Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Awakening the Ability (1)
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The truck engine rumbled low.
Four a.m., Texas Highway 290 was still shrouded in pitch-black darkness.
The asphalt illuminated by my headlights was the only road ahead.
Gripping the wheel, I fiddled with the radio frequency.
Amid the static crackle, Willie Nelson's voice drifted out.
"On the road again..."
I found myself singing along before letting out a deep sigh. The truck was bouncing more roughly than usual. Looked like the suspension was acting up again.
Second time this month already. Eight hundred bucks in repair costs loomed in my mind.
"Well, this old girl's been around a while."
My mutter echoed in the cab.
It felt like just yesterday when I first hit this road, but somehow I'd become a veteran trucker.
Of course, being a veteran hadn't made life any better.
The scenery flashing by outside the window was as monotonous as ever.
Endless plains, scattered ranches, and tumbleweeds rolling in the wind.
But there was a certain peace in that monotony.
My name is Jake Winch.
My birth name is Lee Jae-min, but now only I remember it.
Thirty-five, single, independent truck driver. That was my whole life.
...No, there's one more thing.
I glanced at the papers on the dashboard. Medical bills.
This was the remaining balance for my Eldest Aunt's pancreatic cancer treatment. She passed away fifteen years ago, but the debt lingered.
And below it, another bill.
On top of that, Sam's treatment bills—he was like a father to me.
I was paying them off two thousand a month, but the killer interest rates meant the principal barely budged.
'Damn America. Is it normal to go bankrupt just from getting a little sick?'
Living in America, where medical costs were astronomical, was the problem. That regret stirred a faint childhood memory from before I came here.
It was when I was three, so it's not clear, but the melody of the lullaby my mom sang sometimes echoes in my ears.
"Sleep well, my Jae-min..."
That was my first and last memory of her.
A cargo truck skidded on a rainy road and crushed my parents' car. Miraculously, only I survived.
After that, I bounced around relatives' homes.
Families I can't even picture faces for—a few months here, then to some distant relative...
No place where I stayed long. An extra mouth to feed was a burden, after all.
"Jae-min, stay somewhere else for a bit. I'll come get you soon."
That's what my Youngest Stepmother—the last one to take me in—said. Of course, that "bit" turned into forever.
At seven, I ended up in an orphanage.
Despite the name "House of Good Hearts," it was cold. Among over a hundred kids, I was just a number.
"Number 23, eat!"
"Number 23, cleaning duty!"
Seven years called by number instead of name.
What got me through was books. I'd spread my imagination with adventure novels from the library.
Things changed around fourteen, my first year of middle school.
Suddenly called to the director's office, there was an unfamiliar lady sitting there.
"Jae-min, don't you remember me? I'm your Eldest Aunt."
Eldest Aunt? Mom's sister?
I hadn't even known she existed.
"I've been living in America, so it took this long to find you. I'm sorry, so sorry."
She hugged me crying.
It felt strange, but warm.
"Let's live together from now on. We're going to America. Your uncle drives trucks in Texas. He's a good man, don't worry."
I had no choice.
Anywhere seemed better than the orphanage.
Fourteen hours from Incheon to DFW. On my first plane ride, I barely slept. I was scared—or rather, overwhelmed.
At fourteen, I left Korea and set foot on unfamiliar American soil for the first time.
"Don't worry anymore. Aunt will take care of everything."
She gripped my hand tight as we exited the gate.
Then a big burly white guy approached, waving awkwardly.
"Hey, Jae-min. I'm Sam. Let's get along from now on."
I didn't know then.
That this man would become more precious to me than a father.
Ring-a-ding-
My phone rang. It was Tom, the dispatcher from the logistics company.
"Jake, you up?"
"Driving."
"Sorry it's early, but... Austin delivery rate dropped to 85 cents a mile today."
"What? It was a dollar last week!"
"Can't help it. Big companies are dumping rates... You in or out?"
With fuel at four-fifty a gallon, there'd be almost nothing left.
But I had no choice.
"...I'm in."
"Thanks. Papers incoming by email."
After hanging up, it felt even stuffier.
This 2000 Freightliner guzzled fuel. Six miles per gallon—half what the big rigs got.
'Man, at this rate, I'm done for.'
Last year alone, twelve grand on repairs for this relic.
Engine overhaul, transmission fix, new tires... A 25-year-old truck was a money pit.
I checked the right-side mirror and switched lanes. A shiny new Kenworth zoomed past.
Those new rigs snatched all the long hauls. Old-timers like mine were stuck with short patch jobs.
A voice came over the CB radio.
"10-4, thanks for the heads-up."
Smokey—trucker slang for cops.
Basically, speed trap ahead, so stay sharp. That camaraderie was one reason I stuck with this job.
'Gotta be careful. A speeding ticket this month would finish me.'
Ring-a-ding-
Phone again. 'Sam' on the caller ID. I hit Bluetooth.
"Morning, Sam."
"Out driving at this hour."
Worry laced Sam's voice. At seventy-three, he still fretted over me like a kid by the water.
"Just a short round trip to Austin today. Back by lunch."
"Still, be careful. Morning fog's thick."
"Will do. How'd the checkup go?"
"Eh... Doc wants another surgery."
My heart sank.
"How much?"
"Thirty grand. And insurance won't cover it."
Way more than I expected.
Silence hung.
"...Book it. I'll figure out the money."
"Jake, I don't need surgery. I'm fine. And it's too damn much. Thirty grand?"
"It's your health. Price doesn't matter. No arguments—get the surgery."
Long pause, then Sam blurted,
"Sell the truck, Jake."
"Sam..."
"That junker can't cut it anymore. You'd get twenty grand for it. Skip my surgery, pay off debt, drive company rigs instead—life'd improve."
"No way. This truck... You've babied it for over ten years! It fed our whole family... I can't sell it."
I clamped my mouth, recalling my first time driving it.
Even my very first lesson with Sam was in this truck.
'Jake, wanna learn to drive?'
'Me? Can I?'
'Haha, why not? I'll teach you.'
We practiced on the wide lot behind the ranch.
'Ease off the clutch slow, gas at the same time... No, too fast!'
'Sorry...'
Stalled it over ten times, but Sam never yelled.
Just deadpanned comfort.
'No shame. I stalled a hundred times my first go.'
I remembered bursting out laughing.
Blood or not, Sam was a damn good dad.
"Jake, no time for nostalgia. Face reality."
Sam's cold voice over the speaker.
But I couldn't let go of this truck. It wasn't just a vehicle—it was our family history.
"Just a bit longer. I'll find a way."
"What way..."
Finally soothed him and hung up. My head throbbed with worries.
Debts mounting, income dropping, truck falling apart... Christmas come early.
Through the window, the sun began to rise.
Texas sunrises were spectacular. Red orb cresting the horizon, painting the sky.
"...Beautiful."
I set aside worries, cranked the radio.
DJ blared cheerfully.
Flipped channels—George Strait.
Then news.
Twenty grand.
For one old neon sign.
I let out a hollow laugh.
Some folks drop twenty grand on junk, while I'm scraping for thirty grand surgery money.
"...Damn America."
Seven-thirty a.m., Austin outskirts logistics center in sight.
Trucks already lined up. I backed into a docking bay like routine.
"Jake! Long time!"
Jose waved from the forklift.
"Jose, you good?"
"Eh, same old. You? Still solo?"
"Yup."
"How long you gonna stay single? Want me to hook you up with my sister-in-law?"
"Pass. My girlfriend's a truck."
Jose roared with laughter.
I sipped vending machine coffee—hot was all that mattered—watching the unload.
Paperwork done, it was past ten.
Detoured to the rest stop for lunch.
Food court empty.
Grabbed a three-dollar hot dog, headed to the window seat. Used to get ten-dollar burritos; now that was luxury.
Old couple at the next table chatting.
"Honey, look at that sign."
"What's with it?"
"Isn't that vintage look cute? Hang it in the garage."
"Why bother with old trash..."
I glanced where they pointed. Behind the rest stop, near the dumpster—something propped up.
Normally I'd ignore, but that radio bit sparked curiosity.
Finished the dog, headed out.
Up close, an old sign.
Red background, white letters: 'ROUTE 66 CAFE'.
Peeling paint, but kinda cool.
"Who tosses something like this?"
As I touched it—
"Uh...?"
My mind went white.
Fragmented scenes flashed by like shards.
A man on a ladder hanging this sign. Sweat-soaked shirt. A woman's voice: "Be careful!"
New cafe buzzing inside as time passes. Clinking plates, coffee aroma... "Betty! One more apple pie!" Laughter amid orders.
Time wears on: cafe fades, customers leave. Empty lot, tumbleweeds, newspapers blowing. 'Closed' sign under it. Someone unhooks it: "Whew, time for a new one..."
Dim warehouse corner. Fading sunlight, passed hand to hand. Loaded on a strange truck, into darkness... Until now.
"Gasp..."
Hand off, back to the rest stop.
Heart pounding wild.
'What... was that?'
Dream? Hallucination? But too vivid.
Choppy, blurry, but definitely this sign's memories.
Looked again.
Over 'ROUTE 66 CAFE', faint letters beneath the peeling paint.
Stooped close.
"...A... r... i...?"
Faint traces.
'ROUTE 66 CAFE' was overlaid. Original underneath.
"Ariston... Café?"
Rang a bell. Or maybe from those flashes.
Rushed to the truck, grabbed phone.
Trembling fingers: Googled 'Ariston Cafe Route 66'.
Results popped—eyes widened.
Ariston Cafe - Litchfield, Illinois
Established 1924, one of the oldest continuously operating restaurants on Route 66...
Illinois, Litchfield—oldest Route 66 cafe.
Clicked photo: modern plastic sign on red brick.
Scrolled: old black-and-white pic, ~1930s.
Cafe front— the sign.
"That's it...!"
Exact match. Red ground, white letters: 'Ariston Café' logo.
Mouth dry.
'Ariston Cafe original sign', 'Route 66 vintage sign value'...
Searched frantically.
Antiques forum post caught eye.
Comments:
Heart thumping.
Thirty grand. More than the radio auction.
Slowly looked at the rest stop back—there, by the dumpster, casually leaning junk ignored by all.
But now I knew.
What it was. Its true value.
And most of all...
'How did I figure it out?'
Those scenes when I touched it.
No illusion.
Checked the phone's black-and-white photo again.
Man on ladder hanging it, woman watching.
Exactly what I'd "seen."
"What the hell..."
Hands shaking. Kinda scary, honestly.
But excitement and hope surged too.
If this is real...
For some reason, if I can really read objects' "memories"...
Sam's surgery.
Endless debts.
This crumbling truck.
'Maybe I can fix it all.'
Glanced around—no one.
I bolted to the sign.