SEOKMIN (1)

Thunder cracked across the sky, splitting through the silence of the night like a warning. My eyes flew open, my heart pounding as if trying to escape the ghost of a memory that clung too tightly.

I sat upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat, my breathing ragged and uneven. The only light came from intermittent flashes of lightning that barely lit the cramped room, revealing dust motes swirling in the darkness.

It was 3:12 AM, the witching hour when everything seemed to blur into a mix of past regrets and imminent dread.

I'd had that dream again-the recurring nightmare that haunted me every time my eyes closed. In the dream, I found myself at a lonely train station on a rainy night.

The station was a ghostly silhouette against the downpour, the platform empty except for his trembling presence.

And there, in that desolate setting, I waited. I waited and waited for two agonizing hours, the echoes of my heartbeat drowned by the relentless patter of rain on concrete.

I remembered every agonizing minute: the dripping water pooling on the platform, the distant echo of an arriving train that never materialized, and the piercing cold that seeped into my bones.

With every blink of my tired eyes, I had hoped to see a familiar silhouette emerging from the mist. But there was no sign of him-no flicker of a figure standing in the shadows. Instead, the train's whistle was replaced by an endless void of silence and despair.

That night, as a young sixteen‐year‐old with stars in his eyes and a heart full of dreams, I had clung to a promise.

A promise made under the tender glow of youth that they would run away together at the time of graduation, leave behind a world filled with constraints and secrets. With trembling excitement and hope, he had arrived at the platform, expecting to see his closest friend, his beacon of support-Joshua. But as the minutes bled into hours, the bitter truth had begun to sink in.

The next moments of that night would forever be seared into my memory. A call came through on a cold, rain-slicked night, interrupting my desperate vigil. The phone rang with an urgent cadence, and with a heavy sense of foreboding, I answered.

On the other end was a voice, clipped and emotionless, delivering news that shattered my remaining innocence: My beloved uncle-the only family I'd ever truly known-had been found dead.

The call was terse, almost clinical, yet the devastation it carried was palpable. Later, as the first wave of news reports bombarded the airwaves, every channel laid the blame at Joshua's feet.

They said Joshua had been seen near the scene, that he might have been responsible for his uncle's death. In the chaos, Joshua vanished-leaving behind only rumors, unanswered questions, and a betrayal that would haunt me for years to come.

My breath hitched as I relived that crushing disappointment. How could the person I had trusted above all, the one who had once been my promise of escape, become the harbinger of destruction?

The tragedy wasn't just in the loss of a guardian; it was the betrayal itself-Joshua had not only broken his promise but had also torn away the only family tie that held me together. And then, as if my heart could bleed no more, Joshua disappeared into obscurity, leaving me alone with a raw, unhealed wound.

I pressed his palms to his face and sighed. Seventeen long years had passed since that fateful night, yet every dream, every rainy evening, dredged up the ghosts of my past. People whispered that I have changed.

They saw my cold stare, the hardened edges of my demeanor, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes. But they never truly grasped the agony of waiting in vain, nor the unbearable sting of betrayal that had crystallized my heart.

Today, I am 33-a man whose appearance was meticulously composed, yet his soul was scarred with memories too painful to erase. In my quieter moments, when the hospital corridors became silent and the world outside faded into darkness, I was a man back then; the young boy waiting on that platform with all his hope and all his vulnerability.

I rose from my bed and crossed the room, each step measured and heavy with introspection. My reflection in the fogged-up mirror caught my gaze-a gaunt face with lines of sorrow etched deep by loss and betrayal. It wasn't just age that showed, but the cumulative weight of memories that I could never bury despite therapy, distractions, and countless attempts to fill the void with meaningless encounters.

Instead of pulling out a photograph-an old habit of clinging to happier times-I opened a drawer and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. In that moment, the pack represented more than a habit; it was a ritual, a means to slow the relentless churn of his mind. I tapped one out between trembling fingers, placed it between my lips, and lit it with the same precision he applied to his surgical work.

The tip burned a dull, golden orange-an echo of fading hope in the darkness. Taking a long drag, I exhaled slowly; the smoke curled upward, blending with the memories as if trying to rise above the anguish.

Yet, every exhale carried the name he both loved and despised: Joshua-the name was poison that seeped into every crevice of his being.

Joshua. The very sound of it invoked a churning mix of anger, sorrow, and betrayal. That night on the platform, with the rain cascading like tears from the heavens, had ended with nothing but silence.

No reassurance, no final goodbye, only the sterile, indifferent passage of time. In those two excruciating hours, I had clung to hope-and the hope was brutally snuffed out when news of my uncle's murder broke. The media, always hungry for a story, painted Joshua as the traitor, as the man responsible for shattering my world.

Whether Joshua was really to blame or merely a convenient scapegoat was lost in the maelstrom of conflicting reports and public outrage. But for me, the label stuck-an inescapable brand of betrayal that no therapy or distraction could erase.

I leaned against the cold balcony railing, cigarette burning steadily in hand as he stared into the emptiness of the rainy night. The downpour began softly, as if the sky itself were mourning the irreparable loss, echoing the soft lament of his shattered childhood. Every droplet on my skin whispered memories of that fateful night-each raindrop a reminder of promises made and broken, of dreams turned to dust.

Then, amid the cascading sounds of rain and distant thunder, my phone buzzed insistently. There was no startle in my movements-no flinching.

For me, these nocturnal calls were routine. The world had long ago come to accept the unexpected disturbances that punctuated my otherwise lonely existence.

I checked the screen without much thought. It was the hospital, as per usual. Even at this hour, my job beckoned.

After all,I worked as a doctor-a profession that demanded not only precision and skill but also the art of compartmentalizing pain. In the corridors of Noryang General Hospital, I was known for my calm demeanor and methodical approach to emergencies. Surgeons and nurses alike remarked on my steady hands, honed by years of training, could work miracles in the operating room.

Yet, behind the professional mask lay the scars of a man unable to stitch together the remnants of his own broken past.

I crushed the cigarette under my heel, the final ember sputtering out in the growing puddle of water on the balcony. With little hesitation, I grabbed my worn coat and headed out into the rain-soaked streets of Noryang. The city, with its neon lights and quiet midnight hum, seemed oblivious to the torment of a man trying, yet failing, to mend his own soul.

_________

Noryang General Hospital - 3:47 AM

The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital greeted me as I strode through the entrance. The sterile, antiseptic air was punctuated only by the soft beeping of machines and the murmur of night-shift staff.

My footsteps echoed down the hallways, a solitary reminder of a life that continued even as my internal world remained in shambles.

As I passed the nurses' station, the receptionist offered a brief nod-a silent acknowledgment of the man who saved lives while harboring his own unhealed wounds.

My presence was a paradox: a healer whose own heart remained fractured, each life he touched only deepening his secret despair.

The call had come in just moments earlier. According to the updates, there was a case in the trauma unit-a patient injured in a violent confrontation near the docks. My mind raced as I mentally reviewed my responsibilities and the protocols I was so well-versed in.

Yet, amidst the clinical procedures and the precise language of medicine, my thoughts repeatedly returned to that long-ago night at the train platform.

I remembered the rain, the cold drizzle that soaked me as I stood waiting, each minute stretching into eternity. I remembered every agonizing second as I scanned the darkness for the silhouette of Joshua, hope becoming desperate with every passing moment. My heart had pounded so fiercely then that it seemed he would burst, yet nothing came to relieve that burning ache of abandonment.

And then, the call-an unexpected, cruel twist of fate. The news that my uncle, who had been more than family-he was a father figure, a guide, a rock in turbulent times-was dead. The hospital phone had interrupted his youth with a dose of bitter reality.

The subsequent news reports had thrown Joshua's name into the mix, labeling him as the culprit, a traitor whose actions had upended my life. Joshua had been blamed, condemned by association, and then vanished into the shadows from which he emerged only as a specter of regret.

Now, as I moved through the hospital halls, my mind was a swirling vortex of past and present. Every procedure, every calm instruction to my colleagues was underpinned by the storm of memories that the hospital's bright lights could never fully dispel.

My steady hands in the operating room were both a testament to years of rigorous training and a desperate effort to keep at bay the emotional wounds that ran as deep as the scars on my soul.

Even as I reviewed patient charts and focused on the immediate tasks ahead, the specter of that rainy night remained ever-present. It was a night that had set the tone for my entire life-a night when hope had been betrayed, and every subsequent effort to forget had only deepened my yearning for answers that would likely never come.

I walked into the trauma room. The patient, a young man with injuries that spoke of violence and urgency, was being prepped for urgent care. My practiced eyes moved over the chart and then to the patient, calculating risks and deciding on the next steps, just as they had countless times before. But in my heart, I carried that undying question: what had really happened that night?

Was Joshua-my once dearest friend-truly responsible, or was it a cruel manipulation of fate by forces that still lurked in the shadows? Despite the public narrative and the media frenzy, my inner voice questioned the reality of what he had been told as a teenager waiting in desperate silence on a rain-drenched platform. Was there more to it-more betrayal, more secrets-that even now, after seventeen long years, had yet to be unveiled?

Now, at 33, I had built my life around precision, measured steps, and the rationality of medicine. But every procedure I performed, every life I saved, was a reminder that while I could mend broken bodies, some fractures in the soul could never truly be fixed. The hospital, with its relentless rhythm of life and death, became his sanctuary-a place where I could compartmentalize my pain, if only for a few hours between surgeries.

Yet tonight, as I scrubbed in for another challenging case, the weight of memory pressed down on him more than usual. The details of that past night-the relentless rain, the agonizing wait, the phone call delivering the cruelest news-merged with the present as I worked to stabilize my patient. The steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft hum of medical equipment became a metronome to which my memories danced.

In the quiet urgency of the trauma room, I closed my eyes for a fleeting moment. I pictured the young boy I once was, wide-eyed and full of promises.

And now, despite all I have achieved as a doctor, every life saved reminded me of the life I lost-the chance to trust fully, the chance to share my triumphs and tragedies with someone who once understood me completely. The hospital corridors held the echoes of countless stories of loss and healing, yet none were as personal as my own.

A nurse entered the trauma room, snapping me briefly from my reverie. "Dr. Lee, we need you on the next case," she said quietly. The urgency in her voice reminded him that while the past was inescapable, my present demanded my unwavering focus.

With a final, pained exhale, I opened his eyes and nodded. Every action I took in that sterile, fluorescent-lit space was a reminder of who I had become-a skilled, cold doctor who had mastered the art of treating others, even if I could never mend the broken remnants of my own heart.

I stepped forward, the weight of my memories steadying my resolve as I prepared for another night of saving lives, even if it meant burying my own grief deep within. The storm outside raged on, a reminder that some nights never truly ended, and some echoes from the past would forever linger like ghostly rain.

As I moved deeper into the labyrinth of hospital halls, the past and present continued to collide. Amid the beeping monitors and hushed conversations, my thoughts remained with that rainy night, with Joshua-the friend who had betrayed him in ways words could scarcely capture.

And though the public had painted a picture of a traitor who was either dead or lost to the shadows, only I knew the bitter truth: some wounds never heal, and some betrayals echo far longer than the simplest truth can ever reveal.

In that moment, with the weight of the past firmly anchoring my every step, I prepared to face another night-one where each life saved was a silent reminder of the promise broken long ago, of the friend I lost and the family I would never have again.

It was a life defined by precision in the operating room and chaos in the heart-a life in which the echoes of rain and betrayal never truly faded.

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