"Hello, Keith. If you’re reading this, I must already be dead. I wish things hadn’t ended up this way. I know you will manage to move forward. I believe it."

It was amusing how life could turn 360 degrees in a split second. I wanted to share with someone the story of my life, the adventure I went through to understand its meaning. There will probably be people for whom this story might not be so interesting; they might have done without it. But I’m in a position where if I don’t share it, I won’t be able to move on. The only thing I can do now is ask you to be patient, listen to me, and help me.

Chapter One. Page one, the white sheet covered with black handwritten letters. "Open" your eyes, clear your mind, and let my words guide you through my story.

Siren. I could hear them coming closer and closer with every passing second. My name echoed in my mind, while everything around me spun. I was swimming in my own blood, feeling intoxicated. Unconsciousness took control of my existence. The last thing I remembered about the accident, which had completely taken away the rest of my memories. According to others, I was in a coma for two whole months.

As soon as I opened my eyes, I cursed my entire existence. I didn’t remember anything or anyone. Fear had overtaken me. What was it like to wake up in a sterile room, smelling of heavy medications and stagnation, with rarely anyone opening a window to ventilate? The white ceiling, whose cracks told stories, and the lack of curtains that would separate you from the outside world.

I couldn’t hear or see, the pain in my head making my existence unbearable. The last thing I remembered was the female figure who had burst into the room. The woman who, within two seconds, had managed to get the hospital on its feet. I recognized her almost immediately, the only person with the title "mother." The last thing I felt was the warmth of her embrace before I fell unconscious again and lost track of time.

A whole month has passed since then. I had regained the ability to walk and speak. I was slowly recovering my memories of my parents, but not those of my life before the accident. Strange, but inevitable.

Do you know what was even stranger, but inevitable? My parents' decision to move to the big city. Their justification was as follows:

• New job.
• New beginning.
• More opportunities for development.
• Elite school.
• It would be good for me.

They were hiding something; I noticed it on the day of our move. We had to pass through Daegu to collect the remaining part of our belongings from our old home. It wasn’t anything major, just some small things that held great sentimental value for my mother.

"Keith, don’t just stand there, come help your mother with the boxes," my father said, and I rolled my eyes, still wandering around the room that had once been mine. I thought I might remember something, but without success. I reached for one of the boxes piled in one corner of the room, but I was quickly interrupted.

"No, Keith. These aren’t going to Seoul. They stay here; they need to be buried along with everything else," the woman said, visibly distressed.

"Why? Aren’t they personal belongings? If I have clothes or something important that might help me regain my memories, it should be here," I grumbled, reaching for the box again.

"This won’t help you, Keith. They are unnecessary things. You used to scatter and gather everything from your past through your hands. You’d use the excuse that you felt guilty. You didn’t want to throw away anything that might be needed later, but believe it or not, you will never need them," the woman said, pulling my hand away and pointing to the boxes in the hallway. She was right.

"This can help me now," she said, and I obediently began moving the boxes to the hallway to the trunk of the car.

Honestly, I didn’t want to pay much attention to their behavior. Everyone was tense and sleep-deprived. If they said it wasn’t important, then why should I be bothered? It was a big mistake, but fortunately, I managed to correct it. We’ll get to that, someday. I promise.