Cracks had formed along the concrete walls of the building, and some parts had already crumbled away.
The window frames were rusted, and the remaining shards of glass rattled softly in the wind.
The air was filled with the smell of mold, dust, and moisture. The wall cracked, and fine fractures spread as moss began to grow over it. Light filtered only through the cracks in the window, illuminating the dust swirling in the air. It was clear that no one had entered this place for a long time. Silent and reeking of rust, the room felt as though any sound would only be met with an echo.
In the middle of the room lay someone. Their uniform was crimson-stained, slowly spreading beneath their body. Their hand hung limply, fingers twitching slightly, a sticky sheen glistening between them. Their breath came in ragged gasps, chest rising only faintly. Their face was pale, and their damp eyes shimmered in the beam of light — a thousand emotions flickering in their gaze.
In the stillness, only the sound of dripping water and the wind blowing beyond the window could be heard.
But in an instant, it was as if the entire building came alive — trembling, the air itself thickening, making it hard to breathe.
'It hurts… it hurts so much.
Am I really going to die like this?
There are so many things I never said… so many things I never did…'
The contents of their bag were scattered all around, but their broken phone lay discarded beside them. Its screen flickered intermittently — the name "Song Seo Hoon" appearing faintly before going dark again. Unable to move even a finger, covered in dust and blood, they stared blankly at the phone, lips trembling as if to speak.
At 3:05 p.m., through the streets of Seoul, an ambulance blared its siren, pleading for a path to be cleared. Cars move aside to clear the way, but others refuse — some even cursing in frustration. With the traffic jam, letting even a single vehicle pass might have seemed extremely troublesome. Yet in the ambulance, a mother was clutching her four-year-old daughter's tiny hand, silently pleading for her life — how could anyone possibly know?
Over the loudspeaker, the urgent message repeated: "Make way! Emergency! Life-threatening situation! Clear the way immediately!" Finally, perhaps seeing no other choice, drivers gave way.
At Cheongwon Hospital's emergency department, doctors rushed frantically. The four-year-old girl had suffered severe internal and external injuries from being struck by lightning.
They immediately assessed her airway, breathing, circulation, nervous system, and conducted a full-body examination before rushing her into surgery. Within minutes, she was being wheeled from the emergency room to the operating theater. The entire process lasted a mere fifteen minutes — but only to the doctors did it feel so brief.
For the family, however, watching their unconscious child without being able to intervene was pure torment. Time seemed either frozen or unbearably fast. They could think of nothing, do nothing, as the doors to the operating room closed before them.
The words "Surgery in progress" streamed in red across the electronic board. In the waiting room, the only sound was a woman's heart-wrenching sobs. Nothing else pierced the silence. A man seated beside her longed to comfort his wife, to tell her everything would be all right, but he found he could not.
He turned to his eldest son, fourteen years old, placed his motherly responsibility on the boy's young shoulders, and moved to the far corner of the corridor. There, he pressed his hands together until they ached.
Until now, he had always relied on himself — a steadfast believer not in miracles, but in his own strength. Yet now, he found himself praying to someone, something. It mattered not whether the prayer was heard, or whether the being existed — he simply prayed. Because there was nothing else he could do, nowhere else to place his hope.
In this hospital, he promised he would do everything to make his newborn daughter happy the first time he held her. Now, all he can do is sit and wait.
Time passed, or perhaps it felt endless, until finally, the doors opened. Every gaze in the room turned toward them, eyes brimming with hope. The doctor made his way directly to their seats in the waiting room, not looking around. His steps were slow and weary, his face drawn and hollow, as he came up and said,
"The surgery is over."
No one dared breathe as they strained to hear the words that followed.
" We performed all the necessary procedures. The accumulated blood in the brain has been removed, and the pressure relieved. But you must understand — this is only the beginning. The patient's condition remains critical. The brain, heart, and kidneys have all suffered damage due to the electric shock. We are supporting her breathing with a ventilator and her heart and kidney function with medication. The next 24 to 72 hours will be crucial. If she survives this critical period, we will attempt to awaken her in the coming days."
He paused, his gaze heavy with concern.
"I must tell you plainly: the recovery process for a child with such severe injuries will be long and complex. Damage to the brain may affect movement, speech, and cognitive function. Now, all we can do is wait and hope."
With a bowed head, the doctor offered a silent apology to the family and then turned to leave, each step echoing the weight of the words he had delivered.
The words "The surgery was successful" shone in their hearts like sunlight breaking through clouds. Yet the doctor's next words covered that light once more, leaving them suspended between joy and grief. They could neither celebrate nor mourn, placing their trust solely in the steady passage of time. It was an unstable balance, poised between happiness and sorrow, hope and fear, life and death.
Once, the trees had been adorned in a riot of colors; now they wore shades of red and gold. Though the warmth of the season embraced the city, a subtle unease lingered, as if urging someone to reach out, to pour out their heart. That season passed quietly.
Seoul received its first snow, and people wrapped themselves in warm clothing. The streets and sidewalks thronged with pedestrians seeking shelter from the cold, drifting into shops and cafés, sharing small, fleeting conversations over cups of coffee. Thus, one busy season slipped away.
Then came the season of questions: hot or cold? Should one wear a warm coat or a light jacket? It was the season to breathe deeply, to wander outside, to chase someone's smile, to feel the stirrings of excitement.
The summer arrived in full force. Children ran under the scorching sun, seeking shade while sipping cold drinks, sweat dripping from the smallest exertions. It was the season of outdoor adventures, of joy and freedom.
Autumn returned once again. From the hospital window, life carried on as before — people hurried along the streets, cars buzzed past, the rhythm of daily life unbroken.
Yet in Room 406, the patient remained unconscious. The notes on the bedside chart detailed her heartbreaking condition:
Patient: Go Nau Rin, born February 1, 1998, five years old. Diagnosis: Lightning strike injury, severe head trauma, elevated intracranial pressure, electrical burns (Grade II–III on arms, shoulders, and back) comatose condition.
The physician's notes recorded:
Over the past year, all necessary surgeries and treatments have been performed. At present, the child's condition is stable, yet there are no observable signs of brain function recovery. Changes in hair and eye color remain unexplained. It is considered possible that the lightning strike caused electrical-thermal injuries, altered melanocyte activity, or genetic-level damage. This case has been recorded as a rare occurrence.
Sunlight streamed through the tall window that stretched from ceiling to floor, flooding the room with warmth and light. Along the walls, there were no pictures, yet on the small four-compartment cabinet beside the bed, a 10×15 cm framed photo captured the family laughing together at a game center, glowing with joy. Nearby, the table lamp and the small toys given by friends were neatly arranged in a row. Facing the foot of the bed, a neatly made rice-colored mat lay in place, and a small chair with a backrest on the left side completed the room's sense of order and comfort.
Over time, this room had become a home for the family. From morning until night, the mother cared for her daughter, while the son returned from school and immersed his little sister in a sea of knowledge — from Einstein's theory of relativity to entropy and thermodynamics, Maslow's hierarchy of needs, Pascal's pyramid, and probability theory. This was all he could do.
He believed that reading at least one book a day might spark some response in her mind. He carefully maintained notes on every lesson, saving them for his sister, knowing they might one day be useful. As her elder brother, he had embraced the responsibility of watching over her, supporting her, and being her anchor. His first responsibility in life.
The father worked tirelessly from dawn until dusk. From the outside, he might have seemed weary, yet his white shirt was impeccably pressed, flawless without a single wrinkle. His suit, simple yet perfectly fitted as if tailored for him alone, was elegant without being ostentatious. No one who saw him would have guessed the immense trials he endured in life's most difficult moments.
Every day, after work, he hurried toward the hospital, pushing his tired body to its limit. No matter how drained he felt, the sight of the hospital quickened his steps; he almost ran, yet always paused for a few moments before the door. He carried a fragile hope that when he opened the door, his daughter might smile up at him — yet at the same time, he feared facing her unconscious form once more. But he could not linger there forever, whether he wished it or not, he had to open the door.
Inside the room, his wife sat quietly by the bed, holding their daughter's small hand as she slept.
"Darling," he whispered, gently tapping her shoulder. She stirred with a soft murmur.
"Why didn't you sleep on the couch? You're stiff," his voice carried quiet concern.
"I was waiting for you. It's so cold and windy outside today."
"Think of yourself, not me. You must be exhausted from taking care of her," he said quietly, shrugging off his coat and settling into the chair.
"I picked this up by the subway station," he said, handing him a paper bag. She opened it and found a pudding — his favorite. She looked at him with gratitude, silently thankful that he remained her anchor even in the hardest moments.
"I'll stay awake a little while, then sleep," he turned, settled heavily into the backed chair, allowing his exhausted body a moment of rest.
"Don't stay up too late," she said, arranging the foldable bed set up for the patient's family, and lay down to rest.
Though he shuffled papers and stared at screens, most of his time was devoted to watching their daughter.
Sunlight touched the edge of the glass building outside, spilling faintly into the room, hinting at the rising day. But the calm was fleeting. Suddenly, an alarm blared, shattering the silence, and they sprang to attention. He quickly looked toward his daughter and saw the ventilator's monitor fluctuate, sounding an alarm.
Soon, the doctors rushed into the room and began their examination. Her fingers twitched faintly, her breathing was unstable, her heart rate had quickened, and brain activity had spiked. Watching all of this from beside her, the parents could hardly comprehend what was happening; they fumbled anxiously, faces pale, eyes wide with fear, silently seeking help from the doctors.
The doctors completed their assessment.
"Congratulations. Your daughter is fully awake. She is breathing on her own, recognizing her surroundings, and opening her eyes gradually. The ventilator has been removed, and her heart rate is stable. Nursing care continues, but her condition is now stable," he said, a gentle smile softening his face.
After the long, agonizing wait, tears of relief and joy streamed down their faces. Before touching the ground, they ran toward their daughter, hearts overflowing with happiness, love, and gratitude.