I was a print addict—no, a "fiction addict."
From a childhood I can't quite recall, I was always clutching picture books or sitting in front of the TV.
As I grew older, it was novels, comics, dramas, movies…
I devoured any story, no matter the form, with insatiable hunger.
For someone like me, who could never be satisfied with reality alone, I was constantly searching for something fantastical.
Like most kids with such inclinations, I was also passionate about creating "my own stories."
"…Yujin, didn't you say you used to sell your stories to friends when you were little? For 500 won per story, right?"
"500? Isn't 500 won a lot of money?"
"50 cents, 50 cents."
My best friends, Ned and Adele, sat beside my hospital bed, chatting back and forth.
Their mere presence filled the sterile room with life.
"Though I stopped selling them for money after getting caught and scolded by the teacher."
My body, confined to the bed, didn't so much as twitch, but my mind drifted back to memories of the past.
"In middle school, I ambitiously started posting serials online."
After immigrating to the U.S., I remembered how my confidence plummeted due to my shaky English skills.
Even so.
My passion for "fiction" persisted—through the years of wandering in high school and college after moving to America.
And then, eventually—
"Like it was fate, I ended up at a small publishing house in the U.S."
It was a modest place with a meager salary, but editing suited me and brought me joy.
To read fresh, fascinating manuscripts every day—and get paid for it!
Working with authors to polish their drafts was a fulfilling and rewarding task.
Naturally, my editing skills earned recognition, and I rose through the ranks, eventually becoming a renowned editor handling popular titles at a major New York publishing house.
"You remember that, Yujin? Your editor-in-chief nearly fainted when he saw your manuscript."
"Pfft, Ned, you were there too, right? Wasn't it during a meeting for your next project?"
"Yeah, yeah. Seeing that picky old man's eyes nearly pop out…"
Ned, my best friend since high school and a promising graphic novelist.
Without this guy's advice, I might never have shown my manuscript to the world.
"Even now, it gives me chills. The way it sold like wildfire right after publication—total jackpot—"
"No, no, 'jackpot' doesn't cut it. It was a cultural phenomenon, I tell you."
Adele, a high school teacher, flipped her straight hair back as she chimed in.
"She's right. Even my students, who'd cringe at the sight of a book, were all talking about it…"
The two of them were enthusiastically discussing my debut work, which had become a bestseller.
"And it wasn't just any bestseller."
It hit the New York Times bestseller list right out of the gate.
Ten consecutive weeks at #1 on Amazon.
Translated and published in 37 countries, adapted into a Warner Bros. movie.
Named "Book of the Year" by *Time Magazine*, *People*, *Vanity Fair*…
I could still recall the headline: "[Korean-American Debut Novelist Kwon Yujin Wins World Fantasy Award]."
My debut novel, *The Forgotten Saints*.
It swept across the U.S. with massive popularity.
And ultimately claimed the title of the world's #1 bestseller.
But…
"Just a moment, I'll check the patient's blood pressure."
*Knock, knock—*
A nurse entered, rolling up my sleeve.
My arm, which hadn't moved in over a year, was covered in needle marks.
"…"
I wanted to give a bitter smile, but I couldn't.
…It hadn't been long since I'd achieved my long-cherished dream of becoming a novelist. About three months after publication—
"Locked-in syndrome."
At just 34 years old, a stroke left me bedridden.
"The connection between the brain and the body's muscles has been severed, causing paralysis of the limbs, though sensation and cognition remain intact."
I could feel and think everything, but I couldn't move or speak.
"Your alcohol and smoking habits were average, but there's a family history of aneurysms."
It was as if my entire body was shackled, trapped in an inescapable prison.
…The only thing I could move was my eyes.
For a while, I lived submerged in despair and hopelessness.
Every time the mounting pain of my illness tempted me to give up—
"I want to write the next novel, a new story."
The fierce desire to create held me together.
Perhaps because my body was imprisoned, I longed for my mind to roam freely in a world of fantasy.
Above all—
"I'd only just tasted the sweet success of my first novel, hadn't I?"
Even though that first novel became the world's #1 bestseller.
I was still ravenous.
The desire to write new stories, to see them shine in the world and thrill readers—
"That was, for me, a primal need above all else."
But with a body that couldn't comply.
I made the most of my mind while lying in that bed.
The countless manuscripts and novels I'd read over nearly a decade as an editor.
Even practical books, comics, and works spanning every genre—
"Like organizing folders in my head."
I categorized and sorted them one by one.
…Because I knew they'd all become references to breathe life into my stories.
In the remaining time, I conceived new tales or wrote in my mind.
"Like gathering materials to build a sturdy house."
I crafted each sentence, one by one.
Then memorized entire drafts from beginning to end.
It was painfully slow and inefficient—
But it turned out to be a great way to refine the quality of my stories.
"And perhaps, this act, which might seem meaningless to some,"
Had kept my mind intact all this time.
Writing was my survival strategy, the only way to desperately hold myself together…
"Ms. Yujin, do you feel sensation anywhere in your body?"
The nurse's sudden question snapped me back to reality.
"…"
I slowly rolled my eyes to the left, and the "No" lamp lit up.
"Alright, I understand. Call me if anything comes up."
After the nurse left, an awkward silence settled in.
"Hey, did I mention Allen?" Ned broke the quiet with a smile.
"The senior manager at Vertigo. He's a huge fan of yours, Yujin. Oh, and there's a rumor Vertigo's going independent from DC—total chaos—"
"Ned, enough with the industry talk! Anyway, Yujin, Chloe stopped by last week, right?"
Cutting Ned off, Adele shared updates about my stepmother and younger sister.
Kate, who'd cared for me tirelessly after my father's passing.
Chloe, who'd adored me unwaveringly since we were kids…
Just knowing I had such wonderful people around me made me feel my life might be blessed after all.
A little while later.
The nurse announced visiting hours were over, and the two reluctantly stood to leave.
"We'll come back next month, Yujin."
"Take care of yourself, okay?"
After they left, silence blanketed the room.
All I could hear was the beeping of the machine, confirming my heart was still beating.
"My vision's getting worse."
The faint smell of alcohol in the air.
The dull pain creeping in as the painkillers wore off.
…And the overwhelming loneliness that hit even harder.
The anxiety that I could die any moment.
I tried to ignore those negative feelings, staring up at the blurry hospital ceiling.
*
That night—or rather, early morning.
I drifted into a deep sleep, only to be jolted awake by excruciating pain.
"Urgh."
I'd grown used to pain, but this was different.
An immense pressure crushed my entire body, stealing my breath for a moment.
"Is this… is this what dying feels like?"
In the dimly lit room, with the emergency light flickering on.
I thrashed desperately, trying to escape death.
"Yujin, what do you want to do if you recover?"
The voices of my friends echoed in my mind.
What do I want?
"I want to live fully."
To move freely, to wander everywhere.
To run through the streets until I'm out of breath.
To eat at the company cafeteria I used to dread.
To ride a crowded subway during rush hour.
Above all—
"I want to write."
The stories overflowing within me.
The countless tales I'd conceived while lying here for a year—
"I need to share them with someone."
…Because a story only gains meaning when it reaches someone's ears.
But despite my desperate wish, the suffocating pain grew fiercer—
"…!"
Like being trapped in a giant bell.
As my consciousness sank into an abyss, a heavy realization struck.
"Ah, this is…"
The end, I thought, ready to surrender.
[Per the contract, a miracle will be granted…]
A voice rang in my head, and a blinding white light burst before my eyes.
*
"…Yujin-ah, Kwon Yujin! Snap out of it!"
Korean, the language I'd dreamed of hearing again.
And my father's deep voice, which I thought I'd never hear again, rang in my ears.
"Your head—are you okay? Look here."
My mind buzzed as every sense faintly registered my surroundings.
The dry air brushing against my skin.
The intense Iowa sunlight pouring down from above.
The endless expanse of cornfields stretching before me.
"…Father."
I had returned to a summer day at seventeen years old.