Dear Joon-ho,
I didn’t mean to end up here. The scooter coughed its way down a forest track that looked like nothing, and suddenly I was standing at the edge of something enormous—an empire of empty hotels.
Imagine a city built for laughter, then drained of voices. Towers lined up like soldiers, balconies staring at each other with no one to wave. Streets so wide you can hear your own footsteps echo. And the strangest thing—everything is guarded, but no one is there. Only the main roads watched. The forest trail I took was silent. Almost like they didn’t expect anyone would come by accident.
I spent two nights in one of the hotels. The sheets smelled faintly of dust and salt. Elevators still worked, though only grudgingly, as if protesting the lack of purpose. In the dining hall, chairs were stacked neatly, tables set but untouched—like an endless rehearsal dinner waiting for guests who never arrive.
By day, I walked the deserted boardwalks, hearing the sea crash against promises it never believed. By night, the resort glowed faintly with security lamps, but no music, no chatter, just the hum of wires.
I kept asking myself: Who was this for? Who is it waiting for? The ghosts of tourists? A dream of importance? Or maybe it was never about the people at all.
I felt both free and watched. Both invisible and out of place. A trespasser in a dream that never woke.
If I make it back, I’ll tell you more over a drink. Though I suspect the silence will say it better than I can.
Raise your glass for what’s too big to be hidden, and too empty to be alive.
Yours,
Min-seok
Min-seok
Joon-ho
