The sun had started its slow descent behind the rooftops of Seoul, casting long amber shadows across the quiet street where Kang Joon-ho once lived.
He stood in front of the familiar gate—paint peeling, mailbox dented, the number "7-3" slightly rusted. Nothing had changed.
And that scared him more than anything.
He hadn't visited this house in over ten years. Not in his last life. Not even when his father passed away. He had paid for the funeral from a distance—through a paralegal, behind a veil of excuses and an expensive suit.
But now, the gate stood before him again. Unjudging. Unchanged.
His hand hovered over the latch.
Was he ready?
Could anyone really come back from the dead and walk into the past?
The sound of a broom brushing against pavement broke his thoughts.
Across the street, an elderly neighbor blinked at him. "Joon-ho? Is that you?"
He turned. "Ah… yes, Mrs. Choi. It's been a while."
"My word!" She crossed the street with surprising speed for someone her age. "You're taller than I remember. Thinner too. What happened? Your mother said you were staying late on campus."
"I, uh… just got back from study sessions," he said weakly.
Mrs. Choi patted his arm. "Your mother's been worried sick. Go inside. Don't keep her waiting."
With a shallow bow, he turned back to the gate.
This time, he opened it.
Each step down the narrow path made his chest tighten. The scent of cooking oil and old newspapers filled the air. A shoe rack to the right still held his old sneakers—untouched since high school.
The door was unlocked.
When he stepped in, the warmth hit him first. Not just from the heater, but from the worn-out walls, the mismatched cushions, the framed family photos on the shelf.
His mother's voice came from the kitchen.
"Is that you, Joon-ho? Dinner's almost ready."
He swallowed hard. "Yeah. I'm home."
Silence.
Then the sound of hurried footsteps.
She appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel. Her face was older than he remembered—softer, lined, eyes heavier. But her smile broke through the years like sunshine.
"There you are," she said, voice trembling. "You didn't call. I thought maybe… something happened again."
He hesitated.
Again?
Did she mean… the time he collapsed from overwork in his first life? Or was she referring to something else?
He didn't ask. Instead, he dropped his bag and embraced her.
She stiffened—then melted into the hug, holding him tightly.
"You haven't done this since you were ten," she murmured, voice cracking. "What's gotten into you?"
"A lot," he whispered.
---
Dinner was simple. Kimchi stew, stir-fried anchovies, and rolled omelets.
He savored every bite like it was his last.
In his past life, he had only eaten convenience store meals, ramen cups, or high-end restaurant food bought with dirty money. He had forgotten what a home-cooked meal tasted like.
"What's wrong?" his mother asked, eyeing him. "You're eating like you haven't tasted real food in years."
"I haven't," he said honestly.
She smiled, touched his forehead. "You don't have a fever. Just tired, maybe."
He looked at her closely.
This woman had worked two jobs to send him to law school. Cleaned office floors during the day and folded laundry at night. When he graduated top of his class, he never even brought her to the ceremony.
In his past life, he couldn't remember the last time they spoke before her funeral.
The guilt sat heavy in his throat.
"You know," she said between bites, "the neighbors say you've been working really hard lately. Professor Han even called to compliment you."
"He did?"
"He said you've matured. Focused. Said you might be aiming for a judge's bench one day."
He chuckled. "That's a bit much."
"I don't think so." She poured him more soup. "You've always been smart. But smart doesn't always mean good. Now I see both."
He paused. "Was I… not good before?"
She set her spoon down and looked at him.
"You were distant. Like you were always running away from something, even when you stood still."
That struck deep.
He hadn't known it showed.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
She blinked. "For what?"
"For not being the son you deserved."
Tears welled in her eyes—but she wiped them away with a laugh. "Stop talking like you're going to die."
"I'm not."
"Good. Because you've got laundry to do."
He smiled and stood. "I'll get to it."
---
Later that night, he sat in his old room. Posters of Supreme Court justices and outdated textbooks still lined the shelves. It was like a museum exhibit of a boy who once believed law could fix the world.
He turned on the desk lamp.
Opened a notebook.
And began writing names.
People to Protect:
1. Mother – Ensure she gets medical checkups regularly. She passed in his last life from a preventable illness.
2. Ji-young – The high school girl who lived next door. Framed for shoplifting by her employer. Help her avoid it this time.
3. Professor Han – He was forced into early retirement in 2007 after challenging a bribery case. Must intervene.
4. Yoo Sae-bin – May clash with her, but she's important. Could be a key ally if convinced early.
He underlined her name twice.
She was the spark. The one who never gave up. In the previous life, she had battled giants alone—without money, connections, or backup.
But he had seen the result.
They broke her spirit.
This time, he'd stand beside her.
Maybe even…
No. He shook that thought away.
No time for that.
Not yet.
---
The next day, he visited the library archives.
With student ID in hand, he accessed sealed court records, digital case logs, and old legal journals. He spent six hours digging through scandals not yet public. Names that would be forgotten by 2008—but were firestorms in the making.
He memorized dates. Locations. Key players.
Each page was like loading bullets into a gun.
He was going to war.
And this time, he was bringing the truth.
---
Weeks passed.
Joon-ho became a ghost on campus. Present, but elusive. Everyone knew of him—but few could reach him.
He wasn't trying to be distant. He was trying to lay groundwork. To test the system's cracks before stepping inside.
He applied for the moot court competition—but rewrote the entire team's argument the night before and won.
He joined a student-run legal aid program—and quietly helped a single mother keep her housing.
He crossed paths with Yoo Sae-bin twice.
Once during a workshop—where she challenged his views on procedural law.
And once in the cafeteria, where they both reached for the same bottle of banana milk.
They made eye contact.
Neither spoke.
But she nodded.
And that was enough.
For now.
---
That weekend, he received a letter.
Handwritten. Slipped under his dorm door.
The writing was neat, careful.
Kang Joon-ho,
We're watching you.
You're moving pieces too early.
Be careful whose truth you dig up.
Not everyone stays buried.
— Observer
He read it twice.
A smile tugged at his lips.
So they were already scared.
Good.
Let them be.
He burned the letter in a coffee can behind the library.
No ashes left to find.
Just like the old Joon-ho.
Gone.
---
That night, he stood alone on the rooftop.
The city spread beneath him—alive with light and noise and history still waiting to be rewritten.
"Let's start again," he whispered to the wind. "But this time…"
He clenched his fist.
"I won't run."
—