The alarm clock offers its voice not as a command, but as a tired exhale. A short, anemic beep—and silence once more flows like viscous jelly into the corners of the room.
Jun opens his eyes. The ceiling today is the color of a washed-out sky—gray-blue, as if they tried to wash away the night, but the water ran out. Through the slats of the blinds, thin strips of light break through, and within them, dust waltzes solemnly and senselessly. He watches one mote of dust for a long time until it makes its soft descent—without witnesses or meaning.
Before, awakening had been a struggle. In his chest, a tight knot of anxiety would stir, which had to be unraveled all day. Today, there is a level plateau. Empty.
He turns off the phone with a lazy movement. Neither irritation nor anger—and this absence of feelings frightens with its purity. Jun lingers with his finger on the cold glass, as if performing a diagnostic: hey, is anyone in there? In response—only the customary leaden weight in his shoulders, which over the last months has become something of an uncomfortable but familiar winter coat.
He sits on the edge of the bed. The cold of the floor sears his soles—a pure, clinical detail that the brain records without emotion. Jun walks toward the wardrobe, bypassing his slippers. His goal is not clothing. On the bottom shelf is a cardboard box with a crushed corner. In a marker whose color has faded to the shade of an old bruise, it is labeled: "Miscellaneous."
His knees click drily as he lowers himself into a crouch. The box responds with an ancient creak.
The scent hits him immediately: old plastic, dust, and that sour spirit exuded by things deprived of attention. A past that no longer hurts—because it has finally cooled. Jun sneezes, covering his mouth with his palm.
"Aigoo…"
Inside is a chaos of orphaned wires and headphones that will never sing anything again. He sorts through this junk slowly, almost without intention, but his fingers work precisely, like search dogs. Paper rustles drily.
A hard edge.
A plastic CD case. The surface is etched with scratches, like a map of roads he never took. Jun freezes, holding his breath. He does not remember a single note. Only a phantom sensation of a time when entropy seemed to be other people's problem.
He pulls out the disc. An almost erased inscription: "Do not turn this on if everything is fine with you."
The plastic is cold, almost icy. The mirrored surface catches a strip of light from the window and breaks it at an impossible angle. A thin arc of the spectrum crawls across the wall—blue, transitioning into indigo.
A rainbow.
Tiny, absurd, trembling, as if it were a living creature caught in a trap.
Jun watches without blinking. On the desk lies the opened notebook. Page seven. His own handwriting—too neat, as if he were trying to appease fate: Point No. 43. See a rainbow without rain.
He shifts the angle of the disc. The rainbow obediently crawls across the furniture. A strange tingling appears in his fingers—perhaps merely the blood returning. Or perhaps something more dangerous.
He closes the box and slides it back into place with caution, as if fearing to disturb the equilibrium of the morning. The disc slides into the pocket of his backpack, clinking quietly against the zipper. The sound seems deafening. Jun freezes. The house is silent.
He looks at the disarray of the bed. His fingers crumple the sheet—and suddenly begin to smooth it. The blanket lies flat. The pillow takes its place.
Jun stands in the middle of the room. Behind the wall, a clock ticks dully—a sound that used to drive him deeper into apathy. Today, it simply is.
Somewhere very deep, where there used to be icy emptiness, a barely perceptible tingling flashes for a second. Not joy. Too loud a word. Rather, a glint beneath a thick layer of dust.
He takes a slow, deliberate breath.
And for now, that is enough.
---
The entryway door yields reluctantly, with a strained groan of metal, as if trying to keep Jun in the safety of four walls. Outside, the air is not merely cold—it is tactile. It clasps his face with rough palms, leaving a stinging burn on the skin. Spring in this city is always like a protracted war of attrition: warmth does not arrive as a salvation; it breaks through the concrete that has turned to stone over the winter.
Jun exhales into his fist. Blue-gray steam—half spirit, half condensate—settles on his knuckles.
He takes the first step. The asphalt beneath his feet is glossy with dampness, but his body moves on autopilot, sparing his consciousness the necessity of monitoring every gesture. The world around him freezes in that strange pause that occurs in films between the changing of frames. The sky is the color of undiluted gouache, and only at the very horizon is a thin strip of watercolor orange mixed into the grayness.
From around the corner, a bus heavily sails out. Its grumbling, senile roar resonates somewhere in his solar plexus. The machine trembles from an internal chill, and Jun catches this rhythm, vibrating along with it.
Inside, there is an almost sterile emptiness. Only on a front seat, huddled up, dozes an old man in a dark jacket—as functional and unnoticeable as the handrails or the validator. Jun sits by the window and presses his forehead against the cold glass. In the backpack, between his shoulder blades, he feels the disc. Its weight is negligible, but in this silence, it feels disproportionately heavy.
The city outside the window begins a slow, reluctant imitation of life. Bare trees creak as if complaining of rheumatism. A lamppost, leaning precariously over the road, seems like a polite passerby frozen in an eternal half-bow. The scent of diesel and wet earth seeps into the cabin through the loose frames—there is always an admixture of anxiety in it.
Jun looks through his reflection until reality begins to change its scale.
A tree branch rushing past suddenly acquires the sharpness of a macro shot. Every crack on the black bark is like an ancient cipher. And on the very tip—a bud. There is no green in it yet; it has not decided to become a leaf, but in its density, one feels a resilient, almost fierce will to live.
He follows it with his gaze until the tree vanishes, yielding to the stage sets: a supermarket sign, a deserted playground, a manhole cover lying askew. All of this seems excessively real, whereas he himself feels like something temporary.
The bus makes a right turn—and the space flares up.
Sakura. It blazes along the roadside like pink noise. Cold sunbeams stitch through the petals, turning them into glowing membranes. Pollen trembles in the air, and it seems that this tender chaos grates against the gray industrial landscape.
This, too, was in the notebook. A checkmark in the margins, left by someone who believed in lists more than in promises.
Jun lowers his gaze, recording details: abandoned bicycles, gray faces at the bus stops. And suddenly—a child, laughing at something invisible and pulling an adult by the sleeve. In his chest, something briefly skips its rhythm.
At the school gates, the road empties, as if the city decides to give him space. The side gate is ajar—a careless gesture of hospitality at an hour when most are still finishing their dreams.
His footsteps across the empty yard sound defiantly loud. This does not fit the customary script: too early, too deliberate.
Behind his back, the gate closes—short and final.
The school meets him with cold concrete and austere shadows. But Jun knows: up there, beneath every line of the cornice, light is hidden. And now he is not merely an observer—he is inside this scene.
---
Этот фрагмент завершает этап проникновения и возвращает героя в отправную точку его трансформации. В переводе я уделил особое внимание звуковому ландшафту (взвизгивание линолеума, кашель завхоза) и смене текстур при переходе из «стерильного» коридора на «грубую» крышу. Согласно вашему протоколу, синтаксис остается взвешенным, а инверсия помогает акцентировать внимание на деталях окружения.
Проект перевода: Глава 2, Фрагмент 5
The corridor meets him with an emptiness that seems almost sinister. At such hours, the school turns into a stage set for a film they forgot to shoot: too motionless, too sterile for living people to inhabit. Silence here is not the absence of sounds, but a dense medium that Jun cuts with the rustle of his own footsteps. The linoleum beneath his soles squeals rarely and plaintively, as if the building reluctantly tolerates his presence.
He walks, clutching the straps of his backpack like the handrails of a sinking ship. Tension makes his gait mechanical. Blood pulses in his ears, and every step seems excessively loud. As if the school has its own instinct for another's loneliness, and any moment now, it will sound the alarm.
Jun freezes, turning into pure hearing.
Nothing.
Only the scent of dampness wafting from the stairwells—the smell of old concrete that has absorbed rains for years.
He raises his gaze. The staircase goes up, dissolving in the meager, stinging morning light. To ascend higher is the only possible route.
The metal handrail sears his palm with cold. Jun moves slowly, centimeter by centimeter, fearing to strike an extra sound. This place is designed for echoes; here, any accidental gesture can turn into an admission of guilt.
On the third floor, reality cracks.
A cough.
Hoarse, dry, with the strain of a person who long ago ceased to wait for healing. The janitor. Not even a man—a function. The only living obstacle between Jun and his goal.
He instantly presses himself against the wall. The concrete cools the back of his head, returning clarity. His fingers slide off the railing. Jun holds his breath—the air in his lungs grows heavy, becomes viscous. The cough repeats—closer, then lower. Heavy footsteps slowly recede.
He waits. He counts to ten. Then ten more.
When the thumping in his temples weakens, he forces himself to move on.
On the fourth flight, there is more light, but it is sickly, jaundiced. A beam highlights a sign: "Staff Only." The letters are covered with a layer of dust—like an epitaph on the door to a forbidden zone.
Before him is a metal door. The lock hangs on a wing and a prayer and a piece of loosened chain—a security system for those who have something to lose.
"Still open," his brain records, while his hand, ignoring a slight tremor, reaches for the metal.
The second tug decides everything. The lock clinks dully, the door yields with a groan, and the wind throws itself into his face. Sharp, unceremonious. Jun winces, taking a step over the threshold.
The sound changes. The soft whisper of linoleum remains behind, yielding to the coarse, honest roar of concrete.
The roof.
A space where the sky ceases to be a ceiling and becomes a participant. The wind whistles as if trying to blow everything superfluous out of his head, leaving only facts.
Jun closes the door behind him—carefully, almost tenderly. Leaving the school, the janitor, and all this stifling order below.
The ventilation block by the eastern wall stands in its place. Silent. Patient.
The notebook will return to the same spot where he found it four days ago.
The circle has almost closed.
---
Этот фрагмент служит кульминацией первой задачи Джуна: он переходит от пассивного наблюдения к скрытому, но активному соучастию. В переводе я сосредоточился на тактильных деталях (сопротивление ручки, текстура бумаги) и сохранил «клиническую» точность описания его состояния, где страх и решимость переплетены.
Согласно вашему протоколу: соблюдено отсутствие сокращений в повествовании, использована инверсия для создания эмфазы на ключевых объектах (диск, тетрадь), а корейская специфика письма передана через описание начертания символов.
Проект перевода: Глава 2, Фрагмент 6
His hands still tremble slightly—a fine, irritating vibration that cannot be stilled by an effort of will. Perhaps it is a delayed reaction to the March wind, or perhaps that type of adrenaline which brings no relief but simply leaves one empty.
The notebook lies on the ventilation block—like a silent bridge between two worlds that should not have intersected on this roof. The cover has managed to absorb the meager morning warmth. Jun touches its edge, twisting his fingers so as to feel the rough, honest texture of the paper with his fingertips. A short pause—as if before a leap. He opens the notebook.
Point No. 43. "See a rainbow without rain. ✗"
The pencil cross stabs into the paper with such fury that the lead nearly tore through the sheet. This item is a malfunction in the neat system of entries. Jun has already learned the rhythm of this handwriting: diligent, almost sterile. But here, the letters break. They are crooked, uncertain, as if the hand at the last moment doubted whether it had the right to bring the thought to an end.
He stares at the line for too long. So long that the letters begin to blur.
Jun exhales. The sun, which just a second ago was obnoxiously bright, hides behind a cloud, and a draught of honest cold strikes his cheeks. The backpack falls onto the concrete with a dull thud. The zipper opens with an unpleasant screech.
The disc.
All the way, it had felt like a foreign, artificial heart in his backpack. When Jun takes it out, the surface of the plastic catches a stray beam. A rainbow glint, broken and uneven, races across the edge, for a moment coloring his fingers in hues that do not exist in his ordinary life.
A thought flashes inside—sharp, almost angry: too childish.
He brushes it aside. Sometimes, foolishness is a form of survival.
Jun takes out a pen. The cap yields with a short click. His fingers do not obey well—the cold has turned them into unyielding wood. The words in his head scatter.
Mind, fortunately, retreats.
The hand moves on its own. The ink bites into the paper.
"Try holding it up to the light. — Anonymous."
The handwriting comes out deliberately correct, almost printed, but in this correctness, tension is felt. The sharp zigzags of the "ㄹ" are like a faltering cardiogram. Every letter is rendered with the discipline of a person who is afraid of breaking down.
Jun freezes. He tries to imagine how these words will be seen by the one for whom they are intended. Whether they will become something important—or simply another strange marginal note on the pages of life.
The hollow school bell cuts the air. It is time.
He carefully places the disc between the pages. The rainbow arc flares one last time, leaving on the paper something remotely resembling warmth.
Jun sinks to his knees by the ventilation block. In the shadow behind the rusted pipe—there, where the notebook lay before—he returns it to its place. He presses it down from above with a heavy fragment of concrete bearing traces of old paint.
Not for camouflage.
For finality.
He stands up. The wind immediately erases his traces from the roof.