Spring arrived on the island not with a shout, but with a whisper. A soft green haze appeared on the branches of the pine trees. The first brave camellias pushed through the cold earth, their blooms a defiant splash of crimson against the grey. Min Jae felt the change not just in the air, but in his own bones—a gentle loosening, a quiet, cellular optimism. He was in the final season of his own life, and he found he loved this one, too. It was a season of distillation, where all that was unnecessary had evaporated, leaving only the potent, essential essence.
He spent his mornings in the garden, not doing, but observing. He knew every resident: the industrious blackbird who nested in the trellis each year, the ancient tortoise who lumbered through the ferns, the specific pattern of lichen on the sun-warmed stone bench. This small, vibrant kingdom was enough. The empire he had once presided over felt like a dream from another man's life, vivid but ultimately inconsequential.
