Chapter 17
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Head in the Box (17)
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Catching a cold during the change of seasons was nothing unusual. So everyone brushed it off. After rolling around in the snow all sweaty, of course a cold was to be expected, they all thought.
Since they figured it was just a simple cold, they could laugh off the occasional little cough.
“Hey, is there anyone here who isn’t coughing?”
“Come to think of it, it’s amazing no one collapsed after all that messing around.”
Up to that point, everyone laughed it off.
After heading home, some went straight to the hospital when their coughs worsened, while others just rested at home.
But for those who didn’t go to the hospital right away, the symptoms intensified. By the time they realized it wasn’t just a cold, it was already too late.
The news reported that the flu was starting to spread.
No one knew who the first patient was. They could only speculate it had come from the ski resort. Who had passed it to whom? No one could say.
But Jeonghan was the only one feeling uneasy on his own.
Right before the ski trip, Jeonghan had been sneezing a bit. His nose was runny, and that led to some coughing.
But he hadn’t thought much of it. It was no different from the rhinitis symptoms he got every change of seasons.
So he took some sore throat medicine, bought some cough syrup, and went out to have fun anyway.
He felt just a little off, but he thought it was still fine enough to go on the trip.
Whether that had been the flu or just his usual rhinitis, Jeonghan still didn’t know.
And Jeonghan, who had dismissed the symptoms as rhinitis and skipped the hospital, was the first to take a turn for the worse.
Next was Jeonghwan, who had stuck by Jeonghan’s side the longest.
The rest only ended up with high fevers at worst and pulled through.
But the two of them fell into comas.
Their physical conditions were much the same. The only difference was that one survived, while the other never recovered and died.
Every time Jeonghan briefly regained consciousness from the coma, he wondered if he might have been the one who passed it to everyone else.
It was impossible to know. Rhinitis was a constant for him, and it was most likely that he’d caught it at the ski resort himself.
So he couldn’t be sure he was the one who spread the flu to the group.
But at the same time, he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t the source either. He didn’t have the energy to think deeply about it, and his mind was foggy anyway. Jeonghan simply drifted in and out of awareness, certain of nothing.
After about a week, his condition started to improve a little.
The first thing Jeonghan checked when he came to was his family, followed by his friends.
“How are the others doing?”
“Don’t worry about them right now—you need to focus on getting better first.”
His parents told him to worry about himself. Jeonghan noticed their expressions were a bit stiff. He had a gut feeling something was wrong. But he was too weak to press them.
He heard about Jeonghwan’s death two days later.
His parents told him not to be shocked. But how could he not be? His ears rang as he lay back down right there.
He couldn’t think straight. It didn’t feel real.
He didn’t think his parents would lie to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it either.
His other friends started visiting one by one after hearing he was improving.
Jeonghan thanked them. The friends he’d been waiting for had come, but Jeonghwan wasn’t among them.
So many students came and went. But Jeonghwan never showed up once. That was when it started to sink in for Jeonghan, bit by bit.
Jeonghwan would’ve been the first one there for sure. His absence was just too strange.
After being discharged, Jeonghan asked where Jeonghwan was. His parents hesitated a moment before saying he’d already been cremated and his ashes were at the memorial hall.
He didn’t feel sad. Just empty.
Jeonghan couldn’t even attend his friend’s funeral. He’d been hovering between life and death right when the service was happening.
It was during an infectious disease outbreak in the first place, so visitors were strictly limited. Even if he’d been fully conscious, he probably couldn’t have gone.
Jeonghan never made it to the memorial hall where Jeonghwan’s ashes were kept. He never saw Jeonghwan’s parents either. They’d known each other since middle school, so both sets of parents knew each other’s faces.
He didn’t know what he’d do if he went there and ran into them. He told his parents he’d go once he’d sorted out his feelings.
No one blamed Jeonghan for anything. The group chat app they all shared was just silent.
Jeonghan thought it might’ve been a relief if someone had cursed him out. But that was impossible.
No one thought Jeonghan was the one who’d brought the flu to the group in the first place.
With that hollow feeling, Jeonghan returned to his daily life.
He’d thought his world would change dramatically. With his closest friend gone, how could it not?
But daily life stayed the same. The school split had already scattered them, so school life didn’t change much without Jeonghwan. Almost nothing had changed.
He’d gone through such a massive shock, yet nothing in his routine had shifted.
Just as Jeonghwan had predicted, it seemed like it would only get harder for the friends to meet up from then on.
“No….”
Jeonghan felt like that couldn’t be allowed to happen. Things couldn’t go on like this.
If Jeonghwan were still around, that group chat would never have a quiet day.
Feeling a twinge of responsibility for Jeonghwan’s death, Jeonghan thought he had to at least take over some of what Jeonghwan used to do.
But Jeonghan could never liven up the group’s mood or energy as naturally as Jeonghwan. He couldn’t make people happy with just a word or two.
He couldn’t let the group fall apart any further. But all he could do was support the relationships. So that’s what he did.
He steadily checked in on everyone. He kept track of births, deaths, and marriages. Whenever something came up, he was the first to step up. And it worked—the friends didn’t drift apart.
Some took a year of leave to retake exams as Jeonghwan had foreseen, others took two. And even through enlistment and discharge from the military, no one lost touch.
Some got married young. One had to hold a funeral when his father passed. Another went to the hospital after an injury, while someone else’s life went smoothly. Jeonghan watched over all of it from the sidelines.
But that was the limit of what Jeonghan could do. The more he tried, the more he felt Jeonghwan’s absence.
He realized just how incredible Jeonghwan had been—handling effortlessly the things Jeonghan could never do.
‘If it were Jeonghwan, he’d organize drinking parties now and then, set up pointless but fun gatherings. Maybe even plan events everyone could join.’
But Jeonghan couldn’t do those things. He could never create that vibrant atmosphere like Jeonghwan.
‘I have to do something. I can’t just let it stay like this.’
Then Jeonghan remembered one of the things Jeonghwan had led. There was still one thing Jeonghwan had left behind.
The time capsule.
* * *
Jeonghwan’s story was over, but nothing had changed. Sia just took another drag and exhaled.
“After that, you know the rest.”
“You met the Dokkaebi.”
Jeonghan nodded.
Taeju had heard the facts Jeonghan hadn’t been able to tell anyone until now.
And only then did it all make complete sense.
Jeonghan spoke up, seeming relieved to have gotten it all out, yet still troubled.
“Yeah. In the end, I couldn’t even finish what Jeonghwan had set up.”
After hearing Jeonghan out, Taeju let out a sigh, unsure where to even start pointing out the issues.
“If Jeonghwan were still here, showing the Dokkaebi that promised scene would’ve been no problem.”
Jeonghan said it like he’d interpreted the silence that way. Taeju closed his eyes once and opened them.
“There are a few things you’re seriously mistaken about.”
Taeju decided to point out the biggest one first.
“Even if the deceased came back to life, the current situation wouldn’t change much.”
“No, he definitely would’ve handled it better than me.”
Jeonghan said with a hardened expression.
But Taeju was certain. It was already a kind of fantasy.
“Well, maybe. But it still wouldn’t have made a huge difference.”
He was setting up an impossible scenario and comparing himself to a hypothetical dead friend to tear himself down.
Taeju couldn’t fathom how much self-loathing and harshness that involved.
“It’s natural for friends to fall out of touch. Things not being like the old days is just how it goes. Everyone’s busy scraping by these days.”
He wouldn’t deny Jeonghwan had a talent for leading people. But the time when relationships were held together by that had passed.
“Do you really think your teens and twenties can meet with the same mindset?”
Late twenties did that to you. It was when you started dreading to reach out to people around you.
Those who’d landed jobs had their own issues with that, and those who hadn’t had theirs too. Gatherings became a chore.
When there were that many people—or even just a few—losing touch with one or two was common. Jeonghan had put in enough effort to prevent even that from happening.
The meetups weren’t as lively as before, or as fun, but still, no friends had cut off contact.
Taeju suspected even Jeonghwan couldn’t have pulled that off, but who knew.
“It’s not like the old days? Of course not.”
He probably knew that in his head already. His heart just wouldn’t accept it.
“That’s why you never said a word to the ones who didn’t show up.”
When the three of them went to dig up the box, Jeonghan hadn’t resented those who stayed away.
“You’ve accomplished something amazing up to now. It’s just that this time, it was a bit much.”
Taeju could guess what was going through Jeonghan’s mind.
If only I’d gathered everyone better. If only I’d been better at leading them. If only I could’ve acted more like Jeonghwan.
But that had been impossible from the start.
“If it had fallen apart completely, at least you could’ve let it go.”
If it had failed outright, he might’ve been able to walk away, but it half-succeeded in this awkward way.
And to somehow make the impossible happen, Jeonghan had poured everything into it.
“You’re the only one dismissing what you’ve done. You’ve already achieved something tremendous.”
Steadily checking in every quarter, keeping track of friends’ milestones.
Looking after those in tough spots, spreading the good news far and wide.
That was already an enormous sacrifice.
“I’ve never met anyone who even tracks other families’ ancestral rite dates.”
Taeju could barely imagine how much effort Jeonghan had put into maintaining those ties.
“That’s not easy at all. Probably not one in a hundred could pull it off.”