Where the Forest Doesn’t Choose Sides

Dear Joon-ho,

I wasn’t planning to stop. But the trees leaned in a certain way, and the path—if you can call it that—seemed to invite something more than just passing through. Tucked into a clearing, surrounded by moss and silence, I found a stone Buddha, weathered and serene. He sits not in grandeur, but in acceptance. And just beside him—leaning slightly as if listening—stands a wooden chapel. A simple structure. Candles lit. Still warm.

At first I thought I was dreaming. Religion, here? And two of them at once? A contradiction, or a conversation? I stood very still, as if moving too quickly would make it disappear.

There were no signs. No slogans. No guards. Just presence.

I didn’t enter the chapel, not fully. But I looked in. The floor is swept. The air smells of wax and pine. Someone cares for this place. Someone still comes. Maybe often. Maybe secretly.

I sat beside the Buddha for a while. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Just listened—to the trees, the quiet, the faint echo of something older than rules.

You remember that tiny book you lent me? The one with the torn cover and the gentle defiance? I’ve been reading it, slowly. I carry it in the scooter’s side pocket. It fits there, perfectly. Like it was meant to be smuggled. Or maybe just… carried.

There’s a line I keep thinking about: “Even the still stone whispers, when you wait long enough.”

This place whispered. Not loudly. But enough.

I don’t know what to call it. Peace? Anomaly? Home?

Wherever you are tonight—raise your glass for what shouldn’t exist, and does.

In stillness,
Min-seok