The story of my life comically divides itself into the “before” and “after” of two specific winter nights: before and after that night I was five; before and after that night I was seventeen. I suppose of those two incidents, the former is far more dramatic than the latter, especially since I just don’t remember much of anything about my life before it.

What I do remember about that night is always the same: I lie awake, unable to sleep. Everything is quiet and the world holds its breath as I wait for...honestly, I don’t know – whatever it is, it’s not something I can name. My arms and legs twitch with a buzzing current of potential energy and I follow that jittery feeling to the nearby window, sliding it wide open so the cold, crisp air drifts in.

I look up and see the moon.

It’s so big and so bright, that in my silly little head, I think if I just stretch out my hand, I could snatch it from the star-dusted sky. But I’ve never been able to, not even in my dreams. So, instead, all I do is run – run, run, run through the streets and toward Gyeongju National Park. How exactly did I know the way? How did I even manage to sneak out unnoticed onto the freezing city streets? Nobody’s ever been able to explain that.

Something flashes gold in my periphery and, despite the moonlit dark, something shines out towards where I now know Wolji Pond rests alongside Donggung Palace. Whatever it is holds there: a bright golden glimmer, half-hidden by one of the pavilions that rise from the pond’s edge, like some strange candle in the night that’s…waiting. In whatever fugue state drives my child-brain, that light feels like an invitation -- an invitation so real I swear I actually hear a rich and melodic voice whisper the unspoken words in my head: Come.

Nothing else moves. Everything sleeps.

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Beneath my feet, the snow does not pack or crunch; soft and pillowy, a light breeze could still pick it up to dance patterns across the air. And that’s what it does as, again, I run. I want to get to that light sooner, faster; a taste of potentially dangerous mystery tingles through to my little fingers and toes. Each breath of the night air fills my lungs and I exhale hazy clouds in front of my face. Everything smells like ice and snow; it smells like clear winter, unpolluted by the modern parts of Gyeongju.

Until the tang of the temples -- of incense and sleeping spirits -- tickles like smoke, sweet and sharp in my nose. I run along a path I do and don’t know, following the shafts of moonlight that beam down to pierce through the shadows of the massive park. I chase that flicker of gold.

I am running, running along the park’s path, past Cheomseongdae and Gyerim Forest, past the trees around Ban-wolseong, and finally through the small forest that exits at Wolji Pond’s bank to jump over the raised stone wall onto the ice-covered water. My bare feet should slip, but they hold fast to the frozen earth with ease. And there is the gold light. I shield my eyes with my hand. It’s too bright -- like looking directly into the sun.

At first I only hear my own, heavy breathing, before, suddenly, over it weaves a song. A strange song that would be beautiful were it not so loud. It crashes around my head, overpowering that once sweet voice. I clamp my teeth together. Tears are in my eyes, but not from the cold: from the agony of that noise. I feel like blood should pour from my ears from the sharp, high keening.

And everything shakes, the ground around me shifting. Metal clangs together, something cracks--

It’s dark...and it’s cold.

And I’m afraid.

I can’t hear that noise anymore. Everything has gone quiet. I think I hear someone call my name and I want to respond.

But I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.