[2050, Busan – Office of the Minister of Marine Environment]
Beyond the tall glass windows, the shoreline shimmered in the sunlight, gently rippling with the breeze.
Though it was early September, the air by the sea still held the warmth of summer's lingering breath,
and the waves glittered like glass as they caught the morning light.
The restored coastline stretched in smooth curves,
while artificial breakwaters had been redesigned as eco-friendly seaweed habitats,
where seabirds and shore crabs moved quietly across the stones.
Offshore, wind turbines turned slowly with the breeze.
Beneath the surface, seaweed forests grew dense and thriving,
while floating solar panels drifted lightly, adjusting with the sun and weather.
At times the heated sea gave off brief wisps of vapor,
and through the haze, a cool ocean breeze slipped into the city in short, refreshing bursts.
Along the beach, early walkers in wide-brimmed hats strolled unhurriedly,
while tiny electric vehicles slid silently down the bike path.
Lines of pines and windbreak forests grew along the shore,
guarding the city—and its fragile future.
Minister Ryu Se-a stood quietly by the window.
In her hands, she held an old photo frame.
Inside, a younger version of herself stood with a group of youths,
their vests damp with sweat, their gloves wet with seawater,
their eyes bright with resolve.
Beneath it, the inscription read:
"Class of 2030 Sea School – Future Leaders of Marine Environment"
Her fingertips traced the words slowly.
On the day that program began, she had believed in nothing more than the word possibility.
Now, that possibility had become reality,
and reality had become policy,
spreading further still, into solidarity that crossed borders.
The door opened softly.
Her secretary stepped in, carrying a thick performance report.
"Minister, the final results of the pilot program."
Se-a turned her head.
The secretary's voice trembled slightly, though it sounded more like excitement than nerves.
"Citizen participation this round reached 92.6%.
The International Maritime Organization has adopted it as a model case for 'citizen-led marine restoration'...
And the international exchange campaign with partner nations is moving forward without issue."
The minister's eyes wavered for the briefest moment.
"...So it's no longer just a pilot."
She carefully opened the folder.
At the top lay an official document:
"Marine Carbon Neutrality Infrastructure Project –
Transition to Full Implementation"
Phase 2: Biochar, Red Tide Early-Warning, Annual Overseas
Program for Five Citizen Drone Squadrons
With steady hands, she signed her name at the final page.
The scratch of the pen across paper sounded like a faraway tide breaking on the shore.
Her gaze returned to the sea.
It was still restless, still a place so many once called hopeless.
But above its surface, there now began something more tangible than hope—
something real,
born from the hands of ordinary citizens.
"Change… it's truly happening," she whispered.
"Small, but certain. And now, the whole world is part of it."
A quiet smile touched her lips.
The sea was no longer hers alone.
It belonged to those who fought to protect it,
to those who lived by it,
and to the nameless voices who had once reached across time,
saying they wished to change the future.
This sea had become the sea of all.
[The Changed 2050]
No one had known.
That a small piece of advice, a single phrase tossed off like chance,
could alter someone's choice—an entire era's direction—so completely.
Along the shoreline, where the breeze carried both warmth and a faint, sticky heat,
the world had changed quietly, but unmistakably.
The blue sea stretched endlessly to the horizon.
The beaches once buried under trash had vanished,
replaced by clean promenades and tidal flats alive with breath.
Where the waves touched the shore, the water shimmered clear,
and above it, small collection drones drifted smoothly.
These autonomous drones, designed to filter microplastics,
were part of the Citizen Marine Watch Network,
a collaboration spanning over thirty nations.
On the sand, children ran barefoot toward the sea,
tiny shells clutched in their hands,
their laughter spilling brightly above the crash of waves.
In the heart of the city, the subway.
Once plagued by endless breakdowns and delays,
the trains now glided smoothly and precisely along the tracks.
On the display board, the message shone clearly:
"New eco-circuit stabilization test completed."
Passengers waited in orderly lines along the platform.
At a bus stop, a girl stood on her way to school.
Her uniform neat, her backpack square on her shoulders,
her pale yet steady eyes fixed on the distance.
Jeong Ji-an.
Her name still remained, unchanged, at the center of this future.
Across the streets, zero-waste kiosks dotted the corners.
At the shared tumbler subscription station,
a glowing sign read: "Reuse success rate: 98.7%."
People picked up their daily cups,
drank, returned them, and began the cycle again—
a habit now as natural as breathing.
On a public campaign board, the day's message gleamed:
"Thirty years of change, starting with me—our climate, shaped by us."
The streets once ravaged by hailstorms and floodsnow lay clean beneath warm sunlight,
lined with green trees and steady sidewalks.
As if nothing had ever happened.
The roads were quieter than expected.
Through the car window, the cityscape passed—familiar,yet altered in subtle ways.
Electric cars slipped silently across asphalt rebuilt for carbon reduction.
Smart street trees shimmered, their leaves catching dewand swaying in the breeze as if reading its rhythm.
The driver said nothing.
Only the soft strains of a classical station filled the car.
In the back seat, Su-yeon lifted her gaze from the coffee in her hand,
watching the city beyond the glass.
Faint memories stirred—
of a time when she had spoken across a screenwith a friend whose face and name she hadn't known.
Just words. Just lines of comfort.
And yet those words had changed a city, a generation.
Her voice came quietly,
as though speaking only to herself.
"As a parliamentary aide, I've always hidden behind someone else's name.
I chose not the spotlight, but to be the flashlight—
guiding the path for others."
The reflection in the window looked almost like a stranger.
But today, for once, that choice felt free of shame.
"Now I know. I was one of those who made the change."
Her lips formed a name.
"Jeong Ji-an…"
Softly spoken.
Then she added her own.
"Kim Su-yeon."
The two names rested together in her heart,
as though they had always belonged in the same sentence.
"Two people who led this future.
We'd been walking the same path all along."
She closed her eyes for a moment,
then opened them again.
The car was already nearing its destination.
Thinking of the young girl she was about to meet,
she repeated once more, silently:
"At the beginning of this change… there was always Ji-an's name, and mine, together."
The car stopped at the school gate.
Su-yeon's hand reached, carefully, for the door handle.
[2050, The School]
Lunchtime.
Sunlight poured relentlessly through the library's glass ceiling.
Though the calendar insisted autumn had begun,
the air still carried the weight of midsummer heat.
Warm air, baked by the ground, seeped through the glass,
leaving the library faintly stifling.
The students wiped beads of sweat from their foreheads with the backs of their hands,
learning, on their own, how not to depend on the seasons anymore.
At a smart table,
Ji-an and Si-a sat side by side.
Across from them, Ji-hyuk sat quietly, turning the pages of a book.
On the tabletop, an interactive news archive unfolded,
and the three of them carefully scrolled through the glowing screen with their fingertips.
"Solar Cooperative achieves 80% local energy independence."
"Youth proposal campaign reflected in government climate policy."
"Subway circuit stabilized… Han-na Lee reinstated after recognition of her work."
"Busan Marine Office launches Seo-ah Ryu's first 'Ocean School' class."
Si-a whispered,
"It's real… these are the names we saw."
She tapped the small caption at the corner of the screen.
Ji-an quietly followed her gaze.
The rolling newsfeed, silent but steady,
stirred something deep in her chest.
"For the past few days, I've been riding to school in Mom's car,"
Ji-an said, letting out a small breath.
"Leaving early was exhausting,
and she kept nagging me—it was so stressful.
But now… now I feel at ease.
I never thought taking the bus could feel this good."
Si-a nodded.
"Same here. It feels… like I can finally breathe."
From across the table, Ji-hyuk closed his book.
He looked out through the shimmering air beyond the window,
where the ginkgo leaves were turning a pale yellow,
and with the faintest smile said,
"…It was the first time I've ever seen people smiling as they lined up at the bus stop.
Strange, but… it looked nice."
Si-a tilted her head playfully.
"Wow, Ji-hyuk's getting sentimental.
At first, you seemed like the type who wouldn't shed a single tear even if someone poked you."
Ji-hyuk laughed and glanced away.
"I don't know. It just feels… strange."
Ji-an's lips curved into a quiet smile, following his.
That smile seeped into her heart,
slow and deep—like waves in a summer long gone.
The three of them turned their eyes back to the table screen.
Their hands moved across different articles,
yet in each of their hearts, the same thought quietly took root:
"We really… changed things."
Maybe they hadn't built it themselves.
But they had been the ones to nudge someone's shoulder forward.
A small piece of advice, a careful word of comfort,
an unnamed certainty—
those had made this moment possible.
Ji-hyuk's eyes lingered on an article about marine restoration projects.
He traced the headline with his fingertip:
"Global marine carbon absorption pilot zones expand – Busan model included in UN Climate Action Report."
"There it is. Seo-ah sunbae's name."
His eyes trembled slightly—
with regret, with gratitude, and with hope.
Ji-an nodded, murmuring,
"A small breeze… moved the sea."
Even beneath the blazing sunlight outside the window,
a brief calmness settled around the three of them.
The seasons had grown shorter,
but in those fleeting spaces,
they knew the world could still be warm enough.