**
The Peter we all know from *Peter Pan*.
If he were forever a child in both body and mind…
'This Peter from a doomed world is a bit different.'
Peter Pandit.
His body had stopped growing at the age of 14.
'Because Peter… suffers from Highlander Syndrome.'
Highlander Syndrome.
A rare condition where, for unknown reasons, growth hormones cease to be produced, forcing one to live with the appearance of a child.
So, stuck in a hospital for years, he still looks like a boy despite being 35 years old.
'And then, amid all this, a mysterious, highly fatal epidemic that typically strikes adults ravaged the world.'
Unaware of the situation because he was hospitalized, Peter only stepped outside after the hospital's functions collapsed.
That's when he realized the world had changed overnight.
'But looking at it written like this…'
A smile crept onto my face as I thought how the protagonist of this novel, Peter, seemed awfully similar to me.
"…A boy's appearance with an adult's core, huh."
Adapting to a changed world is something we share, but there's one major difference between this Peter and me.
While Peter must desperately search for hope in a crumbling world,
this peaceful rural village I live in could be called hope itself.
Feeling grateful once again for this incredible reality—
"So, let's keep writing with all we've got."
I placed my hands lightly on the keyboard.
Tap, tat-tat-tat—
My hands moved rhythmically, pouring out the story in my head with ease.
'Since I've already worked out the entire plot.'
Aside from occasionally deleting and rewriting a few unsatisfying sentences, the writing flowed smoothly for the most part.
The mouse cursor quickly moved to the next page, then the one after that.
Now, the novel was racing toward its 'climax.'
…Specifically, the moment Peter's 'secret' was revealed.
The moment Wendy realized Peter wasn't a child but the only adult left in this world.
["All this time… you've been lying to us?"
"Wendy, it's not like—"
"Don't call me Wendy!"
Wendy—no, Gwendolyn—shouted with red, teary eyes.
As if all of this were Peter's betrayal.
The fact that their supplies were running dangerously low.
That the little they had left had been stolen.
As if the world turning into this mess was entirely his fault.
"I didn't mean to— I didn't lie on purpose. I…"
"Then what was it, if not on purpose?"
Even facing Wendy, who desperately craved the truth, Peter couldn't bring himself to speak.
A truth he'd never told anyone.
A rare condition that not only he but his parents and everyone around him had kept hushed up…
'I don't want to say it.'
Peter Pandit.
Up until now, he'd been the perfect leader in this damned world.
To the children who believed in the promise of Neverland somewhere in this world of desolation and despair, he was—
'The last beacon of hope.'
Peter Pan in Doomed Land.
Even if it was just a faint whisper, a fleeting possibility,
the children firmly believed Peter would one day lead them to Neverland.
However,
if Peter confessed his condition, he'd go from being an infallible leader to a pitiful patient with a rare disease in an instant…
'I'm scared.'
The near-instinctive fear that he might no longer be one of *us*.
That intense terror burrowed into him like a chilling shiver…]
While describing Peter's escalating emotions,
*Knock knock*—a timid knock interrupted me.
'…Huh?'
Snapping out of it and glancing away from the screen, I noticed it was past 9 p.m.
I'd been sitting in front of my laptop typing nonstop for two hours without moving an inch.
My neck felt stiff, and as I rotated it lightly, it cracked audibly.
"I'll be right there, Kate."
My stepmother wouldn't knock at this hour, I thought as I opened the door.
To my surprise, an unexpected visitor stood there.
"Oppaa, Eugene oppa."
"…Chloe."
My little sister, just over three years old—four or five by Korean reckoning—stood there holding a bunny plushie and a picture book.
'Maybe it's because she keeps reminding me of the Chloe from before my regression.'
Every time I see her acting so baby-like, I can't help but smile.
"You're still awake?"
"I just… couldn't sleep…" she said in her awkward Korean, asking, "Can you read this to me, oppa?"
How adorable is it that she calls me "oppa" in her clumsy Korean?
"Of course I can. I'll read it to you in your room."
"Hehe, yay!"
I scooped her up, and she giggled happily.
Her soft brown hair tickled my neck as her tiny hands squirmed and hugged me tightly.
'I almost forgot again.'
Didn't I promise myself on that first day I returned to being 17?
Writing and being a little ambitious is fine, but…
'Above all, I'd live healthily and happily with my family.'
In Chloe's room,
I sat on her bed and read her the picture book.
"And so, the princess defeated the dragon and entered the castle. In the tall castle…"
*Yawn.*
As the story neared its end, Chloe let out a big yawn.
And before I could finish the final sentence—
"Zzzz…"
Her eyes fluttered shut, and she fell asleep leaning against my shoulder.
'So cute.'
I carefully laid her down on the bed so she wouldn't wake up.
I tucked her bunny plushie into her arms, pulled the blanket up to her tummy, and left the room.
"Oh, Eugene, thank you."
My stepmother smiled warmly at me as she saw me.
"No need to thank me. Good night, Kate."
"Good night to you too."
After putting Chloe to bed and heading back upstairs, I realized something.
…It was none other than my stepmother who sent Chloe up to check on me, worried I'd been holed up writing all day.
---
**Monday Morning**
Shirley McGraw from the University of Iowa Press arrived at work feeling a bit conflicted.
"Shirley, why the long face?"
When a colleague asked with concern, she explained the situation.
She'd found an amazing manuscript worthy of their anthology—
"But I don't even know if the writer's willing to sign a contract, and the biggest problem is the length."
The anthology required something longer than a short story.
But the manuscript recommended by Professor Leonard was just a 6-page microfiction piece.
'In cases like this, we'd usually ask the writer to revise it.'
But that's typically something you'd ask of a veteran writer—not a rookie who's just submitted their first work.
'And he's a high schooler, no less. Can this even work?'
After hearing her concerns, her colleague chimed in.
"Honestly, revising is tough even for writers who've published a book or two, right? Plus…"
His gaze drifted to the desk calendar.
"Our deadline's pretty tight right now, isn't it?"
That was true too.
To revise, edit, and produce the manuscript within that time frame…
'Honestly, I know better than anyone that it's an insane schedule.'
Still, unable to let go of her editor's greed for a good manuscript, her colleague cautiously added,
"And… it's microfiction. If you stretch a super-short piece into a short story—"
"It might lose its original charm, is that what you're saying?"
"Yeah."
*Hoo.*
She sighed as her own fears were voiced, but—
"But it looks like you've already made up your mind. In that case, you've just got to go for it, right?"
Yeah. Go for it. What else can I do?
Encouraged by her colleague, Shirley pulled out her smartphone.
[Eugene Kwon, Author]
A number she'd begged Professor Leonard for.
*Hoo.*
Shirley McGraw took a deep breath and pressed the call button.
---
The weekend flew by without me realizing it.
If I'd paced myself a bit on Saturday,
Sunday was spent entirely immersed in writing.
'I promised myself just last night not to overdo it.'
How should I put it?
At some point, it stopped feeling like I was writing the story—rather, the story was being born through my hands on its own.
Lost in a trance-like state, I wrote until I reached the final sentence.
After finishing the rough, unpolished draft—
'Let's set it aside for now.'
I'd see what needs fixing more clearly with a fresh mind later.
After that, I worked on transferring the contents of my head—
'These folder-like things that unfold in the darkness when I close my eyes.'
—onto my laptop as they were.
Maybe it's fine as is, but…
'Who knows how long this memory-sharpening skill I honed while bedridden will last?'
So, whenever I get the chance, I jot down the drafts, ideas, and concepts in my head.
I'm about 30% through it now.
'And on another note…'
Before my regression, *[The Forgotten Saints]*, which became the world's #1 bestseller.
I've been rewriting that 700-page epic from memory, starting from scratch.
But this is purely for documentation and preservation—I don't plan to publish it as is.
During that year I spent bedridden,
the flaws and shortcomings of *[The Saints]* kept gnawing at me.
'Being my debut work, it's bound to have some rough edges.'
Countless times, I mentally revised it while lying in bed.
Anyway,
I plan to rewrite this novel with time and care.
I'm also fleshing out its unique world-building bit by bit whenever I can.
…And now, it's Monday lunchtime.
I'm at the school cafeteria, waiting for two friends.
"Eugene! We're here!"
"You guys finished early?"
Ned and Adele showed up with familiar voices.
As soon as she saw me, Adele's eyes sparkled.
"Eugene, did you know you've gotten super famous in just a few days?"
Huh?
Her out-of-the-blue comment was about our 'AP English Literature' class.
It started with the students from that class, and now my manuscript, *[The Confession of Brother Lawrence]*, was spreading around.
Maybe because this school has a lot of creative writing hopefuls,
the ripple effect of one assignment was bigger than I'd expected…
"Well, it'll die down soon enough."
Then Ned jumped in.
"It doesn't seem like it's dying down, though? Even the comics club kids were reading your stuff."
"See, Eugene? Even Amber—Amber Brown, you know her? From the cheerleading squad."
Who was that again?
As I blinked blankly, Ned quickly explained.
"Body like Poison Ivy, face like Power Girl, 10th-grader."
"What does that mean?"
"A blonde, glamorous babe."
Adele clicked her tongue at Ned's description.
"…Boys. Anyway, Amber—who can't read anything longer than a sentence—apparently read your story and was so moved she's been raving about it everywhere."
"Pfft, it'll be on TikTok soon… Oh, it's actually up already?"
"Right after her nail art video and 'today's lookbook.'"
The two of them giggled while scrolling through Amber's TikTok.
"Whew, this is getting serious. You'd better brace yourself, Eugene."
"Brace for what?"
"For when Amber Brown asks you out."
"…That's not happening."
I scoffed at Adele's teasing, but Ned piled on.
"Ooh, a date with the future prom queen? I'm jealous just thinking about it~"
"…."
I said it's not happening…
As I inwardly rolled my eyes,
my phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number.
"Hello?"
I answered casually, and—
"Uh, um… Hello…"
A woman's voice stammered oddly over the line.
"So, I'm, uh, Shirley McGraw from the University of Iowa Press editorial team."
Why would the University of Iowa Press call *me*…? I wondered briefly before she continued.
"I was referred to you by Professor Leonard Hines."
Her purpose became clear.
"We'd like to include your work, *[The Confession of Brother Lawrence]*, in our Shakespeare-themed student anthology. The deadline's next month, for the Shakespeare Festival…"
'A Shakespeare-themed anthology?'
I was a bit thrown by the unexpected offer when her hesitant voice continued, even more cautiously.
"But, um, I have to make a very difficult request…"
"Yes, go ahead."
What could be so hard for her to say?
"So, uh, our anthology has a length requirement. It needs to be at least a short story, preferably a novelette. But your piece—"
"Is a 6-page microfiction, right?"
"Yes, exactly! So, this is a really tough ask, but…"
I cut in to spare her the trouble.
"You'd like me to revise it into a short story length?"
"…Yes, exactly! That's it!"
Her voice lit up with delight, and I couldn't help but smile.
"That's not too difficult."
In fact, when I worked as an editor, this was a routine request I made of writers.
I'd had short stories expanded into novelettes, novelettes into novels,
and even compiled three related novelettes into a single fix-up novel for publication.
"Not… difficult?"
"Yeah. Turning a microfiction into a short story is pretty common, isn't it?"
With a month's deadline, it's not generous, but it's not impossible either.
"But why'd you make it sound like such a big deal? Haha."
I added a lighthearted jab, thinking she was about to drop some bombshell that had me needlessly tense.
"…."
She went silent for a moment.
"Hello, editor?"
"Oh, it's nothing."
Her voice seemed to tremble slightly.
"Thank you so much!"
We agreed to discuss details over email and ended the call.
"…."
Ned and Adele were staring at me, dumbfounded.
"What's with those faces?"
"No, no, what was *that* call about?"
When I explained the conversation to Adele's question,
"What? That's insane—"
"What the f…"
Exclamations burst from both of them.