소예님께 / To Lady So-ye

CHAPTER 1: “국경 너머의 약속” (CHAPTER 1: “A PROMISE BEYOND BORDERS”)       The doors slid open, and cold air rushed to meet Isko. The hiss of the hydraulics twirled around his ears. Seoul—or maybe just Incheon—looked exactly like the pictures he used to stare at, pasted into his diary as he wrote back at Cebu. Tall glass skyscrapers gently wrapped in clouds, people painted in smooth ivory skin, and a strange circle traced around him.       The natives wrapped around the circle, never stepping beyond its lines. Nobody dared to come near him. He pulled his duffel bag close and wandered into the streets of Seoul, glancing at the people who kept their distance—the ones whose skin mirrored everything he wasn’t, who had lived there their whole lives, who had no room for a foreigner.       “It’s okay,” he whispered to himself, “at least I’m here, even if it feels wrong.”       He sat down on a bench and raised his hand high, waiting for a taxi. Some turned when they saw him, some chose others, and some just chose to drive past. Hours passed, and not a single taxi stopped. He’d always dreamed of leaving the Philippines, but sitting here now, maybe it would’ve been better if he’d stayed.       “Welcome to Korea!” a voice shouted behind him in Korean. He turned, and a man stood there, a hand raised and the other tucked in his pocket. He had a striking face and a mole under his left eye.       “Are you talking to me?” he looked around at the desolate bench.       “Of course. Sorry, I’m late. Would you like a taxi?”       “You’re… late?”       “Ah, just nothing. You want a taxi, right? Come with me.” He pulled him towards the road.       Words failed to spill out of Isko’s mouth as they brushed past taxis, buses, and streetlights—until they spotted a lone taxi at the end of the pathway. The natives looked back as their shoulders collided.       “Sorry!” Isko shouted.       “Here,” the man pants, “The taxis near the airport couldn’t care less about foreigners. They only take natives with them.”       “Thank you, sir.” He steps into the taxi and holds a diary close, “May I ask for your name?”       “You’re welcome. It’s Hyun-soo. Have a safe trip!” Isko slowly writes it down in Hangul, nods, and closes the door. He waves goodbye with a smile as his heart slows down, and the chilling air softens around him. Isko tells the driver to head to Cheongju, and they slowly take off. He opens the diary and starts writing.       “I stepped off the plane today—half with stitched-up dreams and half with built-up fears. I finally set foot on Korean soil after four years. I’m pretty sure I heard her name somewhere out there as soon as I arrived, so I ran everywhere trying to find her—now I just looked like an idiot. I feel like my worries have come true, though; people are treating me differently. I know this entire country’s culture well, yet everyone else feels too distant to reach. Thankfully, a man with a mole under his left eye named Hyun-soo helped me board a taxi before I got too embarrassed to try again. My first authentic Korean conversation went well, and—”his writing screeches to a halt as a truck honks.       His head begins to creep from the inside, aching with pain after writing inside a taxi. He looked out the window to see a delivery post truck slowly passing by, wondering:       “I wonder if she’s received the letter I wrote yesterday… I wonder if she was waiting for me somewhere at the airport.” He gazes deeply into the truck, reading the text. He smiled, remembering her face—holding it tight in his mind.       “Number 1 delivery company in all of South Korea!”He reads. He leans his head on the car door as the text gets closer…and closer…and closer…and closer…The tires screech. The truck veered. Windows shattered above him—a single, drawn-out scream of glass. Weightlessness—then metal. Metal burned like wood. Heat tasted like rust.       His head bit through metal. His body tore free of the seatbelt. The sky spun. He hit something—iron, maybe. Or the side of the truck. Letters spilled like water from a bucket. One fluttered, and though burning, was close enough to read—       “소예님께,” / “To Lady So-ye,”       —Then… his world turned black.       Sound came back first—the sea’s whisper, Cebu’s sea. Somewhere within it, a woman’s voice called his name. His ears struggled to unmuffle the voice amidst the tropical scenery, from the gulls' cry overhead and the occasional splash, saltwater licking the side of a boat.       “Can you still remember me?” Her voice broke through.       Next, sight came—light gradually spilled from his eyelids. She looked at Isko with endearing eyes. She had silky, ivory skin, like the natives, and long, black hair that slithered to her shoulders—yet no face. They sat on a wooden boat drifting across the West Philippine Sea, stretched out in liquid glass, shards of sunlight bouncing off every curve.       “Do you?” She tried asking again.       “Who… are you?” He asked.       Then, smell emerged. The sharp, mineral tang of salt and seaweed mixed with gasoline, and beneath it, her fragrance: coconuts and a hint of sunscreen.       “You really don’t remember me?” she asked.       The sense of touch slowly came back, too. Salt clung to his skin; his lips dry from the sea breeze as he started to feel himself melting. The wind tousled his hair, while his heart grew softer with each beat as he gazed at her invisible eyes.       “What a shame, ‘cause I remember you. Isko, right? I can’t seem to say your full name, though, never got the hang of it…” she let out a slight chuckle. The wind stroked his cheek as he tried to respond… but consciousness came back last.       Light started to bend. The sea turned white, and her faceless face shattered into fragments that were blown away by the wind piece by piece. The sharp smell of disinfectant woke him up. His ears rang in sync with the beeps of a heart monitor, each ring vibrating his whole body. He pried his eyes open to be greeted by walls too white, cold, and unfortunately—real.       “Am I in a hospital…?” He thought.       A VCR player sat right in front of him, blending in among the claustrophobia-inducing walls. He spotted a duffel bag on the floor beside the bed, with a note reading:       “Good day! Here are your belongings. Unfortunately, we were not able to recover everything. We’re sorry. —Chungsam Hospital” in Korean.       He struggled against the clean sheets, their scent thick with disinfectant. He hit the floor—pain flared sharply behind his eyes. Crawling to the bag, the iron zipper nicked his finger. The taste of rust filled his mouth; the air itself seemed to tighten.       He grabbed the first thing he saw—a black diary. The pages smelled faintly of sea salt and dust. He flipped through, desperate for something—anything that could explain why he was here. Then his eyes halted on a single, handwritten name on the first page, the ink slightly blurred.       Isko.       “Who the hell…” he muttered under his breath, “is Isko?       “Did a kid’s diary end up in my bag? Is this even my bag?” he muttered. “What… even       happened to me?”       Something purple caught his eye—another diary, its spine cracked, bound to an old VCR tape with yellowing duct tape. Both looked ready to crumble at a touch. He peeled it open slowly out of curiosity.       Inside, a single line, written in neat handwriting:       “I wonder if he still looks at the world the same way—through that tiny camera, smiling like he could capture time itself.”       He turned toward the mirror on the cover. The man staring back at him had tan skin—curly hair, stitched-up head—and a face that felt borrowed. And eyes that flickered like they were searching for someone else inside them. For a second, he waited for the reflection to change—but it didn’t. He blinked once. Twice. The man was still there.       “Is… that me?” he whispered. The words felt foreign in his own mouth. He tried to recall his own face. “Is this really me? I don’t…”       Each memory dissolved before he could touch it, like salt melting into water. What once felt endless—whole—disappeared in a fraction of a second, replaced by an unechoing void that just wouldn’t answer back. He closed his eyes, flipping through the diary. Each entry made no sense to him. Each entry blurred together—names he didn’t recognize, faces he couldn’t recall. Panic shriveled up his spine, and his lungs turned to ice as he struggled to breathe out of panic.       He turned to the pile and dug out. The commotion echoed through the sterile room as he stood to steady himself. His elbow bashes the nightstand, and the lamp shatters onto the pile—sending the VCR tape flying.              It stopped;       It seemed to stare at him;       It looked like it pointed.       Two inches away was the first thing he saw when he woke up—a VCR player. Isko’s breath started to hitch. His pulse didn’t quicken; it stalled. His teeth didn’t grit; they opened. His mind didn’t race; his body was just waiting for the mind to catch up to what it already knew.       He moved slower than the blood crawling down his elbow. The walls felt closer, colder now—but the player, it felt farther away after each step. He slowly knelt down as his hand reached for the tape. The rigid line of blood drips on the tape’s name, reading:       “Cebu Days (Do Not Tape Over),” written in blue ink, half-faded and half-bled over the slip of paper that held most of it together.       He traced the edges, careful not to stumble. Then—static. A flare, and the screen bloomed with the hues of a Cebu sun that flickered like it’s caught between frames. The first thing he saw was light—radiant and amber—tipped over a stretched out patch of grass that swayed in uneven gusts of wind.       "Just wait for me, that's all." A misshapened voice emerged from nothing.       The camera tilted to a new, shining house whose colors caught the rising sun—bleeding like glass. A silhouette of a cat chased by a child sliced through the tape. The boy’s laughter came a little later—warped like it was trapped inside the film as he chased it around. The sound of tires crumbling the old road’s rocks made a mother pull him close. Isko doesn’t stop watching. The laughter felt too familiar.       The mother handed over the camcorder to the young child as she continued to stand by, her foot tapping against the gravel sidewalk.       “Isko!” She called for her son, “Hold this for a moment, okay? And be quiet!”       “Okay, mama!”       The boy took a few steps backward. The mother waved at a passing car with a smile on her face, shouting.       “Over here, here!” She jumped.       A man and his daughter stepped out of the car, carrying many boxes. The little girl’s head leaned beside his father’s side as she stepped closer. The cameraman gasped. He turned the view over to her, zooming in—the button clicks audibly.       “Are you even recording us?” The mother looked over, “Do it properly!       “Hi guys! Do you like the look of your new home?”       The father and his daughter bow down, “It looks promising, thanks for lending us this one. It’s a huge help.”       “Don’t worry, it’s just an extra house. We hope you enjoy your stay here!”       “We? You mean this little boy?” He walks over to the camera, child in hand.       “Hello!”       “I hope you and So-ye can be good friends, okay? What’s your name?”       “Francisko!” He turned to his mother sharply, “Did I say it right?”       He said it with confidence, yet he mispronounced his own name. The father’s grin was covered by static as he repeated his name, and each time he did, Isko’s stomach began to crawl with butterflies.       “You can just call me Uncle Gwan-sik.” His daughter tugs his sleeve, “So-ye, can you introduce yourself?”       The father stepped aside, and the girl let a small smile slip. She had side-swept bangs that shaped a heart on her half-lit face, the camera shaking like the boy’s hands. The outline of a small smile emerged. Francisko puffed, the tape stuttering and rewinding.       “Hello… my name is So-ye, Yoo So-ye. I am 7 years old, nice to meet you…!”       The image fractured, as if the past couldn’t hold its shape. Static stitched itself all over the screen. Shadows jittered and warped, faces melting between frames, the edges of the footage curled like burnt paper. The tape warped indoors—a place that, though borrowed, felt like home to them.       The laughter bled into a different light—older, steadier. The same girl now wore a uniform as white as dawn. The sleeves blended into her moonlight-colored skin. Her eyes held an almond shape as her lips curled like a blooming flower. She smiled as she spoke, more fluently this time.       “Isko! Are you coming, or not?” Isko, holding the camera to his eye, snickered. “Of course. Still can’t believe we’re classmates this year.”       “I know, right? I definitely didn’t guilt-trip them into thinking you were my Korean translator.” She tittered back.       She took his hand and jolted him forward—and the video spun. It dived onto the floor, fracturing the lens. The camcorder’s thrust changed the tape’s hue to a vivid golden light. The scenery briefly changed—a graduation ceremony flickered in between the frames—for a fraction of a second.       Isko jumped closer to the player, instinctively. Her face felt awfully familiar,       “Oh my god, sorry! Is it okay?” Her voice was clear.       The gap between the shattered lenses grew wider as the video continued. Another video played, overlaying the other. A valley of white roses bloomed as the old images faded away. So-ye stood there as Francisko mounted the camera somewhere safe. She pulled him close and flashed the biggest grin at the camcorder.       “Come on, this was your idea!” She said.       They showed off a moonlit visage of a newly-built mall before So-ye stared deeply atIsko,       “Hello? Hello? Can you hear us?”       “You know it can…” He tittered.       “Just making sure. I know you’ll look back at this someday, you know?”       So-ye took a deep breath. Glooming clouds swallowed the night sky slowly, but the stars’ light tore through. It gradually began to rain, a slight drizzle. She glanced at him, and then at the camera.       “Hello, whoever is watching this tape! As you can see, we’re filming out here out in the drizzle, ‘cause someone is a little too worried that I’d leave—”       “Shush! They don’t need to hear that.” Francisko interrupted her.       “Anyways, I promise nothing will happen between us, okay? I promise that I’ll help my family stay in this country forever. Happy now?” She said.       “And? What can you do to prove that? How do I know you even like me?”       “Oh my god…” She says as Francisko laughs, “I can name a thousand ways someone would like you, how could I not?”       “Oh, really? I’d like to see you try naming at least half of that.” Static swallowed her words, but she didn’t hesitate to list. Crackling fuzz ripped the tape. Distorted jokes flew by as Isko’s unwavering focus broke behind the screen. He looked closer—closer than before—Francisko bared the same eyes as he did. Francisko panicked when the rain hit like he did. Francisko’s eyes melted the same way his did—so Isko lowered his head.       “Number 82: You—” a few lines cut, “—innocent!”       “Number 243: You’re good at explaining English!” Another reason shimmered… And another… then at last, the tape was fully cut. An older So-ye, lying in her bedroom, camera still cracked. Boxes were wrapped in tape, a backing truck honked in the distance, and frame-shaped clean spots lingered on her wall. The tape was perfect—nothing cut loose or deformed, just her in her own world, holding the camcorder up high.       “Hi, Isko! Are you doing well over there? I hope I’m not taping over anything important, but I just have one last thing to say before I go. I want to add one more thing to our promise, if that’s alright.”       Uncle Gwan-sik interrupted So-ye—“Aegiya, we’re leaving in a few minutes. Wrap it up here and say goodbye to Isko already.”       “I know, Pa!” She responded in Korean. “We never got to record your promises because of the rain back then, so I want you to make them now… now, okay? This time I’m the one worried… I’m the one who doesn’t know if you’ll love me enough to do this for me… but,” She took a deep breath, her fingers shivering as she tried to place the camera gently.       “Promise me that you’ll write me back every once in a while, okay? A-and promise me that you’ll actually make it to Korea undelayed! Remember our plan, okay? When we join me here in Gukyeong University, don’t forget to tell me! Don’t forget me, Isko, please. This is the only promise…” She leaned closer; now her eyes filled the screen. “...that I ask you to keep.”       The VCR player shut off. The mindless room grew almost entirely quiet as the AC hummed. His breath turned icy. His eyes glowed a sharp red from watching too intensely, while a tear traced a cold line down his cheek.       “I get it now,”he whispered, cracking like the tape’s final line.“I’m… Isko.”

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