I'm known as Ahjussi around here.
It's funny, really. I'm only forty, but hard labor on factory floors, lifting crates in cold dawn air, and cheap cigarettes when I couldn't afford a meal… it aged me before I even realized it. My back creaks like old wood when I bend, and the mirror shows deep lines beneath my tired eyes, the kind that tell everyone I've lived three lives in one body.
But the truth? I'm just a man who never had the chance to live even one.
I drag myself up the narrow stairs to my apartment, the plastic bag of discounted vegetables hitting my leg with each step. The hallway smells like boiled kimchi and stale cigarettes, and a flickering light at the end buzzes like it's about to give up. My door groans when I unlock it, and I'm hit with the usual cold, empty air.
This place is small. A folding mattress on the floor, a tiny kitchen with a leaky faucet, and a TV that crackles whenever I try to watch music shows. But it's mine.
"Ahjussi!"
I turn before I can even close the door. There they are. Two bright-eyed twins, clinging to my legs like I'm some hero returned from battle.
"Ahjussi! Look, look!" Da-Eun, the girl, holds up a drawing—stick figures of me, her, and her brother, all under a crooked sun.
"Is that me?" I ask, managing a tired chuckle.
She nods, eyes wide, "You're smiling here!"
I don't know what to say to that.
"Don't bother Ahjussi, kids," a soft voice calls out, and Yoo Ah-Ri appears in the doorway of her apartment, wiping flour off her hands. She's young, maybe twenty-five, but there's a heaviness in her eyes too. Being a single mother of twins in Seoul does that, I suppose.
"It's okay," I say, ruffling Da-Eun's hair before glancing at her brother, Min-Jun, who is tugging at my jacket for attention.
Ah-Ri smiles, tired but warm, before she shoos them back into her apartment, mouthing a "thank you" to me.
I'm left in the quiet again. The quiet is the worst.
I throw the vegetables in the fridge, toss my jacket onto the mattress, and turn on the TV. Idols are dancing on the screen—flashing lights, flawless smiles, voices that carry hope in every note. For a moment, I let myself be carried away, humming softly as I watch them dance across the stage like they own the world.
It's stupid, but sometimes I let myself remember. When I was thirteen, someone saw me rap at a festival and told me I had talent. They handed the orphanage director a card, told them I could audition to be a trainee. I practiced in the bathroom mirror, dancing quietly so no one would hear.
But paperwork, signatures, fees—dreams are expensive. The director refused. "It's not stable, you need to work when you're old enough." And so, I worked.
And now, I watch them dance on TV while I eat cold rice, the room dark except for the screen's glow.
Later that night, I find it again. A crumpled napkin, shoved in the back of a drawer. My handwriting, messy, lyrics I wrote during a fifteen-minute break at the factory years ago:
"If I could dance again, if I could sing again,
Would the world hear me this time?"
Pathetic.
I clutch the napkin as I lie back on the mattress, the TV still on. Another group finishes their final performance on an idol survival show, confetti raining down, their tears mixing with their sweat. Their smiles are real, even through the exhaustion.
"Congratulations on your debut," the host says, as the group huddles together, screaming.
I want that. Even if I'm too old. Even if it's stupid. Even if no one would care if I disappeared tomorrow.
"Ahjussi, I'll be an idol one day!" Min-Jun had said once, showing me his dance move with a grin so bright it made the hallway feel like summer. I had patted his head and laughed, "You will."
But me? I'm just an ahjussi watching someone else's dream.
I don't remember when I fall asleep, but I dream.
In the dream, I'm on a stage, lights blinding me, a crowd screaming. My voice is strong, my body light, every move confident. I feel alive.
And then, something flickers.
A screen appears in front of me, golden pixels dancing like fireflies, forming letters:
"Welcome to the Wish System. State your wish."
I blink, confused, looking around for whoever is playing a prank. But the screen hovers, waiting patiently, the letters pulsing.
I clutch the napkin tighter in my fist, the lyrics smudged now from my sweaty palm. A laugh escapes me, half-crazy, half-broken, echoing in the silence.
"I wish to become an idol," I whisper.
The screen flashes pink, the letters shifting:
"Quest: Perform on the street. Reward: Transformation."
And then it disappears, the glow fading, leaving me alone in the dark, the TV buzzing softly in the background.
I wake up with a jolt, the napkin still in my hand, crumpled and damp.
Was it just a dream?
I sit up, rubbing my face, the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains. The twins are laughing outside, Ah-Ri's voice telling them to hold still while she ties their shoes.
My phone screen lights up, a notification I've never seen before pulsing:
"Quest: Perform on the street. Reward: Transformation."
I drop the phone, my heart hammering.
It wasn't a dream.
I look around my cramped, cold room, the stained walls, the dusty corners, the empty takeout containers.
And then I look at the napkin.
My hands tremble, but I press my lips together, forcing myself to stand.
I don't know if it's real. I don't know if it's stupid. I don't know if it will change anything.
But for once, I want to try.
Because if this is a wish, then I will wish it fully.
And if the world won't give me a stage, I'll find one myself.