The moment he stepped through the base's main gate, the wind felt different.
It was the same wind, but it felt different. The wind that blew against him inside the barbed-wire fence had felt like an order to go somewhere. The wind outside was just wind. Wind blowing in without any meaning. That was what frightened him more.
Seokjun Moon stood in front of the main gate and took out his phone. The time on the screen read 10:42 a.m. It was early for someone who had just completed his discharge report. No one had come to meet him. He hadn't asked anyone to.
One suitcase. He had gotten rid of the bag that used to hold his kendo bamboo sword before enlisting. On the day he submitted his college withdrawal papers, he sold three bamboo swords secondhand. Thirty thousand won. That was what something he'd held for more than ten years was worth: thirty thousand won.
He got on a bus. Forty minutes to the terminal. Rice fields passed outside the window, then greenhouses, then a restaurant with a sign hanging halfway off. Seokjun rested his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes.
The police exam.
He had said he would take the police exam after being discharged. He'd said it to his father, to his Aunt, and to his military buddies. He was confident in his physical abilities. He'd practiced kendo for ten years, after all. The written test was the problem. During the three months before enlisting, he had worked through past exam questions on his own, but criminal law had looked like a foreign language. He studied whenever he could in the military, too. He read criminal procedure by the light of his phone after the barracks lights were turned off.
He failed.
Not once, but twice. He even failed the final exam before his discharge. After checking his score, he shut off his phone. He didn't tell anyone for three days.
After getting off at the terminal, he took a bus to Seoul. Three hours. Seokjun couldn't sleep. Instead of sleep, thoughts came.
Twenty-four years old. College dropout. No certifications. No experience. The one thing he could do—kendo. But he'd already given that up.
There was nothing he could do.
He arrived in Seoul. Express Bus Terminal. People poured out in every direction. Seokjun dragged his suitcase down to the subway station. Home was in the direction of Gyeonggi Province. Another hour.
His phone rang on the subway. It was his Aunt.
"Seokjun, you're discharged?"
"Yes, Aunt. I'm on the subway right now."
"Have you eaten?"
"No."
"I'll make you something when you get home. Your Uncle said he had something to talk to you about."
After hanging up, Seokjun gripped the handrail. His uncle by marriage. Dongwoo Yoo. His Aunt's husband. He did interior film installation. Seokjun didn't know exactly what the job involved. Whenever they met during the holidays, his uncle's hands were always rough. There was something stuck beneath his fingernails, and every knuckle bore marks like cuts from a knife.
His Aunt's place. Third floor of a villa apartment. When he opened the front door, the smell of doenjang stew greeted him.
"You're here? Oh, you've lost weight."
His Aunt took Seokjun's face in both hands and turned it from side to side. Seokjun smiled. It had been a long time since he'd smiled.
His Uncle was sitting at the table. He wore a short-sleeved T-shirt and work pants. His forearms were thick. When he saw Seokjun, he gave a single nod.
"Sit."
Seokjun sat down. His Aunt served him rice and set down a bowl of stew. Seokjun picked up his spoon.
"I heard the police thing didn't work out."
That was his Uncle's opening line. Seokjun's spoon stopped.
"...No."
"You failed twice?"
"Yes."
"What about a third time?"
Seokjun couldn't answer. He had no intention of taking it a third time. After failing twice, he understood. This wasn't a problem of physical ability. It was a problem of his mind, and Seokjun's mind simply wasn't built for it.
His Uncle scooped up a spoonful of doenjang stew. He blew on it, ate it, and then spoke.
"Come work with me starting tomorrow."
"...What?"
"Interior film. You put on adhesive film. Furniture, doors, kitchen counters. You make old things look new. Learn the trade, and you can make a living."
Seokjun looked at his Aunt. She was adding tofu to the stew. She didn't look at him. The two of them had already discussed this.
"It's hard. I'm telling you in advance—it's insanely hard. Job sites aren't a joke. I won't go easy on you, either. If I go easy because you're my nephew, you'll get chewed up on-site. Understand?"
Seokjun set down his spoon.
Interior film. Adhesive film. He had heard of it. He had never done it. He had never even been interested in it. Not once had those words appeared in Seokjun's plans for his life.
But there was nothing in Seokjun's plans for his life now.
"Yes. I'll do it."
His Uncle looked at Seokjun. Two or three seconds. Then he nodded.
"Six tomorrow morning. If you're late, I'll leave without you."
That night, Seokjun lay in the small room at his Aunt's place and stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent light trembled faintly. He had no idea what he was going to be doing starting tomorrow. Had it been like this when he first started kendo? No, it had been different then. Back then, he'd started because he wanted to.
Now he was starting because this was the only thing he could do.
Seokjun closed his eyes. He set his alarm for 5:30.
Six tomorrow morning. His Uncle had said he would leave without him if he was late. His Uncle wasn't the kind of person who said things like that as a joke.