CONTENTS

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Part One: The Last Morning 3
Chapter 1. Farewell To The Wheel 3
Chapter 2. Old Habits 6
Chapter 3. Shadows Of The Park 10
Chapter 4. First Passengers 13
Chapter 5. Leaving The City 16
Part Two: Road Of Memories 20
Chapter 6. Student By The Window 20
Chapter 7. Sleeping Child 23
Chapter 8. Old Man With A Bird 26
Chapter 9. Rain In The Mountains 29
Chapter 10. Stop At The Temple 33
Part Three: Voices Of The Path 35
Chapter 11. Conversation With The Businessman 35
Chapter 12. Story Of Lovers 38
Chapter 13. Wisdom Of The Monk 41
Chapter 14. Laughter Of Schoolchildren 46
Chapter 15. Song In Headphones 49
Part Four: Through The Day 53
Chapter 16. Midday Heat 53
Chapter 17. Unexpected Meeting 55
Chapter 18. Storm Over The Fields 59
Chapter 19. Quiet Hour 62
Chapter 20. Evening Haze 64
Part Five: To The Sea 67
Chapter 21. Sunset Road 67
Chapter 22. Last Kilometers 70
Chapter 23. Lights Ahead 72
Chapter 24. Sound Of Surf 75
Chapter 25. Final Stop 77
Part Six: New Beginning 80
Chapter 26. The Young Driver 80
Chapter 27. Passing The Keys 82
Chapter 27. Passing The Keys 84
Chapter 29. First Stars 86
Chapter 30. Sunrise Over The Sea 88
From Author 90
Copyright 91

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PART ONE: THE LAST MORNING

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CHAPTER 1. FAREWELL TO THE WHEEL

The red digits on the dashboard show 4:45. In the pre-dawn darkness, they seem alive - pulsing like the heart of the bus. I grip the wheel, and the leather wrapping responds with familiar warmth. For thirty years, every morning began the same way - with this touch, this warmth under my palms. Today - for the last time.

The bus depot still sleeps. Only the streetlights cast yellow circles on the wet asphalt, and somewhere in the distance an engine purrs - probably Kim Jong-su preparing his vehicle for the mountain route. He always arrives earlier than everyone. Except me.

I run my fingers along the wheel, feeling every worn spot, every irregularity. Here, on the right, the leather is more worn - I always gripped tighter on turns. And this small crack appeared that day when we got caught in a snowstorm on the pass. We stood for twelve hours until they cleared the road. The passengers slept wrapped in blankets, but I couldn't take my hands off the wheel - it felt like the bus might slip down at any moment.

The cabin smells of artificial leather seats and lavender air freshener. This scent has permeated my uniform shirt, my skin, even my dreams it seems. My wife says I smell like the road. Perhaps she's right. The road became my home, and this bus - my real family.

I flip the switch, and soft light floods the cabin. Thirty-two seats stare at me with empty eye sockets. How many people have sat in them over these years? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Each had their own story, their own destiny, their own path. I was part of these stories, an invisible guide from point A to point B.

I remember the young couple who met on my bus. He was traveling on business, she was visiting her parents. They happened to sit next to each other, started talking. A year later they invited me to their wedding. I couldn't go - had a route. But they send a New Year's card every year. Last year they sent a photo - they have three children now.

And that old man with the birdcage? Every week he rode to the neighboring town to visit his grandson in the hospital. The bird in the cage sang the whole way. "It's for the boy," the old man would say. "When it sings, he forgets about the pain." For six months I drove him back and forth. Then he stopped appearing. I never found out if his grandson recovered.

Outside, it's beginning to gray. Dawn is coming. I stand and walk to the back door - to check the emergency exit, as I did every morning. The floor springs softly under my feet, responding to each step. At the end of the cabin I stop, turn around. Thirty-two seats stare at me silently. How many conversations have they heard? How many secrets do they keep?

I return to the cabin. The clock shows 5:15. Time to prepare for the route. I start the engine, and the bus responds with familiar purring. I'd recognize this sound out of a thousand - slightly hoarse at idle, it becomes smooth and powerful as soon as you press the gas.

The first rays of sun break through the clouds, painting the sky in soft pink. Other buses enter the parking lot. The usual morning movement begins - drivers checking their vehicles, mechanics doing final inspections, dispatchers handing out route sheets.

Park Chong-su approaches me - the senior dispatcher. We started in the same year. Only he quickly moved to dispatch - said he was tired of the road. But I couldn't. The road holds tighter than any woman.

"Last day?" he asks, extending the route sheet.

I nod, unable to speak. A lump in my throat prevents words.

"Gave you a good route - to the sea. You'll finish where the sunrise begins."

He pats my shoulder and walks away, limping on his left leg. Old injury - rolled over on a mountain road fifteen years ago. Survived by miracle.

I look at the route sheet. Seoul - Sokcho. Six hours through the mountains to the East Sea. I love this route. In spring the cherry blossoms bloom there, in summer golden waves of wheat cover the fields, in autumn the mountains blaze red and yellow, and in winter everything is wrapped in a white snowy blanket.

A bus enters the lot - new, gleaming. Behind the wheel is a young man, almost a boy. He parks next to me, and the difference between our vehicles becomes even more noticeable. My bus is like an old warrior who's been through hundreds of battles. His - like a recruit who hasn't yet tasted real road.

The young man gets out, bows to me. I know he's my successor - Kim Tae-hyun. They say he's the best graduate of the drivers' school. Tomorrow he'll take my place, drive my route. I wonder if he'll learn to feel the road the way I do? Will he understand that a bus isn't just a machine, but a living being with its own character and soul?

The first passengers begin gathering by the bus. Time to go. I check the instruments one last time, adjust the mirrors. All movements are honed by years - my hands know what to do by themselves. My body remembers every curve of the seat, every button on the panel.

I look in the rearview mirror. A tired face with gray temples and wrinkles around the eyes looks back at me. Thirty years ago, a young man with raven-black hair and burning eyes reflected in this same mirror. He dreamed of distant roads, of adventures, of new horizons. What would he say if he saw me today?

I open the doors. Boarding begins. Passengers climb the steps - sleepy, with suitcases and bags. I nod to each one, greet each with a smile. This too is part of the ritual - the first greeting, the first contact. Like a handshake before a long conversation.

The sun rises higher, its rays now gilding the roofs of the buses. A new day begins. My last day behind this wheel. Ahead are six hours of road, three hundred kilometers, thirty-two passengers and a whole life that needs to be concluded with dignity.

I straighten up, adjust my cap. My hands rest on the wheel - where grooves have formed under my palms over thirty years. The engine purrs smoothly and powerfully, ready to set off. Everything as always. Everything as if for the first time. Everything as if for the last time.

"Safe journey," I whisper either to the bus or to myself.

And we set off on our last joint route - towards the sunrise, towards the sea, towards everything that lies ahead.

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CHAPTER 2. OLD HABITS

The first passenger always sits by the window. It's an unwritten rule - early morning belongs to dreamers. Today it's a young woman in a gray coat, with a worn backpack on her knees. She takes out a notebook, pencil - another romantic, collecting road impressions. There are many of them on morning routes - artists, poets, eternal wanderers. They come earlier than everyone else, choose window seats and dissolve in the dawn haze.

I check the ticket of an elderly couple - they always take seats in the middle of the cabin, closer to the exit. The husband helps his wife up the steps, supports her elbow. Their movements tell a story of a long life together - every gesture refined by years, every touch filled with care.

"Thank you, son," the woman smiles at me with that special smile that only kind grandmothers have. Her husband nods, and they slowly make their way down the aisle, holding onto each other.

A businessman boards next - suit fresh from the tailor, polished shoes, leather briefcase. I know their type well too - always rushing, always talking on the phone, always running late somewhere. He doesn't even look at me as he extends his ticket - eyes on his smartphone, fingers quickly typing a message.

Three students tumble in as a noisy group - disheveled, with heavy bags full of textbooks. Their faces show they haven't slept all night - preparing for exams. One yawns so contagiously that his companions immediately catch it.

"Wake me up before Gangneung," asks the youngest, making himself comfortable.

"Don't worry," I reply. "I always announce stops."

This too is part of the ritual - the promise to wake up, to look after, to take care. Over thirty years I've become like a caring uncle to them all - the one who will always get them there, always help, always be nearby. I wonder who Tae-hyun will become for them?

The cabin gradually fills up. Everyone finds their place, settles in, prepares for the long journey. Someone takes out a book, someone puts on headphones, someone just closes their eyes, trying to catch up on lost sleep. Familiar morning choreography - I know it by heart, could draw every movement from memory.

5:55. Time. I turn on the microphone - old, slightly crackling, but faithful as an old friend.

"Good morning, dear passengers. Route Seoul - Sokcho via Gangneung. Travel time - six hours. Please fasten your seatbelts."

My voice sounds steady, professional. No one should guess that this is my last announcement, that each word resonates in my heart with a farewell note.

I check the mirrors - an old habit ingrained in my blood. Right, left, rear. The cabin reflects completely in the mirror - thirty-two seats, thirty-two passengers, thirty-two destinies who have entrusted their journey to me. As always. As if for the first time. As if for the last time.

I engage the gear. The bus responds with a soft vibration - it knows it's time. We've done this together so many times that we understand each other without words. We move off smoothly. The wheels rustle on the wet asphalt - it rained overnight, and the road glistens in the streetlights like a black river.

We drive out of the bus station. The city still sleeps, streets empty. Only occasional taxis carry early passengers, and garbage trucks finish their night shift. Traffic lights blink yellow - at this hour they're still asleep, working in standby mode.

I drive the bus along the familiar route - past the park with century-old trees, past the university campus, past the old temple where monks are already beginning morning service. Every turn, every traffic light, every road sign - everything is familiar down to the last detail.

At the city exit, sunrise meets us. The sun rises above the horizon, painting the sky in gentle peach tones. Its first rays slide across the windshield, creating intricate patterns. At this moment I feel something tighten in my chest.

How many sunrises have I met behind the wheel? How many times have I seen night give way to day? Each time was different, and each time - equally beautiful. Like a first date, like a first kiss, like first love.

The girl in the gray coat quickly sketches something in her notebook. Maybe this sunrise. Maybe the silhouette of the city dissolving in the morning haze. Or maybe just her thoughts - who knows what is born in a poet's soul when it touches beauty?

We get onto the highway. The bus picks up speed, the engine singing its familiar song. I feel the tension gradually leaving my body - here, on the open road, the bus and I become one. Two lanes of asphalt run away into the distance, merging at the horizon. Ahead - three hundred kilometers of road, six hours of journey, a whole life fitted into one last trip.

Old habits guide me like faithful friends. Check mirrors on turns. Reduce speed before crossings. Signal a hundred meters before exits. Every movement refined by years, every gesture perfected to automatism.

But today all these familiar actions are filled with special meaning. Every touch of the wheel, every press of the pedal, every turn of the key in the ignition - everything becomes a sacred ritual, a farewell gift to myself.

In the rearview mirror I see the elderly couple holding hands. They always travel like this - together, shoulder to shoulder, fingers intertwined. How many love stories have I carried over these years? How many meetings and partings have I seen in this mirror?

The businessman finally puts away his phone and leans back in his seat. His face gradually relaxes, the bustle of the big city recedes. The road makes everyone equal - both hurried managers and dreamy artists, tired students.

The students are already asleep, leaning against each other. Their textbooks lie open on their knees - the last attempt to prepare for the exam. I smile, remembering my son. He too often fell asleep over books, preparing for university entrance. Now he's already a third-year student - studying to be an engineer, dreams of building bridges. I wonder what bridges have I built over these thirty years? Between which shores have I laid roads?

The sun rises higher, its rays flood the cabin with warm light. The girl in the gray coat closes her notebook and leans her forehead against the glass. Her breath leaves a small cloud of vapor on the window - another story, another destiny, another path that has crossed with mine.

Mountains appear ahead - majestic, ancient, covered in morning mist. They meet us like old friends, extending green palms of forests towards us. The road begins to wind, climbing higher and higher. The bus obediently follows every turn of the wheel, every movement of mine.

Old habits lead us forward - to the sea, to sunrise, to new beginnings. Or perhaps they lead us home - where everyone will find their path, their truth, their happiness. And in this last dance of familiar movements, in this last song of the engine, in this last journey I feel how everything merges into one - past and future, joy and sadness, beginning and end.

We drive forward, towards everything that awaits us ahead. And each old habit becomes a bridge between what was and what will be. Between who I was and who I will become. Between the last "goodbye" and the first "hello."

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CHAPTER 3. SHADOWS OF THE PARK

We were passing by the city park when I noticed her - a small figure at the gates. A girl about twelve, in school uniform, with a backpack almost half her size. She wasn't waving, wasn't trying to stop the bus - just stood and watched. And something in that gaze made me slow down.

I open the doors. The girl startles, takes a step back, but then resolutely raises her head.

"Bus to Sokcho?" - her voice trembles, but there's steel in her eyes.

"To Sokcho. But where are your parents?"

She grips her backpack straps tighter. "I'm going to my grandmother's. I have money."

Something's not right. Too early for a schoolgirl, too heavy backpack, too adult a gaze. I've seen such eyes in runaways - those trying to escape from something or to something.

"Show me your phone," I say softly but firmly.

She takes out an old smartphone. The screen is cracked but works. "Last call - dad, six missed." My heart clenches - somewhere right now a father is going crazy with worry.

"Call him."

"No!" - she steps back. "I can't... He doesn't understand. Nobody understands."

Passengers in the cabin begin to stir. Someone looks at their watch impatiently. We're falling behind schedule, but some things are more important than time.

"Listen," - I sit on the bottom step, bringing myself level with her. "I've been driving buses for thirty years. Know how many like you I've seen? They were all running from something. But you know what I've learned? You can run from a place, from a situation, but not from yourself."

She's silent, but I see her lips trembling.

"Let's do this," - I continue. "You'll call your father. Right now. If after the conversation you still want to go - I'll take you with me, I promise. But first - the call."

She looks at the phone, then at me. Tears in her eyes, but she holds on. Dials the number.

"Dad?" - her voice breaks. "Dad, I'm sorry... I... I'm at the park... Yes, I'm okay..."

I stand up, giving her space for the conversation. The passengers in the cabin have gone quiet - everyone understands something important is happening.

"Really? You... you're really not angry?" - she sniffles. "And we'll talk? Talk about everything?"

Five minutes later a taxi stops at the park gates. A middle-aged man jumps out, in a hastily thrown on jacket. The girl runs to him, he catches her, holds her close.

"Thank you," - he says to me over her head. In his eyes - gratitude and shame. "Thank you for stopping."

I nod. Close the doors. Watch in the mirror as they walk away - father and daughter, two lonely people who might finally hear each other today.

We start moving. The cabin is quiet - only the engine noise and someone's soft breathing - seems the students have fallen asleep again.

The girl in the gray coat is writing something quickly in her notebook. I wonder if this story will appear in her poems? Will this moment become part of someone's book, someone's song, someone's memory?

The sun rises higher, and the shadows in the park grow shorter. We pass by a playground - empty at this early hour but ready for a new day, new games, new stories.

For thirty years I've been witness to others' stories. Thirty years of stopping and passing by, helping and stepping back, speaking and staying silent. Each stop could become the beginning of a new story or the end of an old one. Each decision - to open the doors or drive past - could change someone's fate.

The businessman in the suit secretly wipes his eyes. Maybe remembered his own children. Maybe thought about how many important conversations he's postponed for later.

The elderly couple holds hands tighter than usual. They understand - every moment of closeness is precious, every touch could be the last or the first.

And I drive the bus onward, feeling how the city gradually wakes up around us. Shops are opening, more and more people appear on the streets, life enters its usual rhythm.

But something has changed. Maybe this morning became a little brighter. Maybe the world became a little kinder. Maybe one small story made us all a little more alive.

There's still a long way ahead. Still many stories, many meetings, many goodbyes. And each shadow in the park might hide a new destiny, each turn might lead to a new beginning.

I drive the bus, and the wheel under my hands trembles slightly, as if agreeing: sometimes you need to deviate from schedule to stay on course. Sometimes you need to stop to move forward. Sometimes you need to break rules to preserve what's most important.

We turn onto the wide street leading to the highway. Morning light floods the cabin, and in its rays I see a tear rolling down the cheek of the girl in the gray coat. She quickly wipes it away and continues writing, but I know - this story has already become part of her world, part of her soul.

As it has become part of mine.

As it has become part of this last trip, this last morning, this last chapter of my life behind the wheel.

We drive on, leaving behind the park with its shadows, with its secrets, with its stories. Ahead - a new day, a new road, new meetings.

And somewhere in the morning city, a father and daughter are finally talking, really talking, maybe for the first time in a long time.

And I drive my bus and think that some stops aren't marked in the schedule, but they're the ones that make the journey real. They're the ones that turn a simple ride into a story worth telling.

And even if we're fifteen minutes behind schedule - sometimes being late can be the most right decision in life.

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CHAPTER 4. FIRST PASSENGERS

They always come earliest - the elderly passengers on the first run. It's not yet six, but they're already here - with worn bags, in faded jackets, eyes full of morning wisdom. The Kim couple, husband and wife, travel to the market in Gangneung every week. They sold fish for thirty years, and now they just go to talk with old friends, drink soju, remember their youth.

"Last day today, isn't it?" Mr. Kim extends the tickets. His hands, spotted with age, tremble, but his grip is still strong - the hands of a man who worked at sea all his life.

"Last one," I nod, punching the tickets.

"A shame," he shakes his head. "We felt safer with you. You know every turn, every bump in the road."

His wife smiles, adjusting her scarf: "Remember five years ago in the snowstorm when you got us through? All the buses stopped, but not you. Said grandchildren were waiting at home."

I remember. I remember every second of that journey - how the wind threw the bus from side to side, how snow blinded the windshield, how fingers froze to the wheel. But I got them there. Always got them there.

Next comes a young woman with a child. The boy is about four, sleepy, clinging to his mother's hand. In his other hand - a worn plush tiger.

"Sorry," the woman is out of breath, clearly having run. "Are we late?"

"No," I smile. "You still have ten minutes."

She exhales with relief, leads her son to an empty seat. The boy stumbles on the step, I catch him almost without thinking. He looks up, surprised, and suddenly smiles - that special childish smile that illuminates the whole world.

"Thank you, driver uncle!"

Something tightens in my chest. How many such smiles have I seen over these years? How many children have grown up before my eyes, transforming from sleepy toddlers into serious students, and then into businessmen and women? Some now bring their own children.

A noisy group of students tumbles in - four guys with backpacks and a guitar. Street musicians, heading to a festival in Sokcho. They smell of youth, freedom, and a little soju - probably rehearsed all night.

"Can we sing on the way?" asks one, the most outgoing, with a red streak in his black hair.

"Just not too loud," I answer. "And after Gangneung - half the passengers get off there."

They settle in the back of the bus, whispering about something, quietly tuning the guitar. Mrs. Kim turns to them: "Sing something from our youth. Do you know 'Spring Rain'?"

The guys exchange glances, smile. The leader strikes a few chords - the melody old but eternal, like spring itself. And suddenly the whole bus falls silent as the young voice begins:

"On the day when spring rain fell,

I met my love..."

Mrs. Kim presses her hands to her chest, eyes glistening. Her husband covers her hand with his, and in this simple gesture lies their whole life story - all the rains, all the meetings, all the roads.

The woman with the child rocks her son to the music, the boy already asleep, clutching his tiger. The businessman in the suit looks up from his phone, listens - perhaps remembering his first love, his spring rain.

And I watch them all in the rearview mirror and think: this is the real miracle - how strangers suddenly become close, how an old song connects generations, how a simple route bus becomes a place where stories are born.

The last passengers climb the steps - a middle-aged couple with a suitcase. Returning from Seoul, they were visiting their daughter - she had her firstborn. In the eyes of the new grandparents, tears of parting still stand, but pride already shines - their lineage continues, their love lives in a new person.

6:00. Time to move. I turn on the microphone: "Good morning, dear passengers. Route Seoul - Sokcho via Gangneung. Travel time - six hours. Please fasten your seatbelts."

The bus comes alive, the engine singing its morning song. We pull out of the station - thirty-two people, thirty-two destinies, connected for six hours by one road.

The students quietly play something on the guitar, Mr. Kim tells his wife about fish prices, the boy snoozes in his mother's arms. The businessman finally puts away his phone and leans against the window - perhaps for the first time in a long while allowing himself to just be, just breathe, just live.

The sun rises above the horizon, its rays painting the city in gold and pink. A new day begins, and I feel how each passenger in my bus becomes part of this sunrise, part of this story, part of my last journey.

We drive onto the highway, leaving the city lights behind. Ahead are mountains and sea, ahead is a whole life fitted into six hours of travel. And each of these people is my first passenger, my last passenger, part of my soul that I'll take with me when this journey ends.

The guitar in the back softly plays the melody of "Spring Rain," and I feel tears coming to my eyes. For thirty years I was just their driver, just the man behind the wheel. But they were everything to me - my family, my friends, my teachers.

The bus picks up speed, the engine singing louder, more confidently. We drive forward - to the sea, to sunrise, to new stories. And each passenger in the cabin is the beginning of a new chapter, a new song, a new life.

I drive the bus and think: perhaps this is the main miracle - how chance meetings become destiny, how strangers become close, how an ordinary route becomes a journey of a lifetime.

And though this is my last run - it's only beginning. Which means everything can still happen. Everything is still ahead.

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CHAPTER 5. LEAVING THE CITY

The city doesn't let go easily - clutches with traffic lights, slows with traffic jams, holds with red lights. Here, at the exit from Seoul, it's always like this - even at six in the morning traffic is thick, like blood in a sleepy artery.

Ahead looms a vegetable truck, bunches of green onions sticking out from the back. At the turn, one bunch breaks loose, flies straight at our windshield. The wipers brush it away - as if erasing the last line of urban bustle.

"Bad omen," whispers Mrs. Kim.

"Good one," objects her husband. "In our village they said - if greens fly your way on the road, profit will come."

The students in the back laugh quietly, one already composing a song about it - I hear him tuning the guitar. The businessman frowns at the sound of strings but stays silent - perhaps for the first time in his life deciding to just go with the flow.

Red light. I brake smoothly, as old Park taught me thirty years ago. "A bus should stop like a bride at her wedding - with dignity, unhurried." I remember his words, remember his hands on the wheel - knotted, calloused, but gentle with the machine, like with a beloved woman.

The boy with the tiger wakes up, rubs his eyes: "Mom, are we there yet?"

"No, sunshine. We're just leaving."

"How much longer?"

"Six hours."

"How many cartoons is that?"

The cabin erupts in quiet laughter. Even the businessman smiles - for the first time this morning his face warms, becomes human.

Green light. We move off. The bus growls discontentedly - it doesn't like city driving, it needs space, needs speed, needs wind in the windshield. I pat the wheel: "Be patient, old friend. We'll break free soon."

The park where I stopped for the runaway girl an hour ago flows past on the right. I wonder what she and her father are talking about now? Have they found the words they were looking for? Have they heard each other?

New traffic light. New stop. A school bus stops beside us - yellow, cheerful, full of children's faces. They wave to us, pressing their noses against the glass. My boy with the tiger waves back, and for a moment two buses are connected by a bridge of children's smiles.

The girl in the gray coat quickly writes something in her notebook. Her pencil flies across the paper as if trying to catch a fleeting moment. Maybe someday I'll read these lines in a book of poems - a story about two buses meeting at the crossroads of fate.

The city thins out, buildings become lower, the sky - wider. The familiar turn onto the ring road - it always smells of fried fish from the roadside eatery. Mr. Kim noisily inhales: "Ah, like in our youth! Remember, mother, how we met here?"

"How could I forget? You bought me a whole mackerel then - the biggest one."

"And married you - also the biggest!"

She playfully hits his shoulder, but there are warm sparks in her eyes. Half a century together, and still like children.

The students catch the moment - the guitar enters with the first chords of "Mackerel Love," an old folk song. A young voice soars above the engine noise:

"A mackerel swam in the sea,

Now jumped into the net.

Just as I fell into the trap

Of your eyes, my love..."

Mrs. Kim hums along - quietly, under her breath, but each word full of memory, full of life. Her husband holds her hand - tightly, as if afraid to let go. As if still afraid she'll swim away, like that mackerel from the song.

Last traffic light. Last turn. Ahead - the highway, straight as an arrow, stretching to the horizon. The sun rises above it, flooding the asphalt with molten gold.

"Hold on!" I warn the passengers. The bus surges forward, feeling freedom. The engine sings full voice, wheels swallowing kilometers.

The city remains behind - a gray mass in the rearview mirrors. Skyscrapers melt in the morning haze, transform into memory, into dream, into past life.

The boy with the tiger is glued to the window - there, above the fields, a flock of wild geese flies past. Their cries reach us even through the engine's roar - a farewell to the city, a greeting to the road.

"Look, mom! They're traveling too!"

"Yes, dear. We're all traveling."

I peer at the horizon. Somewhere there, beyond the curve of the earth, the sea awaits us. Somewhere there - the end of the journey and the beginning of something new. Somewhere there - all the answers to all questions.

The bus flies along the highway. The cabin grows quiet - even the students have put away the guitar, enchanted by the vastness outside the window. Only the engine sings its song and the wind whistles through the gaps.

I straighten up behind the wheel, square my shoulders. Now - just the road. Now - just forward. Now - just wind, sun and endless sky overhead.

We've broken free from the city. We're free.

And somewhere deep in my soul I know - this isn't just leaving the city. This is leaving the past life. This is the road to a new self. This is the way home.

The bus flies forward, swallowing kilometers, leaving behind thirty years, thirty thousand runs, a million stories. Ahead - only sunrise, only sea, only infinite possibilities.

And I smile, feeling how the wind of freedom beats against the windshield, how the sun blinds my eyes, how the road calls forward - for the last time, for the first time, forever.

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PART TWO: ROAD OF MEMORIES

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CHAPTER 6. STUDENT BY THE WINDOW

She sat by the window since Seoul - quiet, in a gray coat with a worn notebook on her knees. The pencil flew across the paper, catching moments, turning them into words. Sometimes she would look up, peering into the passing landscape, as if searching for something familiar in the succession of unfamiliar places.

We passed an abandoned railway station - rusty rails, broken lamps, wild vine that had taken over the walls. She froze, pencil hovering over the page. In the rearview mirror, I saw how her face changed - as if a shadow had passed over the sun.

"Excuse me," she suddenly stood up, making her way to the cabin. "Do you know what happened to this station?"

"Closed five years ago," I answered, keeping my eyes on the road. "They built a high-speed line, and this one became unnecessary."

"And before... did trains stop here before?"

Something in her voice made me look more carefully. Young, about twenty, no more. But her eyes - old, tired, full of that special sadness that comes only with great loss.

"Every day," I said softly. "Morning and evening. I often saw people meeting on the platform. Lovers, families, friends..."

"And saying goodbye," she whispered it almost inaudibly. "Also meeting and saying goodbye."

The bus entered a turn, sun hitting the windshield. For a second, the cabin filled with golden light, and in this light, I saw a tear rolling down her cheek.

"I last saw my father here," she said this not to me, but rather to the station disappearing around the bend. "Five years ago. He was leaving on a business trip. Said he'd be back in a week. Promised to bring a book of poetry - I had just started writing then..."

She fell silent. You didn't need to be a genius to understand - her father never returned. Life is full of such stories - broken mid-sentence, frozen in waiting, petrified in memory.

"You know," I said, steering onto a straight stretch of road, "Long ago, I met my wife at this station. She was waiting for a train to Busan, and I was just walking - had just gotten my license, proud as a peacock. Saw her on the platform and knew - there she was, destiny."

The girl wiped away a tear, smiled weakly: "And did you? Go up to introduce yourself?"

"No," I laughed, remembering. "I was scared. Came to the station for three days, hoping to see her again. On the fourth day, she approached me herself - said I looked like a lost puppy. That's how our romance began."

Rice fields planted with young shoots flew past, reaching for the sun - green, strong, full of life. Somewhere in the distance, mountains were visible, their peaks still in morning mist.

"And now?" she asked. "Are you still together?"

"Thirty-two years. Two children, three grandchildren. And you know what's most amazing? Every time I pass this station, my heart skips - as if I'm twenty again, as if she's about to come around the corner with that same smile."

The girl looked at the station, now just a dot on the horizon. Something changed in her gaze - as if ice was melting, as if light was breaking through cracks.

"May I write about this?" she raised her notebook. "About your story, about the station, about... about how places hold memories?"

"Of course. But you know what? Don't write just about the past. Write about the future - about how life goes on, how new stories grow in place of old stations."

She nodded, returning to her seat. The pencil flew across the paper again, but now there was no frantic hurry in her movements - she wasn't running from memories, but building a bridge from them. A bridge between what was and what will be.

The bus gained speed. Ahead lay another turn, new landscapes, new stories. But I knew - this station would forever remain in her poems, as it remained in my heart. A place where some paths end and others begin. A place where memory meets hope.

In the rearview mirror, I saw her look up from her notebook and smile - for the first time during the entire journey, truly, brightly, as if the sun had emerged from behind clouds. And I understood - she had found her words. Found a way to say that unspoken "goodbye" that had stood like a lump in her throat for five years.

We drove on, leaving behind the abandoned station with its ghosts and hopes. But now it lived not only in the past - it lived in the poems of a young girl in a gray coat, in the story of an old bus driver, in the memory of all who had ever waited for a train there.

And somewhere deep in my soul, I knew - such places never really die. They just wait for new stories, new meetings, new beginnings. As do we all.

The bus flew down the road, swallowing kilometers. The girl wrote, students in the back quietly strummed their guitar, Mr. Kim dozed with his head on his wife's shoulder. And I drove them all forward, toward the sea, toward sunrise, toward new stations and new stories.

And somehow I felt that the girl's father was smiling now somewhere, beyond the bounds of our understanding. Smiling, seeing how his daughter was turning pain into beauty, loss into finding, an ending into a beginning.

There was still much road ahead, many turns, many meetings. But I knew - this stop at the abandoned station was necessary. Necessary for all of us - to remember, to forgive, to live on.

The engine sang its song, wheels devoured kilometers, the sun climbed higher. We drove forward - toward the sea, toward sunrise, toward the future waiting for us all around the next turn.

And somewhere in that future, new poems were already being written, new stories were being born, new hopes were blooming. We just had to get there. We just had to continue the journey.

‍

CHAPTER 7. SLEEPING CHILD

The boy with the tiger finally fell asleep. His head rested on his mother's knees, the tiger clutched in his small fist. In sleep, his face became completely different - serene, like an angel's. All worries, all questions, all fatigue of the long journey dissolved in deep child's sleep.

The mother carefully adjusted a strand of hair fallen on her son's forehead. There was so much tenderness in this simple gesture that it caught in my throat. I remembered how I used to stroke my Jun-ho's head the same way when he was little and fell asleep on the bus during our rare joint trips.

The road went uphill. The bus roared with effort, climbing the serpentine. Pine trees floated past the windows - mighty, ancient, with gnarled trunks and crowns scratching the sky. Their resinous scent seeped even through closed windows.

The boy mumbled something in his sleep, clutching the tiger tighter. His mother leaned down, listening to the indistinct whisper. A smile appeared on her face - that same smile I had seen thousands of times on different mothers listening to their children's sleepy babbling.

"He's talking to the tiger," she said quietly, as if afraid to frighten away the magic of the moment. "Every night he talks to it before sleep. Tells about his adventures, his dreams..."

She fell silent, but I felt - behind this pause lay a whole story. A story that begged to be told, that had to be told.

"The tiger was a gift from his father," she continued after a long silence. "The day he left for military service. Said: 'Let it protect you while I'm gone.' Min-jun was tiny then - had just learned to walk."

The bus overcame another turn. The sun momentarily blinded my eyes, and in this flash I saw another boy, another tiger, another story - my own. How long ago that was...

"My husband was supposed to return in a year," her voice trembled, but she continued. "He served at the border. Said it was quiet there, nothing to worry about. And then... then came that day. A call in the middle of the night. Words impossible to accept: 'Border incident... We regret...'"

The boy stirred in his sleep, whispered something incomprehensible to his tiger. His mother gently rubbed his back, and he calmed down, sinking deeper into his children's dreams.

"You know what's strangest?" she looked out the window, but saw something distant, accessible only to her. "That night Min-jun woke up a minute before the call. Sat in his crib with this tiger and kept repeating: 'Daddy's coming home, daddy's coming home.' And then the phone rang..."

Mr. Kim, sitting across the aisle, secretly wiped away a tear. His wife squeezed his hand tighter - they understood. They all understood.

"Three years have passed," the woman adjusted her son's shirt collar. "And he still tells the tiger every evening how his day went. And always adds: 'Tell daddy I love him.' Believes the tiger can do that. That somewhere there, beyond the stars, daddy hears him..."

The bus entered a cloud, visibility dropping almost to zero. I reduced speed, turned on the fog lights. Their yellow light penetrated the white mist, creating a glowing cocoon around the bus.

"We're going to grandmother's," she said after a long pause. "First time since that day. Couldn't before... Couldn't find the strength. But Min-jun said yesterday: 'Mom, the tiger says it's time to visit grandmother. Daddy would want that.'"

The cloud remained behind. The sun again flooded the cabin with warm light. The boy smiled in his sleep - a bright, pure smile with no trace of grief. Maybe he was dreaming of his father. Maybe they were walking together on starlit paths, holding hands. Maybe...

"Sometimes," said the woman, looking at her sleeping son, "I think he knows something we adults don't. Something important, something real. That death is not the end, but just... just another road."

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw how the students in the back carefully took out their guitar. One of them - the one with the red streak in his hair - began to softly pluck the strings. The melody was born by itself - gentle, bright, like a lullaby.

The girl in the gray coat put aside her notebook, listening enchanted. Something like recognition reflected in her eyes - maybe she too had once lost someone close, maybe she too knew how memory hurts.

The melody grew slightly louder. A young voice joined in, soft, almost whispering:

"Where stars light their glow,

Where sunset ends its show,

Waits a father, keeping his secret near,

And a tiger cub - his gaze so dear..."

The woman closed her eyes, a tear rolling down her cheek. But she was smiling - for the first time during the entire journey truly, with all her heart. Maybe she too heard something of her own in this song, something important, something real.

The boy in his sleep clutched the tiger tighter. His lips moved, as if repeating some words known only to him. Maybe he was telling his father how beautiful the mountains were now. Maybe sharing his little secrets. Maybe just saying: "I love you, daddy."

The bus continued its journey through the mountains. The sun rose higher, its rays playing on the plush fur of the toy tiger, turning it to gold. Somewhere high in the sky, a flock of birds flew past - their cries reaching through the engine's roar like a greeting from the other side of the horizon.

I drove the bus carefully, trying not to make noise on turns, not to brake suddenly. Let the boy sleep. Let him see his bright dreams. Let him talk with his tiger and his father.

And we would all guard his sleep - thirty pairs of eyes, thirty hearts beating in unison. Because at this moment we had all become one family. Because his story was our story. Because his tiger protected not just him, but all of us - from loneliness, from fear, from oblivion.

The engine sang its song, wheels counted kilometers, mountains floated past the window. We drove forward - to where sunset ends and new sunrise begins. To where all roads converge. To where those we love wait for us - living and departed, near and far, real and living only in our dreams.

And the boy slept, clutching his faithful tiger to his chest. And in his dream there were no boundaries between worlds, no division into "here" and "there." In his dream everything was simple: daddy was near, the tiger protected, love conquered even death.

And maybe, I thought, looking at his serene face in the rearview mirror, maybe this is the main truth of life - the one known only to children and their plush tigers.

‍

CHAPTER 8. OLD MAN WITH A BIRD

He sat down on the bus at a small stop between mountains - tall, straight as a pine, with a cage covered by blue cloth. I noticed him from afar - a solitary figure at an empty stop, as if carved from morning mist.

"To Sokcho?" he asked, extending his ticket. His voice was deep, with that special timbre that comes only to people who have experienced much and understood much.

"To Sokcho," I replied, examining the cage. Soft chirping came from under the cloth.

He walked to the middle of the cabin, carefully holding the cage before him. Sat by the window, settled the cage on his knees. His long fingers - fingers of a musician or artist - carefully smoothed the cloth's folds.

The boy with the tiger, who had woken up a few minutes ago, stared wide-eyed at the mysterious cage. Finally, curiosity won:

"Grandfather, who's in there?"

The old man smiled - with a surprisingly young smile that lit up his whole face:

"Would you like to see?"

The boy nodded, clutching his plush tiger tighter. The old man carefully lifted the edge of the cloth. In the cage sat a small bird - gray, unremarkable at first glance. But when a ray of sun fell on its feathers, they burst into all colors of the rainbow.

"This is a rainbow bunting," said the old man. "A very rare bird. They say it sings only for those who know how to listen with their heart."

"And do you know how?" the boy moved closer, enchanted by the shimmer of feathers.

"Me? No," the old man shook his head. "I'm just helping her return home."

The bird in the cage turned its head, looked at the old man with a black shining eye. There was something in that gaze... something that made one's heart ache.

"I found her three months ago," continued the old man, not taking his eyes off the cage. "In the city, near a large shopping center. She was beating against a glass wall - again and again, as if trying to break through into the reflection of sky. Her wing was damaged, feathers dulled. I took her home."

The bus entered a steep turn. The sun momentarily blinded everyone, and when vision returned, I saw in the mirror a tear rolling down the old man's cheek.

"You know," he spoke now as if to himself, "my wife... she died five years ago. Cancer. In her last days, she often talked about birds. About how free they are, how easily they leave the earth. Asked to open the window to hear their singing."

The girl in the gray coat put aside her notebook. The students in the back stopped whispering. Even the businessman looked up from his phone. Everyone listened, holding their breath.

"After her death, I started feeding birds in the park. Every morning - bread crumbs, grains. They say souls of the dead sometimes return as birds. Foolish, probably... But I thought that one day among them I would see her - recognize her by her gaze, by the movement of wings..."

The bird in the cage suddenly stirred, spread its wings. Absolute silence fell in the cabin. And in this silence came a song - quiet, gentle, like morning wind in the pines. But there was such depth in it, such longing and such love, that it took my breath away.

The boy with the tiger opened his mouth in amazement. His mother pressed her hand to her chest. Mrs. Kim quietly cried, burying her face in her husband's shoulder.

"For three months I treated her," the old man's voice broke. "Fed her by hand, changed bandages on her wing, talked to her. And every evening she sang - only for me. And yesterday... yesterday I understood: it was time to let her go. She had recovered. Grown strong. And her place is not in a cage, even a golden one. Her place is where sky meets sea."

He carefully stroked the cage with his fingertips. The bird fell silent, tilted its head to one side.

"In Sokcho there's a cliff above the sea. They say birds take off from there to never return. That's where I'm taking her. Let her fly. Let her be free."

The bus climbed higher into the mountains. Clouds floated past the window - white, light, like bird feathers. The sun played in them, creating rainbow halos.

"Grandfather," the boy moved even closer, "may I... may I go with you? To the cliff? I want to see her fly away."

The old man looked at the boy's mother. She nodded, blinking away tears.

"Of course, you can," he smiled. "I think she would like to have someone see her off on her last journey."

The bird sang again - now louder, more confidently. Her song filled the entire bus, reflecting off the windows, penetrating to the very heart. In this song was all the world's sadness and all its joy, all the pain of partings and all the happiness of new meetings.

The students in the back carefully took out their guitar. One of them - the one with the red streak - began to quietly pick out chords, tuning into the bird's song. An amazing melody emerged - ancient as the mountains themselves and fresh as the morning wind.

The girl in the gray coat wrote quickly in her notebook, not managing to wipe away tears. The businessman looked out the window, but his reflection in the glass betrayed the wet shine of his eyes.

And I drove the bus, feeling how something was happening - something important, something real. As if all of us, thirty random fellow travelers, had become witnesses and participants in some ancient ritual, some eternal story about love and freedom, about partings and meetings, about those who fly away and those who remain to keep the memory.

The bird sang. The mountains listened. Clouds danced to her song. And somewhere ahead, around the bend, beyond the horizon, the sea waited for us - boundless, free, ready to take into its embrace both the bird and her song, and our hearts that had suddenly become as light as wings.

We drove forward - to where sky meets earth, where all roads end and flight begins. And in this last journey, in this last trip, I suddenly understood: sometimes you need to let go of something precious for it to stay with you forever.

Like this song. Like this bird. Like this love that is stronger than death and time.

The engine sang its song, wheels devoured kilometers, and in the cabin sounded music like the beating of the world's living heart. And each of us knew: we would never forget this moment, this road, this meeting.

Because there are things that stay with us forever - like the song of a rare bird in the mountains, like love that doesn't die, like memory that turns into wings.

‍

CHAPTER 9. RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS

The first drops hit the windshield as we climbed the serpentine. Small and timid, they seemed to be testing the glass for strength. And then the sky opened up.

The rain crashed down like a wall - dense, heavy, almost impenetrable to sight. The wipers frantically swept across the glass, barely managing the torrents of water. Visibility dropped to mere meters.

"We'll have to slow down," I warned the passengers, turning on the fog lights. Their yellow glow diffused in the watery haze, creating a luminous cocoon around the bus.

The old man with the bird carefully covered the cage with a second cloth - the bird fell silent, hiding from the noise of the rain. The boy with the tiger pressed his nose against the window, mesmerized by the streams of water.

"Mom, look - it's like a waterfall!"

The students in the back softly plucked their guitar strings - the melody intertwined with the sound of rain, creating an extraordinary symphony. The girl in the gray coat wrote quickly, as if trying to capture this moment in words.

Turn after turn. The serpentine climbed higher into the mountains, shrouded in rain mist. Every meter demanded complete attention - the slightest mistake could be fatal.

"Better to wait out weather like this," muttered Mr. Kim, squeezing his wife's hand tighter. "Remember when we got stuck in the mountains because of rain when we were young?"

"How could I forget," she smiled. "That's when you first kissed me. Said - since it's the end of the world, might as well die happy."

The businessman nervously checked his watch but remained silent. Even he understood - here in the mountains, time obeys different laws. Here, wisdom matters more than speed.

Suddenly a red light emerged from the fog - the hazard lights of a stopped vehicle. I smoothly braked. An old truck loaded with vegetables stood by the roadside. The driver - an elderly farmer in a soaked jacket - was desperately waving his arms.

"Help, son!" he shouted when I cracked open the door. "Engine died, and I've got radishes for the market. They'll spoil!"

I looked at the passengers. We were already running late according to schedule, but... How could we pass by?

"We'll make room," the businessman suddenly said, moving his briefcase from the adjacent seat. "The radishes can wait."

Everyone bustled about, making space. The students helped carry the boxes of radishes, shielding them from rain with their jackets. Mr. Kim and his wife squeezed closer together, making room for the drenched farmer.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," he said, settling in next to the businessman. His jacket smelled of earth and rain. "First time in thirty years I've let down my buyers."

"It's nothing," smiled the businessman, pulling a thermos from his briefcase. "Here, warm up. Green tea, my wife's own brew."

The bus slowly moved forward, continuing its ascent. The rain drummed on the roof, but inside it was warm - from people's breath, from the kindness of their hearts, from this chance encounter that had united us all.

The farmer talked about his field, about how he loves the land, how he rejoices in each new harvest. The businessman listened, forgetting about his phone, and something new appeared in his eyes - as if he remembered something important, long forgotten.

The bird in the cage suddenly sang - softly, gently, as if trying to comfort the rain. Its song intertwined with the sound of drops, with the engine's hum, with the quiet guitar chords.

The boy with the tiger fell asleep, lulled by this lullaby. His mother carefully covered him with her jacket, adjusted the slipping toy. In this moment, she looked remarkably like the statue of the Madonna I once saw in an old temple.

The girl in the gray coat looked up from her notebook, gazed out the window. The rain blurred the world beyond the glass, turning it into a watercolor painting - all colors melted, flowing into each other, creating a new reality.

"You know," she said suddenly, addressing no one in particular, "they say rain is heaven's tears. But I think it's its embrace. As if it wants to hug the earth, warm it, remind it of love."

The farmer nodded: "You speak true, daughter. Without rain, the earth is like an orphan. But with it - it's like having mother nearby."

We climbed higher. The rain gradually subsided, turning into a light drizzle. The first rays of sun began breaking through the clouds, and the drops on the windows sparkled with all colors of the rainbow.

"Look!" exclaimed the awakened boy. "A rainbow!"

Indeed - a huge rainbow bridge stretched across the valley. It seemed to connect heaven and earth, past and future, chance and destiny.

The bird in the cage stirred, spreading its wings. The old man carefully lifted the cloth, allowing it to see this wonder. All colors of the rainbow reflected in its eyes.

The farmer pulled an apple from his pocket - small, slightly bruised, but amazingly red. He cut it with a pocket knife, sharing with everyone, passing it around. And in this simple gesture there was something biblical - like communion, like an ancient ritual of unity.

We turned another corner, and suddenly the mountains parted. Ahead, in the gap between peaks, the sea glinted - distant but already visible, promising the end of the journey and the beginning of something new.

The bus flew forward, leaving behind the rain, anxieties, loneliness. We had all become one family - chance fellow travelers, united by this road, this rain, this destiny.

And I drove the bus and thought: perhaps this is the main miracle - how strangers suddenly become close, how simple rain turns into blessing, how an ordinary route becomes a journey of the soul.

The engine sang its song, the wheels devoured the wet asphalt, and above us shone the rainbow - a symbol of hope, a symbol of wonder, a symbol that after every rain comes the sun.

Ahead lay the sea. Ahead lay freedom. Ahead lay everything.

And the rain remained behind - as a memory, as a lesson, as a gift of this final journey.

‍

CHAPTER 10. STOP AT THE TEMPLE

The bell sound caught us at the turn. A deep, pure sound rolled over the mountains, reflecting off the cliffs, penetrating through the bus windows. I reduced speed - ahead, on the mountainside, appeared the red roofs of the ancient Haeinsa Temple.

"Five-minute stop," I announced, parking the bus in a small clearing. "You can stretch your legs."

The morning fog still clung to the trees, but the sun was already breaking through, turning the recent rain drops into scattered diamonds. Steam rose from the ground, creating a mysterious haze around the temple.

The old man with the bird was the first to rise from his seat. "May I take the cage with me? This is a special place. They say birds come here to pray."

The boy with the tiger immediately jumped up: "Mom, let's go too! I want to see the praying birds!"

Gradually, all passengers moved toward the exit - the businessman with his guitar, the lovers with their camera, the boy with the tiger and his mother. The girl in the gray coat grabbed her notebook, the girl with headphones turned on her recording.

I locked the doors and joined them. The wind had strengthened, bringing new scents - cinnamon from the port confectionery, smoke from fishermen's huts, freshly baked bread from the bakery on the corner.

The old man carried the cage carefully, like a crystal vase. The bird inside had fallen silent, only turning its head, watching the flight of seagulls over the waves.

A narrow stairway led down to a rocky beach. There was no sand here - only stones polished by the sea, covered with seaweed. The surf rolled in steadily, like the breathing of a sleeping giant.

"Look," the old man pointed toward the cape.

The sun touched the horizon, spilling a golden path across the water. In its radiance, outlines appeared - whether a ship, or an island, or a mirage woven from rays and foam.

"It's time," whispered the old man and opened the cage door.

The bird froze on the threshold of its prison. Its plumage flashed with all colors of the rainbow - those colors visible only in the moment between sunset and twilight.

A beat of wings - and it flew up. Not toward the sunset, not toward the horizon, but upward - where the last rays of sun painted the clouds the color of molten metal.

Higher and higher until it became a dot. And then...

The sky flashed. For a moment it seemed that the stars themselves had descended to earth - rainbow sparks showered down from above, enveloping everyone in luminous dust.

The guitar in the businessman's hands spontaneously produced a chord - pure, piercing, like a seagull's cry. The schoolboys froze with open mouths. The lovers squeezed each other's hands until their knuckles turned white.

And the bird sang. Now its voice was everywhere - in the sound of waves, in the creaking of rigging, in the rustle of pebbles under feet. It sang of freedom and flight, of meetings and partings, of the beginning of all beginnings.

The boy with the tiger stepped toward the water. The foam licked his boots, leaving glistening drops. In them reflected the sky - the whole sky, with all its wonders.

"Now it will sing its main song," smiled the old man. "At sunrise. Over the sea. For all who know how to hear."

The sun disappeared beyond the horizon. The first stars appeared in the darkening sky. Somewhere in the heights, the bird continued to circle, scattering invisible sparks.

And below stood people - chance fellow travelers who had become witnesses to a miracle. In each one's eyes reflected the sea, in each heart sounded the song.

Ahead waited the night. And sunrise. And the main song - the one that connects worlds.

But about that - in the next chapter.

‍

Part Three: Voices of the Path

‍

CHAPTER 11. CONVERSATION WITH THE BUSINESSMAN

He buried himself in his phone again right after the temple - fingers flying over the screen, face frozen in a mask of business indifference. But something had changed - perhaps his posture, perhaps his breathing rhythm. As if an invisible wall he had built between himself and the world had cracked.

"Damn," he muttered suddenly, lowering the phone. "No signal."

The mountains don't like digital bustle. Here, between ancient peaks, connection disappears, leaving a person alone with themselves. With their true self.

"Maybe that's for the better," Mrs. Kim suddenly said, turning to him. "Sometimes you need to be silent to hear what's important."

He wanted to snap back - I saw his lips twitch. But something stopped him. Maybe the wise smile of the old woman. Maybe the echo of temple bells still ringing in his heart.

"You know," he said after a long silence, "I once dreamed of something else too. Wanted to be a musician. Played the cello - from age five, four hours every day. Father said it wasn't serious. Need to think about the future, about career..."

The students in the back quieted down, listening. Their guitar fell silent, as if yielding to unspoken music.

"And what happened?" asked the old man with the bird.

"Life happened. University, MBA, corporate ladder. Twenty years like one day - meetings, deals, contracts. And this morning... this morning I overslept an important meeting for the first time in fifteen years. Just overslept. And you know what? The world didn't collapse."

The boy with the tiger stared at him wide-eyed - children sense when something important is happening. When a person's soul opens up, releasing long-locked truth.

"And the cello?" quietly asked the girl in the gray coat. "Is it still waiting for you?"

He ran his hand over his face - as if wiping away a mask, as if washing away years of pretense.

"At home. In its case. Sometimes I take it out at night, when no one sees. Run the bow across the strings - and it's like I'm back. Like I'm five again, and the whole world is ahead, and music lives in my fingertips..."

The bus entered a turn. The sun struck the windows, momentarily blinding everyone. And when the light subsided, I saw in the mirror a tear rolling down his cheek.

"Play," suddenly said one of the students, extending the guitar. "Right now. Here."

"I'm not... it's not... I haven't for so long..."

"Music is like riding a bicycle," smiled the old man with the bird. "The body remembers. The soul remembers. You just need to trust."

With trembling hands, the businessman took the guitar. His fingers - manicured, accustomed to keyboard and fountain pen - touched the strings. Hesitantly, timidly, as if greeting after a long separation.

And suddenly...

The first notes of "Moonlight Sonata" floated over the seat backs. Not perfect, with mistakes - but in this imperfection was such piercing honesty, such naked soul, that it took your breath away.

The bird in the cage stirred, tilted its head to one side. And then - it sang. Its voice intertwined with guitar strings, rose to the bus ceiling, flew into the blue sky beyond the windows.

The boy with the tiger pressed against his mother, enchanted by the music. Mrs. Kim cried, unashamed of tears. The girl in the gray coat set aside her notebook - some things cannot be captured in words.

And the businessman played. Played as if praying. As if confessing. As if returning home after a long exile.

The last chord melted in the air. Silence fell - but not empty silence, rather full. Full of unshed tears, unspoken words, unlived lives. And of miracle that had happened.

"I'm quitting," he said suddenly. Said firmly, as if making a decision that had been ripening for years. "Tomorrow. To hell with meetings. To hell with stock quotes. I'll open a music school. For children whose parents tell them dreams aren't serious."

He took out his phone - the last thread connecting him to his former life. Hesitated for a moment. And lowered the window.

The wind caught the black rectangle, carried it into the gorge. Like an autumn leaf, like shed skin, like last year's snow.

"Thank you," he said, returning the guitar to the student. "For the music. For... for the return."

The bus flew forward. The mountains parted, revealing new horizons. Somewhere ahead waited the sea - boundless, free, ready to wash away all masks, all fears, all lies.

And I drove the bus and thought: how many of them were there - lost souls seeking the way home? How many will there be - after me, in other buses, on other roads?

And how important it is sometimes to stop. To hear the music. To remember your true self.

Even if it means losing connection with the familiar world. Even if it means letting go of everything you thought important.

Even if it means simply getting on a bus heading toward the sea.

And trusting the road.

‍

CHAPTER 12. STORY OF LOVERS

They boarded at the mountain stream turn - young, disheveled, with backpacks and dreams slung over their shoulders. Cherry blossoms were tangled in her hair, the sky rippled in his eyes. They bought the last tickets, tucked themselves into the very back - away from prying eyes, closer to their own world.

"To the sea?" I asked, punching their tickets.

"To the end of the world," he replied, not taking his eyes off her profile. "And back."

She laughed - lightly, melodiously, like that stream outside. The students with the guitar exchanged glances, recognizing themselves in these two - young, fearless, ready to conquer the world.

The bus started moving. They settled by the window, fingers intertwined, shoulders pressed together. Her backpack was adorned with a flowering cherry branch, his with a worn world map marked with routes.

"You know," she whispered to him, but in the quiet of the cabin each word rang like crystal, "I've never seen the sea."

"And I've never been so happy," he replied simply.

The boy with the tiger turned around, studying the strange couple. His child's intuition unerringly sensed something special in them - as if a fairy tale had suddenly taken flesh and blood.

"Where are you going?" he asked, edging closer.

"Into tomorrow," smiled the girl. She pulled a small leather-bound notebook from her backpack, opened it to a random page. "Look."

On the pages bloomed unseen flowers, fantastic birds flew, airships sailed. Each drawing breathed with dreams, each line pulsed with life.

"I draw worlds," she explained. "And he finds them."

"We've been traveling for three years," the young man picked up. "Looking for places that match her drawings. And you know what? They exist. Every single one."

The old man with the bird leaned forward, peering at the drawings. "And this... this is Haeinsa Temple! Before you saw it?"

"A month before," she nodded. "It came to me in a dream one night. I woke up, sketched it. And then..."

"And then I found an old photograph," he continued. "In a secondhand bookstore in Seoul. Identical to her drawing. And we knew - we had to go."

The businessman set aside his guitar, listening to their conversation. Something like envy - or memory of his own unfulfilled escapes - flickered in his eyes.

"So you just... just go wherever your eyes lead you?"

"No," laughed the young man. "We go where our hearts call. That's more important."

The girl in the gray coat set aside her notebook, enchanted by the story. Something like envy - or hope - reflected in her eyes.

"But what about... work? Home? Future?" the businessman pronounced the familiar words, but they sounded less and less convincing.

"This is work," the girl showed a worn camera. "I draw worlds, he photographs them. We sell postcards, calendars, illustrations. Not much, but enough for tickets. And home..." - she pressed against her companion's shoulder - "home is where we're together."

The bus entered a cloud. The world dissolved beyond the windows, leaving only white radiance. It seemed we were flying through emptiness, through a blank page ready to accept any drawing.

"May I?" the boy reached for the notebook. She nodded, passing over her treasure.

Page after page, wonders came alive. Waterfalls of starlight. Trees with crowns of butterflies. Mountains like sleeping dragons. Cities on clouds. Lighthouses pointing the way to other worlds.

"And this..." he faltered at one drawing. Across the spread bloomed a garden unlike any on earth. Apple trees of pure light. Paths of lunar silver. Swings soaring straight to the stars.

"This is our future home," she said quietly. "Someday we'll find it. Or build it ourselves."

The young man pulled a worn photo album from his backpack. "Look. Everything she's drawn - we've found. Maybe not exactly, but the essence is the same. The world is full of wonders - you just need to know how to see them."

The bird in the cage suddenly stirred, began to sing - quietly, gently, as if confirming his words. The melody intertwined with the rustle of pages, the engine's hum, the breathing of the mountains.

"Play something," asked the girl, noticing the guitar. "For complete happiness we just need music."

The students exchanged glances with the businessman. And suddenly - for the first time during the entire journey - they played together. Youth and experience, dream and mastery wove into a single melody.

And the lovers took out their paints and camera. She began drawing this moment - the bus flying through clouds. He captured their faces reflected in the misty glass.

The old man with the bird watched them and smiled - with a wise, all-understanding smile. "That's how one should live," he said quietly. "Without fear. Without doubt. Simply loving."

The bus emerged from the cloud. Ahead stretched a valley like one of her drawings - green, boundless, full of light and mystery.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "Exactly as I saw it!"

And at that moment I understood - they would find their garden. Build their home. See all the world's wonders. Because when two hearts beat as one, when two souls look in the same direction - nothing is impossible.

We continued our journey, and in the back of the cabin continued a love story - simple and eternal as the mountains themselves. A story of two dreamers who decided one day that the whole world was their home.

And somewhere ahead waited the sea - her first sea, their shared sea, the beginning of a new path and new wonders.

And I drove the bus and thought: perhaps this is the main wonder - being able to see the world through the eyes of love. Being able to believe in the impossible. Being able to follow a dream.

And find your "tomorrow" - even if you need to travel a thousand roads.

Even if you need to draw a thousand worlds.

Even if you need to fly to the end of the world.

And back.

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CHAPTER 13. WISDOM OF THE MONK

He stood by the roadside - tall, straight as a mountain cedar, in a simple gray robe. Hand raised in greeting, a canvas bag on his shoulder. I slowed down, opening the doors - something in his appearance demanded a stop, as if the mountains themselves were asking to give their guardian a ride.

"Far to go?" he asked, climbing the steps. His voice deep as mountain echo.

"To the sea," I answered.

"To the essence," he nodded, as if correcting me.

He settled in the empty seat next to the businessman. The latter instinctively straightened his back, adjusted his jacket. The guitar in his hands trembled, producing a quiet ring.

"Good instrument," noted the monk. "It sings even when silent."

The lovers in the back set aside their drawings and photographs. The girl in the gray coat froze with pencil poised above her notebook. Even the bird in the cage turned its head, examining the new passenger.

"Master," the businessman suddenly spoke, "I today... I decided to change everything. Quit my job, open a music school. Is this..."

"Right," interrupted the monk. "When a door opens, it's foolish to pretend you didn't notice."

The bus entered a turn. The sun played on the prayer beads in the monk's hands - they looked like a string of pearls connecting earth and sky.

"And you... where are you headed?" asked the boy with the tiger's mother.

"To the same place as you," smiled the monk. "To the beginning."

"To the sea," I corrected.

"Is there a difference?"

The boy moved closer, enchanted by the prayer beads. The monk noticed his interest, moved several beads: "Do you know what these are? These are steps. Each bead - one step toward yourself."

"How many steps are needed?" the boy hugged his plush tiger.

"Exactly as many as you're ready to take today. No more, no less."

The old man with the bird leaned forward: "Master, I'm taking her to release. On the cliff above the sea. Is this..."

"Right," nodded the monk again. "Every bird must fly. Every heart - open. Every soul - find its path."

The students in the back exchanged glances. One of them - with the red streak - carefully touched the guitar strings. The melody was born by itself - ancient as the mountains, fresh as a mountain stream.

"Music is also a path," noted the monk. "The shortest path between hearts."

The girl in the gray coat was writing something quickly, but the monk shook his head: "Some things can't be caught in words. They can only be lived."

The bus climbed higher. The clouds remained below - a white sea from which mountains rose like islands in infinity.

"Master," the girl with the drawings spoke up, "how do you know you're on the right path?"

"When you stop asking that question."

Her companion hugged her shoulders. In his eyes reflected the sky - boundless, free, full of promises.

"Look!" suddenly exclaimed the boy, pointing out the window. An eagle soared above the road - majestic, motionless, as if suspended between heaven and earth.

"That's how one should live," said the monk. "Not fighting the wind, but letting it carry you."

The bird in the cage fluttered, spreading its wings. The old man carefully covered the cage with cloth, calming it.

"Soon," promised the monk. "Each has its hour of freedom."

The businessman ran his fingers across the strings - uncertainly, as if testing a new path. The melody flowed - simple, pure, like a mountain spring.

Mrs. Kim secretly wiped away tears. Her husband squeezed her hand tighter - in this simple gesture lay all the wisdom of years lived together.

"Love is also a path," noted the monk. "The hardest. The most important. The most real."

The bus passed the summit. Ahead the road began to descend - to where a blue strip of sea could be discerned.

"Master," I caught his gaze in the rearview mirror, "is there an end to the path?"

"There are only new beginnings."

The sun reached its zenith. Shadows disappeared, as if the world momentarily lost depth. And in this shadowless clarity, each face in the bus cabin glowed with some special, inner truth.

"Look carefully," said the monk. "Now you see each other as you truly are. Without masks. Without shadows. Without fear."

And we saw. Music rippled in the businessman's eyes. The future shone in the lovers' smiles. Eternity hid in the wrinkles around Mrs. Kim's eyes. Wisdom flickered in the boy's serious gaze. The universe breathed in the precise lines of the girl's drawings.

"Remember this moment," the monk said quietly. "When doubt comes, remember how you were here. How you always are - you just need to remember."

The bus flew down the serpentine. The sea approached - now you could distinguish the white caps of waves, the play of light on the water's surface.

"Time," said the monk, rising.

"But we haven't arrived yet," I was surprised.

"I'm already where I was headed," he smiled. "And so are you. You just haven't noticed yet."

He bowed to everyone - to each personally, as if blessing them. Then simply stepped to the doors.

"Wait!" exclaimed the boy. "But how..."

But the doors had already closed. And when I looked back - there was no one on the roadside. Only the eagle in the sky described a wide circle and flew toward the horizon.

"He left the prayer beads," suddenly said the businessman, pointing to the seat.

The string of pearl beads serpentined across the gray upholstery - one for each of us. One step on the path to ourselves.

We drove on - to the sea, to freedom, to new beginnings. But something had changed. As if the bus had filled with light. As if each heart had found its rhythm in the common song of the road.

And above us flew the eagle, showing the way to the sea.

Or to the essence.

Or is it the same thing?

The engine sang its song, the wheels devoured kilometers, and in the cabin sounded music - guitar and bird trills, laughter and quiet conversations, the rustle of pencil on paper and the beating of hearts.

The music of the path.

The music of life.

The music of truth.

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CHAPTER 14. LAUGHTER OF SCHOOLCHILDREN

At the mountain lake turn there were three of them - in school uniforms, with heavy backpacks over their shoulders. Seeing the bus, they waved their arms so desperately, as if their whole lives depended on it.

"To Sokcho?" blurted out the eldest, extending crumpled bills. The name badge on his school jacket gleamed: Kim Jun-ho.

"Playing truant?" I asked, examining their flushed faces.

"No, Mr. Driver!" the second boy stood at attention. "We have official competitions in... in..."

"In collecting seashells!" burst out the third, the smallest. And immediately bit his tongue, realizing the absurdity of his invention.

The cabin erupted in laughter. Even the businessman couldn't suppress a smile, and the bird in the cage stirred, as if also appreciating the joke.

"Get in," I said, returning their change. "Just remember - sometimes the shortest path isn't the right one."

They squeezed into the middle of the cabin, dumped their backpacks, pulled out sandwiches wrapped in crumpled foil. They smelled of childhood, adventure, and that special freedom that comes only on days of great escapes.

"What's in the backpacks?" asked the boy with the tiger, examining the new passengers.

"Dreams," Jun-ho answered seriously. "And some sandwiches."

His companions snickered, but there was no mockery in their laughter - only the joy of a shared secret, only the taste of adventure, only the anticipation of something extraordinary.

"We're going to watch the sunrise," suddenly said the youngest. "From the cliff above the sea. They say from there you can see how the sun is born from the water."

The lovers in the back exchanged glances - they too had once been like this. Maybe yesterday. Maybe a hundred years ago.

"And school?" asked the boy with the tiger's mother.

"School won't go anywhere," shrugged Jun-ho. "But sunrise... sunrise can only be today."

The businessman set aside his guitar, listening to their conversation. Something like envy flickered in his eyes - or memory of his own unfulfilled escapes.

"You know," he said suddenly, "I also ran away once. At your age. Wanted to see how the sun rises over the mountains. But I got scared, went back home. And regretted it my whole life."

The schoolboys quieted, examining his expensive suit, polished shoes, tired eyes.

"And now?" asked the youngest. "Now would you run away?"

"Now?" he ran his fingers across the guitar strings. "Now I would run faster."

The students in the back quietly laughed - they knew the value of such escapes, such sunrises, such moments of absolute freedom.

"Can I come with you?" suddenly asked the boy with the tiger.

His mother startled, but something in the schoolboys' faces - pure, bright, untainted by adult fears - stopped her objections.

"Of course!" Jun-ho moved over, making room. "Just don't forget the tiger - without him the sunrise won't happen."

They took out their sandwiches - simple, with cheese and ham, wrapped by caring mothers' hands. Shared them with everyone, even offered a crumb to the bird in the cage.

"Why today specifically?" asked the girl in the gray coat, setting aside her notebook.

"Because yesterday we didn't dare," answered the middle schoolboy. "And tomorrow we might change our minds."

"Sometimes you just need to jump," added Jun-ho. "Like into water from a cliff. Close your eyes and..."

"And fly," finished the youngest.

The bus plunged into a cloud, and for a moment the world beyond the windows disappeared. Only the schoolboys' laughter rang in the white void - pure, clear, like a mountain stream.

"Mr. Driver," Jun-ho made his way to the cabin, "have you ever seen how the sun is born?"

"Thirty years every morning," I answered. "And each time like the first time."

"Does it really come out of the sea?"

"No," I smiled. "It comes out of our eyes. From our hearts. From our belief in miracles."

The cloud remained behind. The world returned - washed, shining, full of promises. The schoolboys pressed against the windows, examining the valleys floating below.

"Look!" exclaimed the youngest. "Down there - the lake looks like a heart!"

And indeed - the mountain lake, nestled between cliffs, had the shape of a heart. A sunlit path crossed it like a golden arrow.

"It's a sign," said Jun-ho seriously. "Means we're on the right path."

The old man with the bird listened to their voices and smiled - a wise, understanding smile. He knew the value of such signs, such coincidences, such moments of absolute truth.

And the schoolboys were already making plans - how they would meet the sunrise, how they would shout hello to the sun, how they would take photos on the edge of the cliff. Their voices intertwined with the bird's song, with guitar strings, with the engine's roar.

"You know what?" suddenly said the businessman. "I think I'll watch your sunrise too. If you'll allow."

"Of course!" nodded the schoolboys. "The more people, the better the sunrise!"

The lovers in the back took out their paints and camera - to capture this moment, this laughter, this pure joy of escape to the sun.

And I drove the bus and thought: maybe this is how freedom should look - three schoolboys with sandwiches, running away to the sea. Maybe this is how miracles are born - from laughter, from faith, from readiness to jump into the unknown.

The engine sang its song, the wheels devoured kilometers, and in the cabin rang young voices - pure, bright, full of that special wisdom that comes only on days of great escapes.

And somewhere ahead waited the sea. And sunrise. And wonder.

And I knew for certain - today the sun would be born exactly as they dreamed.

Because it simply couldn't be any other way.

‍

CHAPTER 15. SONG IN HEADPHONES

She sat three rows from the cabin - a quiet girl with large headphones, a backpack on her knees. Since Seoul, she hadn't uttered a word, only occasionally tapping an inaudible rhythm on the window with her fingers.

The schoolboys had long since quieted, overcome by the journey and excitement of the upcoming sunrise. The boy with the tiger had also dozed off, pressed against his mother's shoulder. Only music from the headphones barely seeped into the cabin's silence - something anxious, pulsating, like the beating of a lonely heart.

"Excuse me," she suddenly said, removing her headphones. Her voice was hoarse, as if long unused. "Can I turn it up? Here... here's such acoustics."

I nodded. She connected her phone to the bus's audio system, and the cabin filled with music - unusual, woven from electronic sounds and live instruments, from the sound of surf and city noise.

"Is this your music?" asked the businessman, setting aside his guitar.

She nodded without raising her eyes. "I write soundtracks. For films that don't exist. For stories that are happening right now."

The lovers at the back of the cabin grew quiet, listening. A new motif was being born in the music - bright, like pre-dawn rays breaking through clouds.

"This is about them," she said barely audibly, nodding toward the sleeping schoolboys. "About their escape to sunrise. About how the heart beats when you dare to do something important."

The bird in the cage stirred, tilted its head. And then - it sang, weaving its voice into the electronic symphony. It worked out amazingly - as if nature and technology had found a common language, a common frequency, a common heartbeat.

"And this..." the girl quickly touched the phone screen, changing tracks. A new melody poured forth - prolonged, deep, like a mountain echo. "This is about you, Mr. Driver. About your last trip. About saying goodbye to the road."

I gripped the wheel tighter, feeling a lump rising in my throat. How did she know? How did she sense it?

"Music sees through," she said, as if answering an unspoken question. "Hears what's hidden behind words. Behind silence."

The track changed again - now something like a lullaby was playing, but with anxious notes, with hidden pain. The boy with the tiger's mother held her son closer, recognizing in these sounds her own story, her own loss, her own hope.

"Everyone has their own song," the girl said quietly. "Just not everyone hears it."

The businessman picked up the guitar, carefully tuning into the electronic rhythm. His classical technique strangely and beautifully intertwined with the modern sound.

"May I?" asked one of the students, taking out a harmonica. The lovers at the back began keeping rhythm - she on the armrest, he on his backpack.

The girl in the gray coat looked up from her notebook, listening. Something like recognition reflected in her eyes - as if the music was voicing what she had been trying to catch in words.

"And for them?" the old man with the bird nodded toward the lovers.

A new melody poured from the speakers - light, airy, with a taste of freedom and a taste of happiness. The girl with drawings immediately reached for her notebook - to capture this sound in lines and colors.

The bus entered a turn, and the sun struck the windows, momentarily turning the cabin into a crystal palace. The music soared upward, absorbing this light, turning it into sound.

"This..." the girl faltered. "This comes by itself. When you look at the world and suddenly understand - everything living sounds. Everything moves in a single rhythm. You just need to tune into the right wave."

The schoolboys woke up but didn't move, afraid to frighten away the moment. Their faces in the morning light seemed almost transparent, as if the music had made them part of this crystal world.

"What's in the backpack?" the boy with the tiger suddenly asked, pointing to her luggage.

"Studio," she smiled for the first time during the journey. "Small, portable. Mixer, couple of synthesizers, microphone. Going to record the sunrise over the sea."

"Can you record sunrise?" asked the youngest schoolboy in surprise.

"You can record everything," she nodded. "The sound of waves, seagull cries, first rays of sun..."

"But rays are soundless!" objected the middle one.

"Nothing is soundless," she shook her head. "We just don't always know how to listen."

A new composition was born right there, in the bus - from guitar chords and electronic beats, from bird trills and engine noise, from the breathing of sleepers and rustling of pages, from heartbeats and the whisper of tires on asphalt.

"This is about us," the businessman suddenly said. "About all of us. About this bus. About this road."

The girl nodded, her fingers flying over the phone screen, adjusting sounds, weaving them into a single story.

And I drove the bus and thought: maybe our whole life is music. Maybe each meeting is a new note. Each farewell - a pause. Each road - a melody.

And somewhere ahead the sea was waiting for us - with its own song, with its own rhythm, with its own story. And sunrise - which would sound like it had never sounded before.

Because today we would all listen to it - each with their own heart, each with their own soul. And each would hear something of their own in it.

And this too would become music.

The engine sang its song, the wheels kept rhythm, and in the speakers sounded the story of our journey - a story that began long before we met, and would continue long after we parted.

A story written in sounds.

A story told through music.

A story that sounds in each of us.

And will sound forever.

‍

Part Four: Through the Day

‍

CHAPTER 16. MIDDAY HEAT

The sun stood at zenith. The air thickened, turning into hot honey. The asphalt melted under the wheels, releasing streams of oily haze. The mountains around trembled like mirages in the desert.

The air conditioning barely coped. Drops of sweat rolled down my forehead, the steering wheel became slippery under my palms. At such times, you want only one thing - to find shade and freeze, like a lizard on a heated stone.

"Look!" the middle schoolboy suddenly shouted. "A deer!"

On the mountainside, a silhouette froze - proud head with branching antlers, alert ears, tense body ready to leap. A second - and the vision dissolved in the sultry haze.

"It's a good sign," nodded the old man with the bird. "At noon, the boundaries between worlds thin. Mountain spirits come out onto the paths."

The businessman wanted to object but stopped himself - in this burning world, any miracle seemed possible. His guitar responded with a quiet ring - the strings expanded from the heat.

"And there?" the boy with the tiger pointed to the opposite window. On the other slope, strange shadows danced, as if someone had hung translucent curtains between the pines.

"That's hot air rising from the ground," his mother began to explain, but stopped short. In the swaying shadows, outlines of figures appeared - as if invisible dancers were spinning in an endless waltz.

The girl with headphones quickly adjusted her equipment. "Listen," she whispered, turning on the recording. Something incredible poured from the speakers - the rustle of heated air turned into music, pulsating in rhythm with the universe.

The lovers at the back froze, not bringing brush to paper and finger to shutter button. The paints on the palette bubbled from the heat, but they didn't notice - their gazes were fixed on the dancing shadows.

The bird in the cage suddenly ruffled its feathers and made a strange sound - not singing, not whistling, but something between bell ringing and wind rustling in the crowns of ancient trees.

"It feels," whispered the old man. "They all feel it."

The bus plunged into a tunnel. Darkness fell suddenly, bringing blessed coolness. But even here, in the artificial twilight, the strange music continued to sound - reflecting off concrete walls, spiraling around the bus.

"Look at the walls!" breathed the girl in the gray coat. Along the gray concrete flowed shadows - no longer dancers, but whole stories written in light and darkness. Ancient hunters pursued deer, dragons soared into the skies, ships sailed on air rivers.

The schoolboys pressed against the windows, forgetting about the stuffiness and fatigue. Their breath created intricate patterns on the glass, which immediately came alive, turning into new stories.

"Don't stop," said the old man with the bird quietly. "At noon you can't stand still. You need to move - between worlds, between states, between lives."

I gripped the wheel tighter. The engine worked steadily, like the pulse of a huge creature carrying us through this midday magic. The speedometer needle trembled, showing impossible numbers - now zero, now infinity.

The tunnel ended suddenly - light struck ruthlessly, but it was different light now. The air had changed, become resonant like a crystal bell. The mountains around gained incredible clarity, as if someone had wiped a giant glass.

"We passed through," exhaled the old man. "Passed through noon."

The girl with headphones stopped recording. In the ensuing silence, you could hear hearts beating - all different and all in unison, like a single organism, like one soul divided between bodies.

The bus flew forward. Now I could see the sea - no longer a strip on the horizon, but a living being breathing salt and freedom. It approached with each turn, with each breath, with each heartbeat.

"So this is what a miracle looks like," said the businessman, and no one smiled. Everyone understood - something inexplicable and absolutely real had just happened.

We had all changed. Having driven through the midday haze, through the tunnel between worlds, through our own fears and limitations, we had become different. What exactly we had become - remained to be discovered.

The bird in the cage sang - now differently, as if releasing sounds accumulated during the long journey. The schoolboys began quietly singing along - without words, simply responding to the melody. The lovers held hands, intertwining fingers so tightly as if afraid of dissolving into each other.

And I drove the bus, feeling how the world around was changing. Each turn revealed new distances, each breath filled lungs with new air, each heartbeat counted new time.

We had passed through noon. We had passed through the boundary.

Ahead was the sea. Ahead was sunrise - even if it was still several hours away.

Ahead was everything.

‍

CHAPTER 17. UNEXPECTED MEETING

The "Detour" sign appeared suddenly - rusty, tilted, almost hidden by overgrown ferns. The road ahead was lost in fog sliding down from the mountains like a river of milk.

"There's a landslide," said a hoarse voice. A road worker stood by the roadside in a faded orange vest. "You'll have to detour through the old pass."

I reduced speed, peering at his face. There was something strange in his eyes - like the reflection of distant stars in a mountain lake.

"Far?"

"An hour on the old road. Through Moon Valley."

The schoolboys stirred. "Moon Valley? But there..."

"Quiet," Jun-ho cut them off, but anticipation trembled in his voice.

The road worker waved his hand, indicating the turn - a narrow road, overgrown with silvery grass along the edges, climbing up between mossy cliffs.

"That way?" the businessman stood up, peering at the mountain path. "But the bus..."

"Will pass," nodded the road worker. "If you trust the road - it will pass."

I turned the wheel. The bus shuddered with its whole body, like a living creature sensing an unknown path. The engine sang differently - deeper, clearer, as if tuning to a new rhythm.

The road worker dissolved in the fog behind, as if he had never existed. Only the silvery grass swayed along the roadside, showing the way.

"Moon Valley," whispered the girl in the gray coat. "They say time flows differently there. They say..."

Her pencil froze above the empty page, unable to catch in words what was opening ahead.

The road climbed higher. The air became resonant, like a crystal bell. In the gaps between rocks, something flickered - either reflections of the distant sea, or fragments of forgotten dreams.

The bird in the cage fluttered, spreading its wings. The old man carefully lifted the cloth, and immediately the cabin filled with singing - but not bird song, rather something else, as if the mountains themselves remembered an ancient lullaby.

At the turn, the valley opened up. Silvery grass swayed in the wind, creating patterns like lunar seas. In the middle of the valley stood a boulder - perfectly round, polished by winds to mirror shine.

"Stop!" the boy with the tiger suddenly said. "Please!"

I braked. Something in his voice demanded attention - as if a child had seen what adults had long unlearned to notice.

"There..." he pressed against the window. "Someone's dancing there."

And we saw. Between stems of silvery grass, shadows glided - translucent but incredibly clear. Their dance told stories - about first snow and last leaf, about star births and sea whispers, about paths between worlds and bridges between hearts.

The girl with headphones turned on recording. Music poured forth by itself - neither electronic nor live, but something other, woven from moonlight and mountain wind.

The lovers took out their paints but didn't draw - just held brushes above paper, allowing drops of color to fall and create their own patterns.

"Can we get out?" asked the youngest schoolboy.

I looked at the clock, but the hands had frozen, refusing to measure time in this strange place.

"Five minutes," I said, opening the doors.

The silvery grass parted, creating a path to the boulder. The schoolboys went first - timidly, but with that absolute trust in miracle that exists only at their age.

Others followed - the boy with the tiger and his mother, the businessman with his guitar, the lovers with their paints, the girl with headphones, not stopping the recording.

The old man with the bird remained in the bus. "We'll wait," he said, stroking the cage. "We have our own meeting ahead."

I watched them walk through the silvery grass - different people, different destinies, randomly connected by this road. The shadows continued dancing around them, weaving new patterns, new stories, new paths.

At the boulder they stopped. Its surface reflected not their faces but something else - dreams, hopes, unlived lives and unfulfilled miracles.

The businessman raised his guitar. The first chord sounded so pure, as if the stars themselves echoed. The schoolboys began singing - without words, simply allowing voices to merge with the wind.

The boy with the tiger reached out, touching the mirror surface. A ripple ran across the boulder, like across water. Something flickered in the reflection - flashed and disappeared, leaving an aftertaste of unfulfilled miracle.

"Time," I said when the sun touched the mountain tops.

They returned - quieted, but not sad. As if each had received an answer to a question they hadn't dared ask even themselves.

The bus moved off. The silvery grass swayed behind, erasing footprints, hiding the path, keeping the secret. The shadows continued dancing, but now their stories were different - about those who leave to return, about those who meet to not forget, about those who seek and find themselves on mountain roads.

The fog ahead parted. The old road curved down, returning to the main highway. The clock on the dashboard came alive but showed the same time as before the stop - as if Moon Valley existed in its own dimension.

The bird in the cage sang - quietly, gently, like a lullaby to fading miracle.

And I drove the bus and thought: maybe sometimes you need to stray from the path to find the road. Maybe sometimes you need to get lost to meet yourself.

Maybe that's the main miracle - to let the road choose you.

And trust the path.

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CHAPTER 18. STORM OVER THE FIELDS

The first lightning split the sky as we emerged from the mountain pass. It struck somewhere ahead, turning the rice fields into a silver sea. Thunder rolled across the valley, echoing off the cliffs, making the bus windows tremble.

"Will we make it?" the businessman stood up, peering into the darkening sky.

The second lightning answered for me - serpentine, violet, it momentarily illuminated the road ahead. Where a moment ago lay a plain, now rose a wall of rain, advancing with the inevitability of a tsunami.

"Hold on," I warned, increasing speed. "It's about to begin."

The schoolboys gripped their armrests. The boy with the tiger pressed against his mother. The bird in the cage froze, drawing its head into its feathers.

The wall of rain hit us in one strike. The sky collapsed onto the earth, transforming the world into a watery chaos. The wipers frantically swept across the glass, barely managing the torrents of water.

"There!" the middle schoolboy suddenly shouted. "On the right!"

In the light of another lightning flash, a figure appeared on the roadside - a woman in a white dress, clutching something to her chest. She wasn't even trying to shelter from the rain, just stood there, looking directly at us.

"Stop!" the businessman jumped up. "We can't leave her there!"

"We can't stop," the old man with the bird shook his head. "Not in such a storm. Not in such a place."

But I was already reducing speed. Something about this figure demanded attention - not fear, not pleading, but a calm certainty that we would stop.

The doors opened. The woman stepped into the cabin, leaving trails of water behind her. Her dress somehow remained perfectly white, as if the rain hadn't touched it.

"Thank you," her voice sounded unexpectedly young. "I knew you would come."

She walked to the middle of the cabin, sat by the window. The bundle in her arms stirred, and everyone saw - it was an infant, sleeping as peacefully as if no storm existed.

"I'm Sun-hee," she said simply. "We were waiting for you at the turn."

"But how..." the businessman began.

Lightning struck very close, deafening. When the purple spots cleared from our eyes, everyone saw - the infant was smiling. Not just smiling - laughing, watching the storm's fury outside the window.

The girl with headphones hurriedly turned on recording. Something incredible poured from the speakers - a child's laughter, interwoven with thunder crashes, with the sound of rain, with the howl of wind.

"He hears the music of the storm," Sun-hee nodded. "All children hear it, they just forget later."

The lovers in the back took out their paints but froze with raised brushes - how to capture the laughter of an infant listening to the storm's song?

The bird in the cage suddenly came alive, spread its wings. Its song joined the choir of elements - a thin silver thread, stitching together heaven and earth.

The boy with the tiger slid from his seat, timidly approached the woman in white. The infant caught his gaze, reached out a tiny hand. Their fingers touched.

"He says he remembers you," Sun-hee smiled. "From the other side of the rainbow."

The bus plunged into another torrent of water. Lightning now struck continuously, turning the world into a strobe light - flash, darkness, flash, darkness. In this flickering, the passengers' faces seemed frozen masks - smile, fear, wonder, understanding.

"We're going to the sea," said the old man with the bird. "To sunrise."

"I know," Sun-hee nodded. "That's why I waited. He must see how the sun is born - for the first time, for the last time, for the only time."

Her voice changed, ancient depths sounding in it. The infant reached toward the bird in the cage, and it responded with a trill - pure, piercing, like the sound of breaking crystal.

"Soon," said the woman in white. No one understood what this word referred to - the end of the storm, the sunrise, something yet to happen.

The lightning ahead parted, forming a corridor of light. The bus flew through it like a ship through a luminous tunnel. The rain turned to shining mist, thunder became music, darkness became canvas for a heavenly artist.

The infant fell asleep - as suddenly as the laughter had appeared. Sun-hee sang a lullaby - ancient as the mountains themselves, new as a newborn's first cry. The schoolboys picked up the melody, then the students, the girl with headphones, the lovers, even the businessman wove his guitar into this wordless song.

The storm remained behind - like a dream, like a vision, like a reminder of something important. The sky ahead lightened, blue showing through gaps in the clouds.

"Our turn," Sun-hee suddenly said. I nodded, slowing near a barely visible path leading into a bamboo grove.

She stood - easily, as if not holding a sleeping child. Bowed to each person - deeply, ceremonially, regally.

"Thank you for the music," she said to the boy with the tiger. "For memory," nodded to the old man with the bird. "For the path," this to me.

And she stepped through the open doors - straight, bright, otherworldly. The bamboo parted, letting her pass, closed behind her. Only the path remained - wet from rain, marked by barefoot prints.

The bus moved forward. In the rearview mirror, I saw passengers exchanging glances - surprised, confused, enlightened. Each tried to comprehend what had happened, fit it into the framework of the familiar world.

"She forgot her umbrella," the youngest schoolboy suddenly said.

And everyone laughed - brightly, easily, freed. Laughed at the umbrella, at the storm, at their own fears and doubts. Laughed as only children and wise men can laugh - with all their heart, with all their soul.

And somewhere in the bamboo grove, a woman in a white dress cradled an infant listening to the music of the storm. Somewhere in the world, new lightning was being born, new songs, new paths.

And ahead lay the sea. And sunrise. And all possible miracles.

The engine sang its song, the wheels counted kilometers, and in the cabin sounded a lullaby - that very one, ancient and eternally new, which all children remember until they forget.

But today we all remembered. At least for a time. At least for one thunder crash, for one lightning flash, for one child's laugh.

And that was enough.

‍

CHAPTER 19. QUIET HOUR

The heat retreated, leaving behind a special afternoon stillness. The air became transparent as spring water. In such minutes, the world seems to pause, catching its breath before a new spiral of life.

The passengers dozed. The schoolboys leaned against each other, finishing dreams about the coming sunrise. The businessman set aside his guitar, closed his eyes - a slight smile played on his lips, as if in his dream he had already opened his music school.

The lovers in the back of the cabin leafed through photographs and sketches made along the way. The paint hadn't dried yet, and in this freshness lay something poignant - impressions of moments caught on paper.

The bird dozed, head tucked under wing. The old man carefully adjusted the cloth on the cage, trying not to disturb its sleep. Outside, rice fields floated past - emerald squares traced with silver threads of water.

The boy with the tiger sat pressed against the window. His breath left tiny clouds on the cool surface. He drew invisible patterns with his finger, creating his own map of the journey.

The girl in the gray coat closed her notebook. The written pages held echoes of the traveled road - each turn, each meeting, each ray of light had become lines waiting for their moment.

The girl with headphones turned off her recording. In the ensuing silence dissolved the last notes of the storm, yielding to a new melody - the breathing of sleepers, the whisper of tires, the beating of hearts.

The bus glided along the road silently, like a ship on mirror-smooth seas. Each kilometer brought us closer to our destination, but there was no need to hurry - there are moments that need to be lived slowly.

In the rearview mirror, I could see the entire cabin - thirty lives connected by chance and destiny. Thirty stories woven into one. Thirty dreams seeing each other.

The sun tilted toward sunset, painting the clouds peach-colored. Somewhere in the distance, birds soared - black silhouettes against the bright sky. They flew toward the sea, showing us the way.

I drove the bus, feeling how the road breathed beneath the wheels. Each turn revealed a new view, each rise gifted a new perspective. The mountains parted, preparing to reveal the main miracle.

In this afternoon languor lay a premonition - vague but unerring. As if the air itself knew: soon everything would change. Soon the silence would explode with colors. Soon...

But for now, we could simply drive. Simply breathe. Simply be.

In such minutes you understand: sometimes silence speaks more than any words. Sometimes a pause matters more than action. Sometimes the main things happen in the spaces between events.

The engine sang its lullaby, cradling the world. Ahead waited the sea, but it wasn't hurrying anywhere. It knew: we would come. When we were ready. When we had lived this silence to its end.

And meanwhile, the bus flew through frozen time, guarding its passengers' dreams. And in this too lay a miracle - simple and eternal as the road itself.

I gripped the wheel tighter, peering at the horizon. There, around the bend, began a new chapter. But that would come later.

Now was the time for silence.

And it sounded more beautiful than any music.

‍

CHAPTER 20. EVENING HAZE

The sunset light painted the mountains honey-colored. The air thickened, filled with golden suspension - as if someone had scattered stardust through it. On the horizon, sky met sea, creating a strip of pure radiance.

"Look!" the boy with the tiger pointed out the window. Among the trees, something flickered - not a deer, not a shadow, but like a reflection of another world.

Along the road, the first fireflies lit up. They rose from the grass in a light greenish cloud, enveloping the bus in a shimmering veil.

The businessman took his guitar but didn't play - just ran his fingers across the strings, drawing out a single pure note. It hung in the air like a crystal drop, reflecting the sunset gold.

"This is the threshold," said the old man with the bird. The cage on his knees trembled slightly - its inhabitant sensed the approaching sea.

The schoolboys pressed against the windows. Jun-ho took out his worn notebook, hurriedly writing down the coordinates of the place - something special was happening here, something requiring return.

The lovers set aside their paints - in this light, any colors seemed superfluous. The young man embraced the girl's shoulders, she leaned against him, their silhouettes merging into one.

The girl with headphones turned on recording. Something weightless poured from the speakers - the music of evening itself, translated into sound. The shimmer of fireflies, the rustle of cooling air, the breathing of sleeping mountains.

The road began descending. At the turns, valleys opened up, flooded with golden mist. Somewhere below, the coastline could be discerned - curved like a drawn bow.

"How much longer?" asked the youngest schoolboy, pressing his palms to the glass.

"An hour," I answered, feeling how the engine's voice changed. It sounded deeper, clearer - as if tuning itself to the coastal air.

The girl in the gray coat wrote without looking at her notebook. Her gaze was fixed on the space between heaven and earth, where new words were being born.

Streams serpentined down the mountain slopes - silver threads on the darkening velvet of forest. Their murmur reached even through the engine's rumble - the song of water running to the sea.

The bird suddenly stirred, let out a short trill - not loud, but piercingly pure. In it could be tasted salt, the sound of surf, the cries of seagulls over waves.

"She feels it," nodded the old man. "The sea calls its children."

Another turn - and space opened up. The mountains parted, revealing boundless expanse. The sea lay below - flowing gold, molten sunset, the living heart of the world.

The air changed - became denser, saltier, filled with new meanings. Each breath brought stories, each exhale carried away the past.

The fireflies remained behind, but their shimmer still lived in our eyes - a scatter of green sparks, reminder of miracle.

The boy with the tiger fell asleep, pressed against his mother's shoulder. In his breathing could be heard the sound of waves - as if the sea had already taken him in its embrace.

The bus flew down the serpentine. Each new spiral revealed a new layer of reality. The sea approached - now individual waves could be distinguished, crests, swirls of foam.

"Soon," whispered the old man, stroking the cage. The bird responded with quiet cooing - anticipation sounding in its voice.

The setting sun touched the horizon, turning the sea to molten gold. The sky blazed with all shades of purple and amber.

We descended into this symphony of color, this riot of hues, this last surge of the departing day. Ahead waited the night - transparent, light, full of stars.

And beyond it - sunrise.

But that's already quite another story.

The engine sang its song, the wheels swallowed the last kilometers of mountain road. Below spread the coastal town - a flourish of white houses against the darkening shore.

Somewhere there waited our berth. Somewhere there each would find their sea, their sunrise, their truth.

And meanwhile we flew through the evening haze - toward everything that destiny had prepared for us. Toward the miracle that breathed with salty wind and sang with the voices of waves.

Toward a new beginning.

‍

Part Five: To the Sea

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CHAPTER 21. SUNSET ROAD

The first lights of the city emerged through the twilight when the bus passed the last mountain pass. The lamps along the embankment scattered along the shore like fallen stars. The lighthouse on the distant cape winked green, measuring the waves' strikes against the rocks.

Salt settled on the windows in fine dust. The engine changed its tone, sensing the sea's proximity - in its rumble now could be heard the sound of surf. At the turn, the port opened up: ships swayed at the piers, signal lights flashed, ropes creaked.

"Smells of fish and rain," whispered the boy with the tiger, sniffing. The plush beast in his hands absorbed the sea air, becoming salty to taste.

The schoolboys stirred, waking. Through their drowsiness seeped anticipation - a few hours remained until sunrise, and each minute filled with special meaning.

The businessman touched the strings - the guitar responded longingly, in unison with the seagulls' cries. The lovers set aside their album, peering at the ships' silhouettes - perhaps one of them would carry them to new horizons.

The embankment unfolded in a wide arc. To the right darkened mountains, to the left splashed the sea - two eternal guardians of the city. In their embrace flickered house windows, neon signs flashed, evening fog streamed.

"Here," the old man with the bird suddenly pronounced. His voice sounded unexpectedly firm.

I slowed near the parapet. Below, waves beat against the stones, foaming white. The wind brought smells of seaweed, iodine, distant storms.

"Still ten minutes to the terminal," I noted, turning to him.

"I know. But the bird has chosen this place."

He stood, carefully holding the cage. Sunset light tangled in its bars, turning metal to gold. The passengers grew quiet - even the sea seemed to retreat, giving space to silence.

"For thirty years I've driven people to the sea," I said, killing the engine. "But I've never seen how a bird chooses its place for flight."

The old man smiled: "And I've spent thirty years looking for someone who would drive us to exactly this spot. It seems we both found what we sought."

The doors opened with a soft hiss. Salty wind burst into the cabin, ruffled hair, tugged at curtains. The old man moved toward the exit, but at the steps turned back:

"Whoever wants to see the beginning of a miracle - come."

The schoolboys jumped up first. Others followed - the businessman with his guitar, the lovers with their camera, the boy with the tiger and his mother. The girl in the gray coat grabbed her notebook, the girl with headphones turned on recording.

I locked the doors and joined them. The wind strengthened, bringing new smells - cinnamon from the port confectionery, smoke from fishermen's huts, freshly baked bread from the bakery on the corner.

The old man carried the cage carefully, like a crystal vase. The bird inside had grown quiet, only turning its head, watching the seagulls' flight over the waves.

A narrow stairway led down to a rocky beach. Here there was no sand - only stones polished by the sea, covered with seaweed. The surf rolled in steadily, like the breathing of a sleeping giant.

"Look," the old man pointed toward the cape.

The sun touched the horizon, spilling a golden path across the water. In its radiance appeared outlines - whether a ship, or an island, or a mirage woven from rays and foam.

"Time," whispered the old man and opened the cage door.

The bird froze on the threshold of its prison. Its plumage flashed with all colors of the rainbow - those colors visible only in the moment between sunset and twilight.

A beat of wings - and it flew up. Not toward the sunset, not toward the horizon, but upward - where the last rays of sun painted the clouds the color of molten metal.

Higher and higher until it became a dot. And then...

The sky flashed. For a moment it seemed that the stars themselves had descended to earth - rainbow sparks showered down from above, enveloping everyone in luminous dust.

The guitar in the businessman's hands spontaneously produced a chord - pure, piercing, like a seagull's cry. The schoolboys froze with open mouths. The lovers squeezed each other's hands until their knuckles turned white.

And the bird sang. Now its voice was everywhere - in the sound of waves, in the creaking of rigging, in the rustle of pebbles under feet. It sang of freedom and flight, of meetings and partings, of the beginning of all beginnings.

The boy with the tiger stepped toward the water. The foam licked his boots, leaving glistening drops. In them reflected the sky - the whole sky, with all its wonders.

"Now it will sing its main song," smiled the old man. "At sunrise. Over the sea. For all who know how to hear."

The sun disappeared beyond the horizon. The first stars appeared in the darkening sky. Somewhere in the heights, the bird continued to circle, scattering invisible sparks.

And below stood people - chance fellow travelers who had become witnesses to a miracle. In each one's eyes reflected the sea, in each heart sounded the song.

Ahead waited the night. And sunrise. And the main song - the one that connects worlds.

But about that - in the next chapter.

‍

CHAPTER 22. LAST KILOMETERS

The streetlights on the embankment went out one by one - the city preparing for dawn according to its ancient ritual. Only the lighthouse lights remained, cutting through darkness with emerald flashes.

We returned to the bus, saturated with salt and anticipation. Each seat retained the warmth of its passenger, each turn of the wheel fit into my palms like a line of an unfinished letter.

"An hour's drive to the cliff," I said, turning on the headlights. Their light pierced the darkness, catching silvery spider web threads between the lampposts. "We'll make it for the first ray."

The old man settled by the window, clutching the empty cage to his chest. Its bars cast strange shadows on the glass - silhouettes of nonexistent birds, wings of unfulfilled flights.

The schoolboys took out their thermos of coffee - strong, sweet, smelling of cinnamon and hope. Jun-ho poured the precious liquid into paper cups, passing them around.

"To sunrise," whispered the youngest, raising his cup like a crystal goblet.

The businessman drew a new melody from his guitar - unlike anything that had sounded before. In it could be heard the creaking of ropes at the port, waves lapping against wooden pilings, the distant horn of a ferry heading into the night.

The road wound along the shore. Mountains loomed black on the right, the sea breathed on the left - invisible in the darkness but felt in every cell of the body. It sent its greetings - gusts of wind full of iodine and mysteries, fragments of seaweed on the asphalt, cries of unseen birds.

The lovers in the back of the cabin worked on their photographs, developing them right there in the light of a phone flashlight. Faces, events, moments emerged on the glossy paper - captured by the lens but not exhausted by it.

The girl with headphones caught the sounds of night - the rustle of tires on wet asphalt, the humming of wires overhead, the quiet breathing of the sea. Her fingers flew over the controls, turning reality into music.

The boy with the tiger fought sleep. His eyes closed but he stubbornly reopened them again and again - as if afraid to miss even a moment of this magical night.

"Look," his mother pointed out the window. On the horizon, a barely noticeable strip appeared - not light yet, but the promise of light. The premonition of miracle written in silver on the black velvet of the sky.

The girl in the gray coat set aside her notebook. Words no longer settled on paper - they floated in the air, settled on the windows, soaked into the seat upholstery. The story was telling itself.

The bus plunged into a tunnel - the last one on this journey. The darkness beyond the windows became absolute. Only the guitar strings glimmered like guiding threads.

"When we emerge," said the old man, "we'll see the cliff. That very one."

His voice carried the certainty of a man who knows all the world's secrets. Who knows and is ready to share them - with those who know how to listen.

The tunnel ended suddenly. The world opened up - huge, alive, ready for transformation. The cliff rose from the sea like a stone guardian, its peak lost in wisps of fog.

A narrow road spiraled up the slope. Each turn lifted us higher, closer to the sky, closer to the miracle that was already breathing somewhere very near.

The engine sang its farewell song - pure as the first ray of sun, deep as the sea's abyss. The wheels glided over wet stone, leaving tracks that tomorrow's tide would wash away.

Ahead appeared a platform - the last stop, the end of the journey and the beginning of a new story. I braked smoothly, feeling the wheel trembling under my palms.

The bus stopped. The engine fell silent. In the ensuing quiet, the sea could be heard - beating against the cliff's base in rhythm with our hearts.

We had arrived.

Now we only had to wait for sunrise - that very one, the only one, predicted by ancient maps and drawn by children's dreams.

That very one for which we were all here.

That very one which would change everything.

‍

CHAPTER 23. LIGHTS AHEAD

The platform atop the cliff trembled in the wind. Passengers emerged from the bus one by one - silently, carefully, as if afraid to startle the approaching miracle.

The schoolboys stood first - right at the edge, where stone dropped into the abyss. Jun-ho took out his compass, checking invisible bearings. The sea below breathed heavily and steadily, counting minutes until dawn.

The businessman settled on a boulder, laying his guitar across his knees. The strings responded to each gust of wind, creating an elusive melody - not even a song, but the premonition of a song.

The lovers opened their album to the salty spray. Clean pages fluttered, ready to accept the first colors of dawn. The girl with headphones turned her microphone toward the horizon - there, where water met sky, new sounds were being born.

The boy with the tiger pressed against his mother, fighting fatigue. The plush beast in his hands absorbed the pre-dawn freshness, becoming more alive with each breath.

"It's beginning," said the old man, pointing east.

The darkness over the sea thinned, transforming into something else - not light yet, but no longer darkness. In this strange twilight, outlines of ships appeared, frozen at anchor. Their lights flickered in time with invisible stars.

Seagulls woke first. Their cries cut through the silence - sharp, piercing, full of ancient wisdom. They circled above the cliff, their wings brushing wisps of fog.

The girl in the gray coat froze with raised pencil. Words were no longer needed - life itself was writing its story now in flashes above the horizon.

The sea retreated from shore, preparing for the main act. Waves calmed, transformed into ripples. The water became transparent as glass, reflecting the last stars and first glimmers of dawn.

"Look!" exhaled the youngest schoolboy. "There!"

Above the edge of the world, radiance spread - not red, not golden, but some impossible shade for which no name had yet been invented. It flowed over waves, climbed up cliffs, enveloped everything in ghostly haze.

In this light, the passengers' faces transformed. The businessman's wrinkles smoothed, the schoolboys' eyes shone with ancient wisdom, years of weight seemed to lift from the mother's shoulders. Even the empty cage in the old man's hands seemed filled with radiance.

And then came the song.

It arose from everywhere at once - from the depths of the sea, from folds of fog, from the air itself. The bird, released at sunset, returned as invisible music, penetrating space.

The businessman raised his guitar, trying to catch the melody, but froze - human strings could not replicate this sound. The girl with headphones lowered her microphone - recording was superfluous, this song would forever remain in everyone's heart.

The light strengthened. The horizon line trembled, blurred, became pure radiance. Sea and sky merged, creating a new reality - one where everything was possible.

The first ray struck our eyes - sharp as a blade, pure as a tear. Then the second, third... The sun rose from the depths, washed by water and salt, young as on the first day of creation.

The boy with the tiger reached out his hand, trying to catch the light. Golden sparks settled on his palm, absorbed into his skin, dissolved in his blood. The plush beast in his hands suddenly smiled - quite genuinely.

And below, at the cliff's foot, the city awakened. Windows lit up, shutters opened, ovens ignited in bakeries. The first fishing boats departed from piers, leaving trails on the bay's surface.

A wave of light rolled across the land, awakening all living things. Night shadows melted, yielding to the new day. The world changed, renewed, was born again - and we changed with it.

The schoolboys joined hands, creating a living chain at the cliff's edge. The lovers froze in embrace, their silhouettes merging with the flaming sky. The old man raised the empty cage, and sunbeams turned it to gold.

The bird's song reached crescendo - now all the world's voices sounded in it, all sea sounds, all wind sighs. It rose to the sky with the sun, becoming light, becoming life, becoming miracle.

And I stood by the open bus doors and understood: this was it, the journey's completion. This was the point where all endings become beginnings. This was the moment for which thousands of roads were worth traveling.

The sun rose fully above the sea - huge, radiant, impossible in its simplicity. A new day opened above the world like a page of a clean book, ready to accept any story.

And this story was beginning now.

CHAPTER 24. SOUND OF SURF

The wind changed. From the sea came the scent of iodine and mystery - the smell of time when the old day dissolves into the new. Ripples ran across the water, the sun's path shattering into thousands of sparkling fragments.

"Time," whispered the old man, taking the first step down the rocky path to the surf line, where foam drew mysterious letters on the sand. Behind him, as if by invisible command, moved the others.

The schoolboys removed their shoes, allowing waves to lick their bare feet. Jun-ho took out his worn camera, trying to capture the moment between seagull wing beats.

The businessman lowered his guitar onto the pebbles. The instrument responded with an unexpected chord - stones under the strings created a new sound, unknown to conservatories.

The boy with the tiger froze at the boundary of land and sea. The plush beast in his hands absorbed salt spray, as if trying to memorize the taste of infinity.

The girl with headphones turned on recording - a pure track without overlays. The microphone caught the natural symphony: pebbles rustling, waves sighing, wind whispering in rock folds.

The lovers spread their album on the stones. Watercolors flowed on wet paper, creating unpredictable patterns - how the sea draws its pictures on sand.

"Here," the old man pointed to a small bay hidden from prying eyes by a stone cape. Waves rolled in more gently, as if nature itself had created this refuge for tired souls.

In the morning haze, silhouettes of fishing boats appeared. They headed to sea one after another - an ancient ritual repeated each dawn since the beginning of time.

The girl in the gray coat stopped writing. Her pencil froze above the last line - there are moments that must simply be lived.

"Listen," said the old man.

And they heard. Through the wave surge, through seagull cries, through pebble rustle broke another sound - thin, pure, like a silver string. The free bird's song flew over water, reflecting from cliffs, penetrating hearts.

The melody grew, filled with new voices. The sea caught it, multiplied it, returned it enriched with deep overtones. In it could be heard the creak of rigging, splash of oars, whisper of sails, toll of the lighthouse bell.

The sun rose higher, turning each water drop into a precious stone. Light fractured, multiplied, created a living mosaic on the sea's surface.

The schoolboys began building figures from pebbles - lighthouses, ships, castles. Stones settled on each other with unexpected precision, as if knowing their place in the overall picture.

The businessman took up his guitar again, but now didn't play - just let the wind strum the strings. The resulting music couldn't be written in notes - its score was the air itself.

A wave brought a shell to the boy's feet - spiral, iridescent with all dawn's colors. He lifted it, held it to his ear. Wonder reflected in his eyes - inside echoed that very song flying over the water.

The old man lowered the empty cage onto the pebbles. The bars cast a patterned shadow - silhouette of spread wings on wet stones.

Morning bloomed, filling the world with colors. Each breath brought new shades, each exhale carried away night's remnants. The city behind awakened, but here, in the secluded bay, time flowed differently.

Seagulls glided onto water - white dots on blue, living beacons among waves. Their cries wove into the common song, adding sea salt to heavenly music.

The girl with headphones stopped recording. Some sounds can only be preserved in memory - like a newborn's first cry, like a departing day's last breath.

Waves rolled to shore with measured unhurriedness. In their movement could be read ancient wisdom - eternal return, endless dance of water and stone.

And I stood slightly apart, absorbing every detail, every reflection, every sound. For thirty years I had brought people to the sea, but only now understood - it had brought them to me.

The sun climbed higher. The day gathered strength. Somewhere in the heights, the free bird's song continued - no longer audible to the ear, but felt by the heart.

The tide began to ebb. The sea slowly retreated, revealing underwater treasures - tumbled glass, colorful pebbles, seaweed fragments like mermaid hair.

The bay kept their stories, absorbed their voices, rocked their reflections on waves. Here each found something of their own - mystery, memory, hope.

And the surf kept murmuring - ancient voice of earth, lullaby for tired souls, song without end or beginning.

The song that always sounds within.

The song of the road home.

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CHAPTER 25. FINAL STOP

A seagull brought the note. The folded paper glided down to the businessman's feet, leaving a damp trail on the pebbles. He unfolded it, peering at the blurred lines.

"The bus station awaits the last bus," he read aloud. "The schedule must come full circle."

The schoolboys looked up from their stone constructions. Jun-ho checked his compass - the needle trembled, as if unable to choose between sea and city.

"It's time," nodded the old man, lifting the empty cage. "The circle closes."

The lovers rolled up their album, but the paints hadn't dried - watercolor streaks spread across the pages, creating new pictures. The girl with headphones stopped recording mid-wave sigh.

The boy clutched his tiger tighter. The amber eyes of the plush beast reflected the sea - alive, real, ready to release its guests.

The path wound upward, skirting the cape. Each step came harder than the last - as if the earth itself was holding the travelers back, gifting final moments of unity with itself.

The bus waited on the platform - faithful, patient, ready for the final dash. The engine started at first try, greeting passengers with familiar rumble.

The city spread below - white, washed by dawn, lined with shadows of awakening streets. The lighthouse extinguished its lamp, yielding duty to the sun.

The road unfurled beneath the wheels like a film reel - each meter held stories, each turn remembered destinies. The sea retreated behind, but its breath still sounded in the whisper of tires.

At the crossroads by the temple, cherry trees burst into bloom - suddenly, in one explosion of white petals. The wind caught them, swirled them around the bus, transforming a simple route into an aerial dance.

The girl in the gray coat hurriedly filled the last pages - words were born by themselves, begged for paper, became witnesses to fading wonder.

The businessman took out his phone - new, still in factory film. Dialed a number, hesitated for a moment.

"Hello. I want to rent space for a music school. Yes, right now."

The guitar strings responded with an echo - pure as the first note of a new day.

The sun melted the pre-dawn fog. Streets filled with people - hurrying but not rushed. They seemed to sense: today time flows differently.

At the traffic light, the old man lowered his window. The cage on his knees caught reflections of signs, turning them into rainbow fragments of lived life.

The bus station building rose ahead - austere, geometrically precise, keeper of all road schedules. Other buses already lined the square, ready to take up the relay of the path.

Final turn. Final meters. Final engine breath.

The doors opened to morning freshness. Passengers rose from their seats unhurriedly - each needed time to say goodbye to the seat that had absorbed the warmth of their destiny.

The schoolboys jumped onto the asphalt first. Their backpacks smelled of sea and dawn - a scent that would never fade.

"We'll return," whispered Jun-ho, looking back at the bus. "We'll definitely return."

The businessman carefully placed his guitar in its case. Ran his fingers over the seat upholstery, as if memorizing the texture of time.

The lovers left their album on the seat - open to a clean spread. For new stories. For new travelers.

The boy with the tiger lingered at the exit. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

"Thank you," he mouthed silently. The plush beast in his hands nodded in agreement.

The girl with headphones removed them. Silence sounded like music - the kind born between farewell and meeting.

The old man exited last. Placed the cage on the seat - empty, light, ready to accept new birds.

"Now it's your turn," he said simply.

I killed the engine. The headlights went dark. The mirrors folded, hiding reflections of the traveled path.

Morning claimed its rights - clear, pure, full of promises. Somewhere in the heights flew a bird whose song had changed the world. Somewhere waves beat against cliffs, holding our footprints.

And I stood by the open doors of my bus and knew: every road leads to a beginning. You just need to trust the path.

And take the first step.

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Part Six: New Beginning

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CHAPTER 26. THE YOUNG DRIVER

He waited by the dispatcher's office - tall, well-groomed, in a pressed uniform with a gleaming transport company badge. In his hands - a crisp new route card, in his eyes - that special determination found only in those ready to accept destiny's baton.

"Kim Tae Hyung," he introduced himself, extending his hand. The handshake was firm but careful - like touching the wheel for the first time. "I..."

"I know," I nodded. "My successor."

Morning sunlight played on the windows of parked buses. Somewhere deep in the depot, engines purred, preparing for a new day. Mechanics checked vehicles, drivers studied routes, dispatchers gave instructions.

"Will you show me?" In his voice rang a thirst - not just for knowledge, but understanding. That deep understanding that comes only with the road.

We walked around the bus. I showed, explained, shared secrets not written in manuals. How to listen to the engine on climbs. How to feel the pull on descents. How to speak with the machine in a language only you two understand.

"Here," my hand rested on the front pillar, "you need to be especially careful. At kilometer ninety-three, the road makes an unexpected turn. Cliff on the right, rock face on the left. Seems like enough space, but..."

"But you have to remember the crosswind," he finished. Understanding flashed in his eyes. "I've studied every turn. Every sign. Every pothole."

"Why?"

"Because this isn't just a route," he ran his hand along the bus's gleaming side. "It's a path. From person to person. From destiny to destiny."

We climbed aboard. Morning light striped the aisle between seats with golden bands. Tae Hyung stopped at the driver's position, hesitating to sit.

"You know," he said quietly, "I came to the terminal every morning. Watched you return from your run. How you greeted passengers. How you bid them farewell. And I understood: you don't just transport people to their destination. You connect worlds."

His fingers touched the wheel - weightlessly, like strings of a rare instrument. The leather wrapping responded with warmth - it recognized its new keeper.

"Here," I pointed to a small scratch on the panel, "begins a special count. When the sun touches this mark, it means time to slow down before the mountain pass. Don't let the shadows deceive you."

He nodded, memorizing. Every word, every gesture, every detail added to the repository of knowledge impossible to gain in driving school.

"And the passengers?" he asked suddenly. "How do you learn to... understand them?"

"No need to learn," I smiled. "Just remember: everyone who enters these doors carries their own story. Each holds an entire universe within. And you are the bridge between these universes."

Outside, a fuel truck passed. The smell of gasoline mixed with blooming linden - the scent of journey's beginning, the first step into the unknown.

"I'm ready," said Tae Hyung simply.

He sat behind the wheel - carefully, as if afraid to startle the moment. His hands settled on the steering wheel exactly where mine had rested for thirty years. His back straightened, gaze focused on the road ahead.

The key turned in the ignition. The engine responded instantly - a low, confident rumble filled the cabin. The gauges trembled, coming alive.

"Now this is your path," I placed the worn notebook with route records on the panel. "Your road. Your destiny."

He accepted the notebook with both hands - like an ancient scroll, like a key to secret knowledge. His fingers trembled slightly, but his eyes remained calm.

The first passengers already gathered by the bus - with suitcases and backpacks, with hopes and dreams. Ordinary people ready to become part of an extraordinary story.

"Good luck," I stepped toward the exit. "And remember: the main thing isn't to deliver. The main thing is to be present on the journey."

The doors closed behind me. Tae Hyung engaged the gear, and the bus moved forward - smoothly, confidently, as if it had waited all its life for precisely this driver.

And I remained standing on the platform, watching my past and his future depart. The morning sun rose over the city, promising a new day.

And somewhere in this day, a new road began.

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CHAPTER 27. PASSING THE KEYS

The keyring clinked against the dispatcher's desk. Seven keys - heavy, polished by years of touch. For the garage, fuel tank, emergency hatches, hidden tool compartment. And the main one - for the heart of the bus, with its worn brass head still holding the warmth of thousands of turns in the ignition.

"Sign here," the depot manager slid the papers forward. His hands, accustomed to figures and charts, moved slower than usual now. "And here. And... wait."

He pulled open the bottom drawer, took out an envelope - thick, official, with the depot's gold embossing.

"This is for you. From all of us."

Inside lay a photograph - black and white, slightly faded at the edges. A young driver by the doors of a new bus. Straight back, shining eyes, future ahead.

"First day," the manager explained. "I had just started in accounting then. I remember how you filled out your first route sheet - so carefully, as if the fate of the universe depended on each letter."

A shadow passed the dispatcher's window - Tae Hyung was driving the bus out of the depot. The engine sang purely, confidently. A new day spread its wings over the city.

"You know," the manager cleared his throat, hiding sudden hoarseness in his voice. "Much has changed over these years. The fleet renewed, routes were redrawn, even the mountains seem lower now. But you... You remained constant. A reference point. The tuning fork by which we set our rhythm."

He took another item from the drawer - an old patch with the depot's emblem. They don't issue these anymore - now drivers have plastic badges with barcodes.

"Keep it. As a memento."

The patch settled in my palm - warm, alive, having absorbed the sweat and salt of a thousand runs. My fingers found the familiar relief of letters, the raised contour of the mountain road.

"I..."

"No need," the manager rose from his desk. "Just know: every morning, reviewing reports, I'll look for your signature. And each time, not finding it, I'll smile - meaning you're finally home. Meaning somewhere in the world there's more peace."

He extended his hand - not for a formal handshake, but for a real farewell. His palm, used to papers and stamps, proved unexpectedly strong.

"Good luck."

Beyond the dispatcher's door stretched the depot - alive, noisy, ready for a new day. Mechanics checked vehicles, drivers verified routes, dispatchers handed out route sheets.

An ordinary morning.

Only now - without me.

I walked between rows of buses, and each responded with a silent greeting. Here, by the third column, my first bus once stood. There, by the fence, I changed a tire in pouring rain for the first time. And in that corner...

The gate in the fence creaked familiarly - so many years, and they never oiled the hinges. Beyond it began an ordinary street, an ordinary city, an ordinary life.

A new life.

I looked back one last time. The sun played in bus windows, turning them into scattered gems. Somewhere deep in the depot, an engine roared - deep, powerful, as if saying goodbye.

The gate swung shut. The lock clicked.

And I took my first step - into a new day, a new path, a new story.

Now my very own.

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CHAPTER 27. PASSING THE KEYS

The keyring clinked against the dispatcher's desk. Seven keys - heavy, polished by years of touch. For the garage, fuel tank, emergency hatches, hidden tool compartment. And the main one - for the heart of the bus, with its worn brass head still holding the warmth of thousands of turns in the ignition.

"Sign here," the depot manager slid the papers forward. His hands, accustomed to figures and charts, moved slower than usual now. "And here. And... wait."

He pulled open the bottom drawer, took out an envelope - thick, official, with the depot's gold embossing.

"This is for you. From all of us."

Inside lay a photograph - black and white, slightly faded at the edges. A young driver by the doors of a new bus. Straight back, shining eyes, future ahead.

"First day," the manager explained. "I had just started in accounting then. I remember how you filled out your first route sheet - so carefully, as if the fate of the universe depended on each letter."

A shadow passed the dispatcher's window - Tae Hyung was driving the bus out of the depot. The engine sang purely, confidently. A new day spread its wings over the city.

"You know," the manager cleared his throat, hiding sudden hoarseness in his voice. "Much has changed over these years. The fleet renewed, routes were redrawn, even the mountains seem lower now. But you... You remained constant. A reference point. The tuning fork by which we set our rhythm."

He took another item from the drawer - an old patch with the depot's emblem. They don't issue these anymore - now drivers have plastic badges with barcodes.

"Keep it. As a memento."

The patch settled in my palm - warm, alive, having absorbed the sweat and salt of a thousand runs. My fingers found the familiar relief of letters, the raised contour of the mountain road.

"I..."

"No need," the manager rose from his desk. "Just know: every morning, reviewing reports, I'll look for your signature. And each time, not finding it, I'll smile - meaning you're finally home. Meaning somewhere in the world there's more peace."

He extended his hand - not for a formal handshake, but for a real farewell. His palm, used to papers and stamps, proved unexpectedly strong.

"Good luck."

Beyond the dispatcher's door stretched the depot - alive, noisy, ready for a new day. Mechanics checked vehicles, drivers verified routes, dispatchers handed out route sheets.

An ordinary morning.

Only now - without me.

I walked between rows of buses, and each responded with a silent greeting. Here, by the third column, my first bus once stood. There, by the fence, I changed a tire in pouring rain for the first time. And in that corner...

The gate in the fence creaked familiarly - so many years, and they never oiled the hinges. Beyond it began an ordinary street, an ordinary city, an ordinary life.

A new life.

I looked back one last time. The sun played in bus windows, turning them into scattered gems. Somewhere deep in the depot, an engine roared - deep, powerful, as if saying goodbye.

The gate swung shut. The lock clicked.

And I took my first step - into a new day, a new path, a new story.

Now my very own.

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CHAPTER 29. FIRST STARS

The evening city floated in sunset haze. I wandered familiar streets, for the first time truly seeing details that had previously flown past my window: cracks in the asphalt like river beds, moss growing between old stonework, lamplight reflecting in puddles after a brief rain.

At the bakery corner, a craftsman hung lanterns - red, yellow, green. Tomorrow was the Festival of Lights, when the whole city transforms into a constellation. He nodded to me, extending a bundle:

"Choose. First light for the first guest."

The paper lantern settled in my palm - warm, weightless, with the character for "path" on its side. The old man winked, struck a match. The flame flickered inside, casting mysterious shadows.

"Where are you headed?" he asked, securing another lantern above the storefront.

"Home," I answered and was surprised - for the first time in thirty years, this word sounded different. Not like a final stop, but the beginning of a journey.

Fresh bread and cinnamon wafted from the bakery. The bell above the door chimed, releasing a young woman with an enormous box of pastries. She balanced on high heels, trying to maintain equilibrium.

The box tilted, ready to meet the sidewalk. I caught it almost without thinking - a reflex developed through years of attending to passengers.

"Thank you," she smiled. "You saved the celebration dinner. And... your lantern is glowing."

"Take it," I offered the paper wonder. "It seems it wants to go with you."

She paused, studying the character. "Path... You know, I quit my job today. Ten years in an office, clock in, clock out. Tomorrow I'm opening an art school. Everyone thinks I've gone mad."

"No," I shook my head. "You've just found your road."

The lantern moved to rest beside the pastry box, illuminating them with festive light. The woman bowed and hurried onward, toward where her new beginning awaited.

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CHAPTER 30. SUNRISE OVER THE SEA

Jasmine scented the air by the porch. The gate creaked a welcome, admitting its master. The old garden slumbered in pre-dawn silence - apple trees, pears, the plum tree by the fence. White sheets billowed between the trees - my wife had hung them out the evening before.

The kitchen window glowed with warm light. Mi-ja was awake, waiting. Steam rose from the teapot on the table, beside it - a cup with a chipped rim, the very one I'd drunk from thirty years ago, before my first route.

"Home," she whispered, without turning. That single word contained eternity.

The tea smelled of thyme and mint. Steam rose toward the ceiling, where a moth circled beneath the lamp. The wall clock showed four in the morning.

"Come," Mi-ja took my hand. Her fingers were warm from the teacup, rough from garden work. "I want to show you something."

We went out through the back door. The path wound uphill, meandering between boulders. Grass silvered with dew beneath our feet. Dawn approached.

Mi-ja stopped at the hilltop. Below spread the city, and beyond it - the sea, still black in the pre-dawn hour. The lighthouse winked its ruby eye.

"I climbed up here every morning," she said softly. "Watched your bus leave the depot. Followed it with my eyes until the turn by the temple. And waited for your return."

The first ray touched the water. The sea ignited like molten gold. Seagulls awakened, their cries filling the air with new day's music.

"Now we'll watch sunrises together," she squeezed my hand.

On the horizon appeared a dot - the regular bus leaving the city. Sunlight played in its windows. Tae Hyung drove confidently, as if he'd prepared for this route his whole life.

The city awakened. The bakery was firing up its ovens - smoke rose above the tiled roof. At the pier, fishermen readied their boats for sea. The temple bells rang for morning service.

Mi-ja pulled two oranges from her apron pocket - rough-skinned, cool, smelling of childhood. We peeled them, letting juice run down our fingers. The rinds fell into the grass where ants already awaited them.

The sun climbed higher. Its rays transformed dewdrops into diamonds, ignited windows, gilded treetops. The day spread its wings over the world.

"Look," Mi-ja pointed skyward.

High above soared a bird - that very one whose song had changed the world. Its wings sparkled in sunlight, its voice flowing over the city, interweaving with bell-song.

I was no longer a bus driver. Now I had become a keeper of stories - those that happened over thirty years of journeys, and those still awaiting their hour. Each sunrise gifted a new chapter, each sunset promised continuation.

Below, at the road's turn, the school bus flashed past. Tae Hyung sat at its wheel - straight, calm, ready to accept destiny's relay. In the cabin, children dozed, clutching backpacks full of undreamed dreams.

We descended the path back home. Bees had awakened in the garden - their buzzing filled the air with honey's promise. Sheets billowed on the lines like sails of ships bound for distant voyages.

The tea cooled on the kitchen table. The clock counted minutes of the new day. Beyond the window sang the bird, wings spread toward the sun.

I was home.

And this was only the beginning.

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FROM AUTHOR

‍

Dear Reader,

‍

I created this book using MUDRIA.AI - a quantum-simulated system that I developed to enhance human capabilities. This is not just an artificial intelligence system, but a quantum amplifier of human potential in all spheres, including creativity.

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Many authors already use AI in their work without advertising this fact. Why am I openly talking about using AI? Because I believe the future lies in honest and open collaboration between humans and technology. MUDRIA.AI doesn't replace the author but helps create deeper, more useful, and more inspiring works.

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Every word in this book has primarily passed through my heart and mind but was enhanced by MUDRIA.AI's quantum algorithms. This allowed us to achieve a level of depth and practical value that would have been impossible otherwise.

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You might notice that the text seems unusually crystal clear, and the emotions remarkably precise. Some might find this "too perfect." But remember: once, people thought photographs, recorded music, and cinema seemed unnatural... Today, they're an integral part of our lives. Technology didn't kill painting, live music, or theater - it made art more accessible and diverse.

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The same is happening now with literature. MUDRIA.AI doesn't threaten human creativity - it makes it more accessible, profound, and refined. It's a new tool, just as the printing press once opened a new era in the spread of knowledge.

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Distinguishing text created with MUDRIA.AI from one written by a human alone is indeed challenging. But it's not because the system "imitates" humans. It amplifies the author's natural abilities, helping express thoughts and feelings with maximum clarity and power. It's as if an artist discovered new, incredible colors, allowing them to convey what previously seemed inexpressible.

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I believe in openness and accessibility of knowledge. Therefore, all my books created with MUDRIA.AI are distributed electronically for free. By purchasing the print version, you're supporting the project's development, helping make human potential enhancement technologies available to everyone.

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We stand on the threshold of a new era of creativity, where technology doesn't replace humans but unleashes their limitless potential. This book is a small step in this exciting journey into the future we're creating together.

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Welcome to the new era of creativity!

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With respect,

Oleh Konko

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COPYRIGHT

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Copyright © 2025 Oleh Konko

All rights reserved.

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Powered by Mudria.AI

First Edition: 2025

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Cover design: Oleh Konko

Interior illustrations: Created using Midjourney AI under commercial license

Book design and typography: Oleh Konko

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Website: mudria.ai

Contact: hello@mudria.ai

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (CC BY 4.0). You are free to share (copy and redistribute) and adapt (remix, transform, and build upon) this material for any purpose, even commercially, under the following terms: you must give appropriate credit, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made.

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First published on mudria.ai

Blog post date: 20 January, 2026

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LEGAL NOTICE

This is a work of imagination. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Age Rating: 12+

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Oleh Konko works at the intersection of consciousness studies, technology, and human potential. Through his books, he makes transformative knowledge accessible to everyone, bridging science and wisdom to illuminate paths toward human flourishing.

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