Path Of The Wind

Part 1:《My Usual Goodbyes 》

Eunseo
Seoul 서울 Hospital, 11:00 P.M., December 2018

White smoke, dense as a cloud, slowly dissolved into invisibility, merging with the air around me. It flowed steadily from the purifier like magic. It made the stagnant air of the room no more shallow and tasteless; it blew life onto my withering lungs as I inhaled it hungrily like a newborn baby.

The four white walls that surrounded the beds had nothing cheerful to load the spirit with—just more of those unfamiliar metallic engines as a lame decoration that only made me miss colors.

Shorter periods I had to stay compared to some, and I could still feel anxiety escalating faster than I would've imagined, so I was thankful for what could've been worse.

The only flowers I could see around were the ones on the fabric of the hospital clothes I was wearing. They were tiny but many, over a white, thin top and bottom that barely warmed my whole body.

Sliding my feet into the slippers beside the bed, I stood and traced my way to the one place where I always felt most alive.

At this hour, I felt like the flora of nature—alive but undercover, silent yet vibrant. Excitement stirred within me at the thought of seeing green, even in the dim glow of night.

It wasn't easy to sneak out when the hospital thrived with activity—nurses and doctors still caring for their patients. Still, I managed to slip away unnoticed.

The garden, usually dressed in bright colors during the day, wore muted shades, its vibrancy drained by the darkness. Some parts blended entirely with the shadows, yet standing there, I felt a rush of freedom.

I wasn't lying down anymore. My feet pressed firmly against the solid ground, and the fresh breeze swept through my weary joints, unshackling me from some sort of invisible chains.

Enjoying nature while others lost themselves in the chaos of parties was unusual for someone my age. It wasn't that I didn't like parties—I did. I loved the rush, the way they could make me forget everything for a while. But lately, I kept missing them—sometimes by choice, other times by circumstance. This time and...

To be more specific, I missed a party that mattered. It was my university graduation. It wasn't the first time, either. I'd missed another graduation party years ago—the one for high school. Back then, I left for Seoul right away, with no warning and no goodbyes.

I came to realize that this was the last graduation I could ever have in my life. It marked the end of climbing the ladder of Korea's long education system, stretching seventeen years from elementary school to university. Seventeen years of homework, exams, late-night sessions, and the ever-present fear of failing. The next chapter of my life—the professional world—loomed ahead, vast and uncertain.

Surprisingly, I didn't feel sad about missing the party. There was no one I particularly wanted to see, no connection deep enough to make my absence noticeable. At an event where everyone would be immersed in their own fulfillment, my absence wouldn't be noted. Most of my classmates would likely be at nightclubs across Gangnam or Hongdae, packed shoulder-to-shoulder in crowds vibing to the deafening music, drinking to the edge of intoxication, and dancing together like hollow shells. Loneliness in those specific places wouldn't exist. The collective crazy energy shared might have erased the feeling entirely, or at least numbed it temporarily.

I'd been part of that world before, many times as well. But this time, my plans didn't involve wild nights or some distractions.

I was preparing for something more personal—returning to my hometown, Chungju, the place where it all began, the town where I was born.