The classroom buzzed with the usual noise—laughter, gossip, the rhythmic tapping of gaming apps under desks. Groups of students huddled together, talking about weekend plans, the latest anime drop, or who ranked where on the leaderboard.
But in the far corner by the window sat a boy, alone.
Min-Jun.
Seventeen years old, tall for his age, with a quiet face that rarely betrayed emotion. He stared blankly at the rain-streaked windowpane as droplets raced each other down the glass. The world beyond it looked washed out—grey skies, grey buildings, and a life that felt equally dull.
He didn't speak. He didn't socialize.
He didn't care.
To his classmates, Min-Jun was just "that loner." The kid who never joined group projects willingly. The one who skipped parties, ignored friend requests, and kept his earbuds in even when they weren't playing anything. Few remembered the version of him that used to laugh—curious, active, full of wonder.
That version had vanished three years ago.
The Missing Piece
Back then, Min-Jun had someone who made the world feel alive.
Dr. Jae-Min Han—his father, his hero.
A visionary researcher in nanoscience and advanced AI, Jae-Min was everything a boy could admire. But more than that, he was a father who showed up. Every weekend they would escape the city and head into the wilderness. Forests, rivers, trails—they'd hike for hours, study nature, talk about stars, and make up stories about alien bacteria living in tree bark.
To Min-Jun, those weekends were sacred.
But everything changed the day his father took a classified job at Atlas Biotech—a shadowy tech giant known for its secretive R&D projects. Suddenly, their weekend hikes stopped. Phone calls turned into missed messages. Then came silence. Min-Jun hadn't seen his father in person since.
What hurt the most wasn't the silence.
It was the fact that no one ever explained why.
A Hollow Celebration
That night, Min-Jun sat in his room, surrounded by dim blue light from his computer monitor. The cluttered desk was a battlefield of energy drink cans and worn-out gaming mice. His favorite RPG had just awarded him another S-tier victory.
He leaned back and cracked his knuckles, ready for the next mission.
Then something on the screen caught his eye.
April 11.
His cursor paused.
Tomorrow was his birthday.
No cake. No texts. No celebration. Just another day pretending he didn't care. But this time, something stirred. A flicker of rebellion. A surge of bitter memory.
He remembered birthdays with his father: camping under the stars, roasting marshmallows, listening to stories about galaxies and hypothetical alien nanites. The kind of memories that aged like old photographs—warm, faded, and painful to look at for too long.
His eyes drifted to a dusty photo frame on his shelf. It was a picture of them, grinning atop a misty mountain peak. His hand clenched into a fist.
"This year," he whispered to the empty room, "I'm not wasting it."
The Decision
Min-Jun stood up and walked to his closet. Buried behind his unused school bag and layers of forgotten clothes was a dusty hiking backpack. He pulled it out and stared at it.
It still smelled faintly of pine and campfire smoke.
For the first time in years, he felt like doing something real. No more pixelated distractions. No more hiding behind screens. Just him, the trail, and whatever memories waited at the end of it.
He was going back—to the mountain trail they once hiked together.
Not to relive the past… but to reclaim it.