While Hemi was exerting every effort to sway Mrs. Young-ja, trying to catch even a thin thread that might link her to the truth of that misty night, Min-su was drowning in another world.
There, in the long-forgotten playground that time had abandoned, he sat on an iron swing whose edges had been devoured by rust. The jarring screech it emitted with every movement felt like the very scream his throat was unable to release.
Min-su raised his eyes toward the sky; there were no stars to guide him, nor a moon to break the intensity of the darkness. Black clouds were gathering as if they were a physical manifestation of the thoughts storming through his head. He inhaled the cold air deeply, feeling it seep into his lungs and then into the depths of his soul, extinguishing those raging fires fueled by doubt over the past days.
"Who am I?" he whispered to himself as the cold brushed against his cheeks.
At that moment, he realized that the universe was vast enough to contain his lostness, and that every human being in this life has a path, no matter how twisted or dark it may seem. He thought that his tragedy, despite its weight, might just be a fleeting tale compared to the agony of others. Life is a wheel that turns; he was at the bottom now, but he was still breathing, and that meant he had another chance to taste life... even if the flavor was bitter gall for now.
Despite the fact that phone screens and televisions everywhere were buzzing with the news of the discovery of the news anchor Woojin's head, discarded in that filthy spot inside the metro station, Min-su decided at that very moment to shut his ears to the world's noise and listen to the pulse of his own heart.
He remembered Hemi's words: "You carry the finest of hearts in your chest."
How could a heart like this—one whose eyes overflow with tears at a fictional, sad scene—commit such a monstrosity?
"No... it wasn't me," he whispered to himself with a shaky certainty, yet one that fought to survive.
Min-su decided to grant himself forgiveness.
He folded his arms around his body, embracing himself in a gesture that invited both pity and strength. He began to pat his shoulders gently, like a mother soothing the terror of her frightened child, and whispered in a trembling voice:
"I trust you... pull yourself together. You have healed before, and you will heal again. These hallucinations are not destiny, and that cursed jaybird... I will kill it in my mind before it kills me."
He felt the bitterness of patience filling his gut, but he had made his decision. He would not allow the swamp to swallow him any further. He thought of his band, of the colleagues who had endured his episodes, his absence, and his long silences. The new album was not just a musical project; it was his lifeline. To Min-su, music was the food of the soul.
He rose from the swing, leaving behind its screeching, which began to gradually fade into silence. He knew the road was long, and that the truth might be more painful than the illusion, but he decided to walk toward it with firm feet. Even if the whole world was against him, he would trust himself.
It was time to return to the stage... where he could hide behind the lights, or perhaps, finally find himself amidst the music.