Maybe I would have died back in third grade, at eight or nine years old. Thinking that, a strange feeling sprouted toward this life that had been extended back then. A feeling that was tender, grateful, like a guardian saying, “You’ve come this far.”

There was almost no one else walking through the dark midnight streets. I felt like a small fragment of his passion—his flame—had transferred to me, and was quietly glowing inside. As the night breeze passed through my body, it felt cool and comforting.

But I realized then—when someone is deeply moved, they can’t always respond with proper words. It wasn’t “Come visit again,” but “Come home again.”

There are times when life and living feel unbearably painful. But I don’t think life itself is a bad thing. There are warm, gentle moments. There are always friends who welcome you with open arms. No one is ever truly alone.

Eventually, I found myself sinking into that lake—fully immersed. My body gently descended toward the depths, slowly, peacefully. I surrendered to the pull of gravity. That sensation of falling felt so natural, so comforting—so beautiful.