2
Chapter 2: I’ll Be Your Backing
The director of Happy Orphanage rose from the sofa and walked over to eight-year-old Do Min-Oh, who was sitting there. Then he crouched down and met his eyes.
“Do Min-Oh. That’s a pretty name.”
Min-Oh. It meant a brilliant jade, combining the characters for jade and intelligence.
The reason his surname was Do was because the father who had adopted and then abandoned him had that surname.
“Shall we keep calling you that? Or do you want to use a different name?”
Now that all the paperwork for the annulment had been completed, there was no real need to cling to a name filled with bad memories.
In his first life, Do Min-Oh had stubbornly insisted on keeping it.
It was because of a faint hope that he might somehow become part of that family again.
Even after realizing how meaningless that hope was, he didn’t change it.
He had simply been Do Min-Oh for too long.
Even though he understood the weight and limits of abandonment before reaching puberty, there was no need for an orphan already burdened with disadvantages to add another by changing his name.
“No. I’ll just stay Do Min-Oh.”
In his second life, the reason he chose the same name again was simple—it was familiar.
After being Do Min-Oh for over thirty years, there was no reason to abandon it and make things harder on himself.
“Alright. Then we’ll do that.”
“Yes.”
‘He suddenly seems more composed.’
Just moments ago, he had been unable to even lift his head or properly meet the director’s gaze, like a child who had just gone through the immense ordeal of being abandoned.
The reason he wasn’t crying was simply because his tears had already run dry.
Yet now, as if nothing had happened, he met the director’s eyes easily and spoke clearly.
“Director.”
He even spoke first.
“I’m really sleepy right now. Can I take a nap?”
‘Heh, what an unusual kid.’
“You must be very tired.”
“Yes.”
‘Well, he just came back from the U.S. He probably hasn’t adjusted to the time difference yet.’
The director nodded as he noticed Min-Oh’s bloodshot eyes.
‘And he must have been under so much stress.’
“Alright. Get some good rest for now. You can greet the other children later.”
Without needing to be told, the director decided to give the newly abandoned child some time alone.
“Your room might be noisy, so rest in my office today.”
He even guided Min-Oh to his private sleeping space connected to the office.
Though it was barely big enough for a bed, it was more than enough for an eight-year-old to sleep quietly.
“Thank you.”
‘Premium treatment.’
Min-Oh grinned as he walked into the room.
‘This is nice. Whether this is a dream or a miracle.’
For a thirty-three-year-old adult to suddenly become eight again was an incredible cheat.
With knowledge of the future, lessons learned, and experience, he could live an overwhelmingly successful life.
But more than that, he found this second eight-year-old life itself—something he hadn’t fully appreciated the first time—pleasant and comforting.
‘First, I need sleep.’
After working over seventy hours a week, sleep was what he needed most.
And today had been an exhausting day even for eight-year-old Do Min-Oh.
Even more than for his thirty-three-year-old self who had been diagnosed as terminally ill.
Perhaps because of that, the moment he lay down on the director’s bed, he fell into a deep sleep.
The fatigue of his eight-year-old self, who had endured the stress of abandonment while clinging to false hope, and the exhaustion and regret of his thirty-three-year-old self, who had worked like a dog for ten years only to be discarded and given a death sentence, finally washed away completely.
‘This is good.’
Even in his sleep, the corners of his lips curled up as he welcomed his second life at eight.
Because he could sleep as much as he wanted.
Because he didn’t need to earn money.
And most of all, because he no longer had to live like he did in his first life.
‘Even if this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up in pain…’
At thirty-three, he hadn’t had time to sleep properly, and his body had been too broken to even rest.
He had simply endured because he had lived a life built on endurance from beginning to end.
But even he couldn’t endure the complications of leukemia.
The reason he had been calm about his terminal diagnosis was because it meant the end of that painful life.
It also meant he no longer had to live a life unworthy of someone who had been the top student of Korea University’s chemical engineering department.
It was relief from having lived wrongly for thirty-three years.
‘I wish my thirty-three-year-old life was the dream…’
People say everyone gets three chances.
Before turning thirty, he thought he had seized all of his.
He even considered being abandoned as an opportunity.
It taught him not to chase the false dream of adoption and that he had to stand on his own.
His second opportunity was getting into Korea University.
His third was joining Munak Chemical.
But by the time he turned thirty, he thought he had missed all three.
Choosing chemical engineering over medical school.
Not investing in stocks.
Not investing in cryptocurrency.
By thirty-three, he realized there had been countless opportunities—and he had missed them all.
‘If I had taken them, I could have lived well…’
And now, he had been given one final chance.
His stomach growled.
“I’m hungry.”
In the past, unbearable pain used to wake him up.
Now it was hunger.
But it was too early to ask the staff for food.
‘How long did I sleep?’
He had fallen asleep in the afternoon and woke up at dawn, just before sunrise.
But it wasn’t a problem.
He was eight years old.
Sleeping early and waking early wasn’t an issue.
And he had over ten years of experience living alone.
Cooking something like ramen was nothing.
The only problem was his small hands.
But even with those, making ramen was easy.
At Happy Orphanage, there was always ramen and leftover rice.
He quietly made his way to the kitchen and found a pot and ramen.
“It’s good…”
Ramen that had felt like a chore at thirty-three tasted like heaven at eight.
‘Am I really eight again?’
Being eight was better than any side dish.
He chuckled.
As a seasoned adult, he didn’t bother questioning why he had returned.
To him, this was a gift greater than any bonus or vacation.
The reason didn’t matter.
What mattered was what he would do now.
‘Time to write a real bucket list.’
For the first time, he began to move toward goals he had chosen himself.
“What are you doing here?”
The director, who had been sleeping on the sofa, woke up and saw Min-Oh writing something in a notebook at the kitchen table.
“Oh, I was just really hungry.”
The director laughed as he noticed the pot and the smell of ramen.
“I didn’t wake you because you were sleeping so well. I should’ve fed you dinner.”
“No, thanks to you I slept well. And the ramen was great.”
“Really? That’s good then. But you already know how to cook ramen?”
“Yes.”
“You’re better than the other kids. But if you can cook, you can clean too, right?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was going to clean up before you woke up.”
Min-Oh immediately got up and began washing the dishes.
The director watched him with satisfaction, then picked up the notebook.
‘He’s even more resilient than I thought. He speaks maturely. Though his dreams are simple.’
“All good kids.”
“Pardon?”
“I think you’ll get along with the others.”
His first goal was to treat the other children well.
“Yes.”
In his first life, he had kept his distance from them.
He hadn’t been in the mood to make friends after being abandoned.
Later, he focused only on studying, trying to distinguish himself.
To be blunt, he had seen them as people he would never meet again—and even as something to be ashamed of.
And that had been true.
He went to Korea University, graduated, and stayed in the metropolitan area.
Most of the others remained far away, with few even attending college.
But in his second life, he changed his thinking.
“Your wording is interesting. Treat them well?”
“I want to treat them well.”
He now understood how hard life as an orphan was.
Even as an elite, he couldn’t fully overcome it.
It wasn’t about perspective—it was about walls one couldn’t cross alone.
‘So I’ll be their backing. So they won’t have to live like invisible people.’
At school and in society, being an orphan was a disadvantage.
Even if you didn’t say it, people would find out.
Questions about parents were enough.
So most lived quietly, like invisible people.
But that wasn’t easy either.
Especially at school, where everyone already knew.
That was why he had studied so desperately.
Being called the top student was better than just being called an orphan.
“Do you want to be class president?”
“Yes.”
That was his second goal.
“Then I’ll support you.”
‘I won’t look away this time.’
In his first life, his success had only widened the gap between him and the others.
Now, he would do better.
‘I want friends who will cry for me… and stay at my funeral.’
Even being able to fear death, to prepare for it—that itself was a blessing.