My name is Sang Hoo. I am a nineteen-year-old young man, living with my father in a small house that barely accommodates us. Yet, the warmth of our bond made up for its lack of grandeur. My father was poor—very poor—but he stood tall like a mountain against the winds, hiding his pain from me as a warrior conceals his wounds behind his shield.

In the neighborhood, I was seen as nothing more than a weak and poor boy. They never spared me their harsh words, words that weighed heavier than any material burden. They mocked me for our poverty and the fact that I couldn’t go to school like my peers. But despite all this, I refused to give in to despair. Every day, I walked beside my father through the neighborhood streets, helping him sell the simple toys he crafted with his tired hands.

I was handsome—handsome enough to make people pause at our little stand. They would smile at me, and perhaps that was the only reason some of them bought the "dakji," "cards," and "Uno" games that my father displayed. I’d watch them carefully choose, but deep down, I knew they bought them because they liked me—or maybe because they pitied us.

The night enveloped our small house in its cold darkness when my father stumbled in. The scent of alcohol clung to him—a smell I had never associated with him before. His eyes were heavy with sorrow, as if they bore the weight of the entire world. He sat on the floor in silence, a silence that felt heavier than words, before looking up at me and saying in a trembling voice:

"How long will this go on, huh? Tell me, Sang! How much longer?"

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I stood frozen, unable to answer, unable to ease the pain in his voice. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand with a force that made his desperation palpable and said, "Listen to me. I couldn’t give you a good life. You need to go to the capital. There, you’ll find work. You can live a better life."

"Father, what are you saying? I won’t leave you!"

But he cut me off, his voice rising in anguish: "Don’t argue, Sang Hoo! I couldn’t even take care of myself in this situation. You must go. Take this money… and leave!"

Before I could comprehend his words, he pulled me toward the door with a strength I didn’t know he had. I resisted, shouting, "Father, I don’t want to leave you! Father!" But his hands didn’t falter. He slammed the door shut behind me.

I stood there, screaming his name, pounding on the door with all my might, but there was no response. The only sound that reached me was the muffled sobbing from the other side. A sound that shattered what was left of my heart

I walked alone through the streets, tears streaming down my face, the silence broken only by my muffled sobs. The cold crept into my bones, but the pain in my heart was far worse. I kept asking myself, over and over: "How? How could he leave me like this, all alone?"

I spent countless exhausting nights wandering aimlessly, struggling with every step to make my way to the capital. My weary legs dragged my body across harsh roads, and after what felt like an eternity, I finally arrived. But the capital was no sanctuary. It was a maze of unfamiliar faces and streets, offering no warmth, no home.

I became a beggar, roaming the alleys at night, holding out my hands to strangers, pleading for kindness. But it was as if the world had turned deaf to my cries. I scraped together small coins, barely enough to buy bread. A piece here, a sip of water there, just to survive another day.

One morning, as I sat on the cold pavement, drained from a sleepless night, a man appeared before me, carrying a brown bag. Without a word, he approached and sat beside me, his movements calm and deliberate. There was an air of mystery about him, but his eyes held something I couldn’t quite place.

Slowly, he opened his bag, as if unveiling a hidden world. I glanced inside and saw something that stopped me in my tracks: a few bills of money… and a "dakji" game. My heart skipped a beat. That game, that simple thing I used to sell with my father, had reappeared, now held by the hands of a stranger.