig of a guy had been the same in his past life—starting their first meeting in this one with the notebook loan and ending on tteokbokki demands. The nostalgic familiarity even tugged at him; he snorted a laugh.
"...Yeah, I'll buy. Was out of it."
Seung-gyu's face turned serious at the easy agreement.
"Ya actin' weird today. Ya givin' in on tteokbokki so quick makes me nervous. Ya legs hurt bad?"
"Uh, well..."
As he started to reply, the front door banged open. Classroom noise vanished instantly. Three male students, uniform buttons undone, sneakers dragging. Malice gleamed in their eyes. Delinquents he'd seen in his past life.
Seung-gyu muttered a curse.
"Damn punks comin' again."
"Hey."
One delinquent approached another student, kicked his desk. Then picked fights here and there, heading their way and tapping Kyung-ho's wheelchair handles with his palm. They were always like this, but today they fixated on the chair.
"What's with this punk?"
They snickered, crowding his desk. Suddenly, the wheelchair yanked back, snagging on the desk; notebooks tumbled out onto the floor.
"Fun ridin' this? I'd be too embarrassed to show up."
Then a booming voice from the front.
"You little thugs!"
A short-haired girl—small eyes, tall frame—charged in, sleeves rolled up, stopping nose-to-nose with them.
"Get back to your class now!"
Choi Jung-hye. His body's childhood friend, the hothead who couldn't stand injustice.
"Ain't this your class?"
"Why's a girl buttin' in?"
They scoffed. Jung-hye's eyes blazed as she bellowed.
"You wanna die?!"
The room went dead silent, like ice water dumped over it.
"Son of a—"
[Jong-o, Sung-tae, Ho-jin. Report to the office immediately.]
One raised a hand to strike but dropped it at the timely PA call, kicking the back door open and storming out. Another followed, glaring at Jung-hye.
"Tch, annoying bitch. See ya next time."
Once gone, Jung-hye asked worriedly.
"Kyung-ho, you okay?"
He just looked at her. Sun-tanned skin, steely gaze. Memory's version was softer, more feminine; this life's seemed tougher.
"Hey, why butt in."
"You kidding? How could I not? Anyway, your legs??"
Seung-gyu finally piped up. "Oh yeah! Ya legs really okay?"
"Uh, they say it's gonna be hard to walk."
"For real? What now, Kyung-ho..."
"Aigoo, Kyung-ho, ya can't study and now ya legs—whatcha gonna do."
"Hey, pig, watch your mouth! Wanna die?"
Their bickering drew an unwitting smirk from him. The bell rang; math teacher entered. White-haired elder with thick glasses, chalk gripped firm.
"Textbook page 32."
He layered his notebook over the book, pencil in hand. Past life, he'd buckled down on studies to please his parents; not this time. First, quick sketch of teacher's profile to check form. Not bad, but far from his old self. Again. Again. Horizontal lines, circles—stimulating underdeveloped fine motor nerves.
Seung-gyu peeked, whispering low.
"Man, since when ya draw this good?"
"Always could."
"Who don't know ya draw good? Better than manga at the parlor—that's why I'm sayin'!"
Even by era standards, it was lacking, but not to Seung-gyu. His fuss drew the guy opposite peeking too, getting them both scolded by the teacher before he refocused.
That day was all croquis. Improving from first to second period, second to third—he couldn't stop. Lost in it, his right middle finger throbbed. Red and swollen. No matter. Switch to left. Wrists were expendable. As he'd told Mom: long game meant mastering both hands. Not easy, but do till it works.
Pencil to left. Final bell rang.
He flipped slowly through the notebook. Amid full pages of lines and circles, the teacher's portraits sharpened progressively, etched clear.