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Another day blurred into the next, just like every other. Job hunting had become a routine of quiet desperation, each rejection weighing heavier than the last. Sometimes, interviews were canceled before they could even begin, like doors closing quietly in the distance. The IMF crisis had struck the country hard—layoffs, bankruptcies, entire lives upended. Everyone was struggling to stay afloat.
Solace came in fleeting moments, like today, when the bus rolled past Sillim Market. It carried Geum-myeong back to the place that had been her second home in Seoul for four years: the Cannes Theater. When she first started, she never imagined staying longer than a few months. The pay and the work was never much, but the warmth of the people there made up for it. Even the owner, gruff as he was, treated her with unexpected kindness. And then, of course, there was him. Quiet, stubborn Picasso in the theater's basement, who had helped her get the part-time job in the first place.
Fate, it seemed, had a sense of humor. That night, they were playing Cinema Paradiso once again. A favorite at the theater, its reels had spun countless times over the years. But this screening would be its last. They, too, had been struck by the crisis. On December 1st, the doors of Cannes Theater would close for good.
Watching the film again felt like slipping into a memory. For a brief moment, she was back in her early twenties, back in a spring that smelled of fresh flowers and possibility. But winter had settled over her life now, long and unrelenting. As she sat on the crowded bus heading home, exhaustion crept back in. She shut her eyes, willing herself to rest—to escape, even for a moment, from the weight of it all.
She woke to the sound of the driver calling out, “Everyone off. This is the last stop.” The bus was already empty, save for a man sitting in the seat ahead, his body turned sideways, one arm draped over the backrest of the seat in front of him. He was watching her.
“Is this a dream?” she uttered, glancing around. “Is it?”
She had fallen asleep leaning against the bus window and stirred slightly after remaining in one position for quite a while. A scarf she hadn’t realized she was resting on slipped from her head and fell into her lap.
“Yes,” the man said shyly. “Do you…recognize me?”
It took her a few seconds to regain her senses, but there was no mistaking it. How could she not?
“Park Toto.”
Chung-seop guffawed. She had never thought it possible for such sound to come out of him of all people, but he was laughing heartily at those two words.
“I’m sorry. It’s just…I, uh, haven’t heard that name in a while,” he said, chuckling. “How’ve you been?”
How’ve you been.
Three simple words, yet they nearly undid her. She had heard those same words from her mom countless times, always calling, always checking in. Every time, she wanted to say it all: I lost my job. I’m exhausted from constantly looking for work. I live miles away from home. I'm lonely. I miss Mom and Dad. I'm tired. I feel hopeless. Empty. And heavy. So heavy...being the damn pillar of the Yang household. But the words never came. The guilt always swallowed them. Her parents had sacrificed everything for her, how dare she feel this way? But it really was heavy. How could she lift this weight off her heart? Sometimes, she just wanted to climb a mountain and shout it all out at the top. And now, hearing those three words from him, the ache in her chest grew. How could she tell him that the Christmas tree he once spoke of had long since lost its sparkle?
Before she could reply, he began, “I saw you. It was nearly two years ago, the day I got discharged. You got on a bus I had just alighted. I thought I had already buried everything deep in my heart after all these years, but when I saw you, all of it came rushing back, washing over me like a wave. That’s when I realized…‘I can’t let this pass by without trying. I can’t wait for the next life.’”
Despite Alfredo’s final advice, Toto eventually gave in to nostalgia after decades. But unlike Toto in the movie, Park Toto chose to give in before it was too late.
“Actually,” he continued, “I chased you from the theater. I ran like mad. I couldn’t let you slip away, even if it meant losing my breath.”
Geum-myeong was speechless. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was this really a dream? The last time Chung-seop had spoken with such clarity, such certainty, was in December of ’93, when they had stood together on their neighborhood hilltop, gazing at the biggest Christmas tree in the country. It always makes your heart pound. The words echoed in her head as if she had just heard them yesterday.
“Were you…alone at the theater?” His voice pulled her gently from her short reverie.
She nodded. “Yes…”
“I see.” His response came quickly, almost reflexively. He seemed relieved.
She hesitated, the words careful on her tongue. “Were you also—”
“Ah, yes…Yes.”
December 1993. That was the last time she had seen him. The last time she had heard from or about him. She had believed she would never see him again after he left that breathtaking portrait of her in the theater’s basement. He looked completely different now, yet somehow, he was still the same. And they were just as awkward as ever. Fate really did have a sense of humor.
“Wah...finally,” he added after a moment. “This is when we use the word, ‘finally,’ right?”
He let out a small breath, as if saying it aloud made it real. A quiet understanding settled between them. For the first time, there was no one else—no tangled histories, no lingering attachments—just them.
They both smiled, laughter bubbling up naturally. Geum-myeong put her hands over her hair and fixed her bangs, suddenly aware of herself, of the way her fingers trembled slightly. Chung-seop shifted in his seat, his shoulders relaxing as if shedding a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying. His grin lingered, wide and unguarded. And his eyes. His eyes that once held quiet hesitation but now glowed with something lighter.
Just when doors kept closing, another creaked open.
Just when winter seemed endless, the first signs of spring began to bloom.
Just when she thought she had no one left in Seoul, he had returned.
And just for a moment, she felt the weight in her chest lighten just a little.
Finally.