[2030, Marine Environment Agency]
The computer screen still displayed the words "Connection Pending."
Se-ah's hands hovered over the keyboard as she stared blankly at the monitor.
"…2050."
She whispered under her breath.
"If those kids are telling the truth… then what am I supposed to do now?"
No answer came.
Instead, the screen suddenly filled with dozens of graphs and satellite maps—images of the oceans in 2050, scenarios of rising temperatures, collapsing ecosystems.
A new message appeared from Jian:
『By 2035, the weakening of the northwestern currents will cause sudden temperature spikes and mass marine extinction.』
Then Shia's data followed:
『You may only see the southern coast now, but sea-level rise is already overwhelming Japan. Early evacuation trials begin in 2032.』
And finally, Ji-hyuk's sharp analysis cut through:
『The numbers you see in 2030 are only averages.
But current shifts operate non-linearly. Ignore that, and it will already be too late.』
Doyoon's message appeared as well:
『This isn't in any official report. These are changes we're living through right now.』
Se-ah's fingers trembled as she scrolled down.
Dozens of red figures. Maps of sinking coastal cities.
Her breath broke into shallow gasps.
Then—an alarm blared from the computer.
『Past data-sharing limit exceeded.』
『Prediction algorithm collapse detected.』
『Connection restriction protocol disabled – initiating shutdown.』
"…No!"
Se-ah cried out, clutching at the screen.
"I haven't… I haven't seen it all yet!"
One last message from Jian appeared.
『Please… don't give up. I'm begging you. No matter what anyone says… you will make it.』
The alarm continued.
『System down. Connection terminated. Records unrecoverable.』
The screen faded smoothly into darkness.
The office fell into heavy, absolute silence.
Se-ah slowly lowered her hands, burying her face in them.
[2050, Doyoon's Workshop]
Doyoon's monitor was frozen, error messages glowing on the darkened screen.
『Internal structure damaged – system reinstall required.』
『Data log: lost / unrecoverable.』
Jian sat slumped in the chair, staring helplessly at the display.
Shia stood quietly off to the side, while Ji-hyuk still clung to the keyboard, his eyes locked on the monitor.
Doyoon spoke in a low voice.
"…It's over. The next connection… even we can't predict it anymore."
But Ji-hyuk didn't stop.
His fingers kept scraping through the raw data, digging deeper into the fractured logs.
"…There might still be traces left.
LUKA isn't completely gone. At the very least… a faint thread of connection still remains."
His voice was quiet, yet clear.
Jian and Shia turned their eyes toward him in silence.
The night breeze slipped in through the workshop window,
but no one moved to close it.
Even as they stared at the broken system,
none of them could let go of the fragile belief
that maybe—just maybe—it wasn't truly the end.
[2050, National Assembly Aide's Office]
Early September.
Late at night, the National Assembly still hadn't cooled from the day's lingering heat, wrapped instead in a heavy stillness.
Dim emergency lights stretched down the corridor, and at the very end, only the Climate Policy Research aide's office remained lit—holding onto the thick, unmoving air of a stifling autumn night.
The aide, as usual, was sipping the last of her coffee while sorting public reactions on social media: approval ratings,
opposition tones, keyword circulation rates.
She was used to scanning endless numbers and graphs—until her eyes suddenly snagged on a single line.
"I need help.
Past-connection AI LUKA bug. System malfunction.
I'm trying to find a way to undo this.
Please, sincerely—I'm looking for someone willing to stand with me."
#SeriousAboutAI #NoPranks #PleaseHelp
@jia._.log
Her hand froze mid-scroll.
"…LUKA?"
She tilted her head, clicking into the account.
The profile was locked, but a handful of public posts carried an undeniable weight.
"Do the words we say now really have the power to change the future?
I just feel so small, standing here alone."
On instinct, she opened another window—her trusted backchannel with a police contact.
"Hey, it's me. Need an ID check. Think it's connected to a conspiracy I've been tracking.
Handle is @jia._.log. Let me know what you find."
The voice on the other end gave a simple affirmative.
Quietly, she closed the tab and opened her private calendar.
Tomorrow, 10 a.m.—she double-checked the entry.
Meeting with Choi Jae-hoon, Association President.
Leaning back, she slowly cracked the window open.
The breeze that came in carried no cool relief—only the same heavy warmth, brushing lightly over the stacks of documents.
Staring into the oddly summerlike Seoul air, she murmured:
"…Maybe someone out there has already reached into the kind of future we don't have answers for."
Her eyes no longer carried the look of a watcher.
They belonged to someone who senses change before proof arrives—eyes careful, but steady with conviction.
The city was still hot, autumn still hesitant to arrive.
But in the middle of that sweltering night,
standing on the border between policy and reality,
one person had begun to listen— to a voice of sincerity that could not be seen,
but was impossible to ignore.
[2030, Busan Metropolitan Marine Policy Council – Conference Room]
The conference room of the Busan Metropolitan Marine Policy Council buzzed softly with hushed whispers and the rustle of papers.
On the front screen, a slide was displayed:
"Youth-Participation Marine Ecosystem Restoration Project – Proposal for Local Job Creation."
Se-ah stood at the podium, taking a brief breath.
The remote in her hand trembled slightly, but she calmly advanced the slide.
"I believe this project goes beyond simple clean-up efforts—"
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them again,
sweeping the room with a clear gaze.
"—it can provide sustainable career opportunities for local youth."
The next slide unfolded: Waste Collection → Data Analysis →
Public Education.
The flow formed a seamless cycle.
And at its center, carefully inscribed, was a name:
Eco Marine Watch.
From one side of the room, a senior official folded his arms and spoke coolly.
"Without proven effectiveness, budget allocation will be difficult."
Yet Se-ah didn't flinch.
She didn't look like someone trying to convince others—but rather like someone simply voicing what she already believed in.
Then, from the local council members' seats, a quiet nod appeared.
A middle-aged woman pressed her microphone button.
"On the contrary, this is exactly what our region needs.
If it can support both our youth and our environment…
I'd say it's more than worthy as a pilot program."
For a moment, Se-ah's face brightened.
Her expression remained composed, yet the light of relief and emotion clearly flickered through.
Beside her, a senior colleague murmured softly:
"This time… it might really work, Se-ah."
She gave a brief but genuine smile of relief for the first time.
As the meeting adjourned, the room slowly filled with the low chatter of people rising from their seats.
Se-ah gently closed her laptop. Click.
Inside that small sound lay months—years—of effort.
Outside the window, in the glow of a crimson sunset,
offshore wind turbines turned slowly.
The horizon shimmered—unsteady, yet beautiful.
Se-ah gazed out at the sea and whispered to herself:
"…I never thought a single conversation could be the first step to changing the ocean.
Thank you, all of you."
Then she lifted her head.
The sea was still rough,
but beneath those restless waves,
something was beginning to move—slowly, yet unmistakably.
[September 2025, Seoul. Aide's Office in the National Assembly.]
The morning air was faintly clouded with fine dust, and the sky outside the window spread in a dull light—neither clear nor overcast.
Sunlight lingered over the city, not warm but damp and heavy,
while the dome of the National Assembly loomed in the distance, blurred and distorted as if seen through a fogged pane of glass.
The aide lifted her coffee cup, still warm, as the policy documents she had organized until dawn filled the wide screen before her.
But her hand froze midair.
At that moment, a notification blinked on her tablet:
"Identity Verification Result – Request No. 2050-CX924."
She quietly reached out, passing the authentication steps—
fingerprint, voice, gaze recognition.
The report unfolded.
"Jung Ji-an / Age 17 / Second-year student, ○○ High School"
"Family: Mother – Yoon Seul / Father – deceased (wildfire casualty)"
"Activities: Private SNS account @jia._.log / Numerous restricted posts"
"Location of access: Near school and private residence / Associated individuals: Yoo Si-a, Jung Ji-hyuk, Seo Do-yoon"
Line by line, the aide's gaze deepened.
She immediately opened the SNS account.
There was little visible to the public.
But in the restricted posts section, transferred through internal channels, lingered short entries, each leaving behind an odd,
resonant echo.
"A single word can linger for so long.
What people truly leave behind is their heart.
She was my age then—or in her forties now—but for a brief moment, we shared the same time.
I wonder if we'll ever face each other again."
"What I really want to change isn't the scenery—it's the people living inside it.
I never thought the streets, lined with glimmering solar panels,
could look so beautiful."
"Did it really reach them? No… I want to believe it did.
But I'm terrified that maybe I ruined everything."
Kim Su-yeon stopped breathing for a moment at her desk.
That long-ago friend she once met—
now returned in Ji-an's words, alive in the traces of a girl with a name and a face.
"Jung Ji-an…"
She mouthed the name softly.
And with startling clarity, she realized that the girl she had spoken with in the past—
that child—
had been Ji-an all along.
A thin film of emotion welled at her eyes.
But she inhaled deeply, then closed the tablet.
Gathering her documents and slipping into her coat, she whispered:
"…I have to protect her."
Her voice was low, steady.
"Before anyone else realizes—
I have to be the one to reach her first."
The moment she stepped out the door, the muffled hum of car horns and the chaos of morning rush surged into the lukewarm air.
She quickened her pace, setting off toward the high school Ji-an attended.
Seoul's winds had yet to choose a season.
And that morning, every step of Kim Su-yeon carried the firm resolve of someone retracing memory—
and refusing to let it slip away.