"The future comes hesitatingly, the present flies like an arrow, and the past stands eternally still."

It was the night before waste collection day.

In a corner of the room, things unused for years were piled up. Old magazines, faded photo albums, broken game consoles. And wedged between them, a computer so massive it wouldn't be strange to call it a relic of a bygone era.

A thick back and a plastic case yellowed with age. An afterimage that lingered in the center of the screen before slowly disappearing when turned off. That clunky computer of the 2000s that required a long wait just to finish booting.

I definitely intended to throw it away.

But when I actually tried to pull the power cable, my hand strangely wouldn't move. Since when had that been in the house? Was it since I was a child, or after I'd grown a bit more? The speed that stuttered even with just a few internet windows open, the crude melodies flowing from the speakers, the memory of hurriedly turning off the monitor for fear of being caught by my parents after sneakily turning it on in the middle of the night.

Such things came vaguely to mind.

...Right. Let's turn it on just once before throwing it out.

There was no grand reason. I just thought I'd flip through some memories one last time.

When I pressed the power button, there was a clunking sound from inside.

Whirrrrr.

The sound of the fan spinning filled the room. The monitor, which had been staring back with a black screen for a long time, finally emitted a faint light. A low-resolution desktop, icons used long ago, shortcuts of unknown origin. Everything was unfamiliar yet familiar.

That was when it happened.

In the middle of the screen, a small window opened on its own without any operation.

[SYSTEM MESSAGE]

Do you remember?

The last day you forgot.

...What is this?

Is it a virus? A prank program left on an old computer? Even while thinking such absurd thoughts, the moment I tried to move the mouse, the window closed itself.

Soon after, a folder flickered in the bottom right of the screen.

2009_12_31

Before I could even open the folder, a video file executed automatically.

There was no filename. No icon, no properties, no playback time was displayed. A black screen continued for a few seconds, and then the video began with the characteristic crackling noise of an old digital camcorder.

Summer was on the screen.

Someone was laughing under the dazzling sunlight. Blonde hair close to platinum fluttering in the wind, skin looking transparent in the light, a boy squinting his eyes toward the camera.

The boy reached out toward the person holding the camera.

"Hey, stop filming. Seriously."

It was a voice mixed with annoyance, but he couldn't hide his laughter.

"...Don't you have anyone else to film besides me?"

The screen shook. The person holding the camera must have laughed. The boy eventually laughed along. Between the two, there was an intimacy that needed no explanation. A relationship where they filmed each other's ugly faces without hesitation, bickered over nothing, and walked side by side in silence.

And the person holding the camera was definitely you.

Your face didn't appear. There wasn't even a reflection in a mirror. Yet, you could tell. The shape of the fingers, the habit of holding the camera, even the way the screen shook. That was definitely a video you had filmed.

But you didn't remember.

Not that boy, not the summer spent together, nor the image of yourself laughing while holding the camera.

Nothing.

The video skipped through the seasons.

December 31, 2009.

On the screen was the boy bundled up in winter clothes. Kang Yuda.

The moment someone in the video called his name, you strangely realized that you knew that name. Kang Yuda. The blonde boy. And someone who had been very close to you.

That day was a celebration of the two of you becoming adults.

The interior of TGI FRIDAYS, excited with the year-end atmosphere, was packed with people. Red decorations and twinkling lights, food placed on every table, laughter heard from afar. Yuda sat opposite you, peering at the receipt, and furrowed his brow.

"Hey. Is this right?"

The camera pointed at him.

"No, I mean, it's fine to have a meal to celebrate becoming adults. But who said to spend this much?"

He put down the receipt and glared at you.

"Are you rich? Huh? If we starve to death next month, are you going to take responsibility?"

Even as he said that, the moment you shoved the camera in his face, he ended up laughing.

"Ah, seriously... I told you not to film."

Yuda looked happy that day.

It was such an ordinary, and therefore infinitely precious, day. The two of you finished your meal and wandered the streets. Despite the cold weather, you shared useless stories, played around on the streets, and spent time until just before welcoming the New Year.

And finally, you went to see the New Year's bell.

A massive crowd. Lights spreading overhead. A night where white breath scattered. People were waiting for the New Year in their own ways.

Yuda in the video leaned toward the camera.

"Hey. We're really becoming adults now."

He laughed.

"Don't call me 'old man' anymore."

After a moment, he added as if he just remembered something.

"...Let's come watch it together next year too. Promise?"

The answer wasn't captured in the video.

Instead, the camera moved closer. Yuda laughed bashfully and covered the lens with his palm.

"Ah, come on! There are so many people!"

The screen shook.

And the countdown began.

Ten.

Nine.

People's voices blended together.

Eight. Seven. Six.

Yuda was holding your wrist among the people. As if he wouldn't let go. Or maybe it was just because there were too many people.

Five. Four. Three.

His lips could be seen saying something.

No sound was heard.

Two. One.

Cheers announcing the New Year erupted.

It was that moment.

The screen flashed white.

And the date changed.

VIDEO TIMESTAMP

2009. 12. 32

=========

Ḑ̵͙͈̙̑Ḁ̸̠̤͙̑̅̏̅T̷͖̈́ͅȆ̶͚͕̋̐ ̶̧̛̤̳͋̄́Ē̸̢̛͎̜Ȓ̶͇̇R̶̢̡̲̮̈́̈́̏͂O̷̰͙͌͛R̴̫̤̻̿͂ ̸̘̇̏—̴̲̪̟̈́͑ ̷͓͇̭̾̆̈́̕͜Ḍ̴̽̒A̵̦̘͗͛T̶̝̈́Ë̶̛̤̪͖̫́̔̎ ̶̫̫̬̈́͒̍Ë̷̦̳͜R̶͎̆̀̕R̵̗̼̣̝̋̓̕O̷̮̠̟̾R̷̢̮͐͆͘ ̴̧̭̺̪̿̚—̶̨͓̂̂́ ̷̧͔̙͈͛̄̿̽D̶̜́̋̿A̸̻͓͑̈́̋͝Ṯ̸̪̇E̶̯̲̝̼͊ ̶̟͍̖̯̆E̴̻͉̯̐̊̓Ȑ̴̟̒R̶̜͇͍̈̈́̉O̶̩̓R̶̨̨̟̺͑̓

At first, I thought it was a simple error.

Since it was an old machine. The file could have been corrupted, or the date information could have been recorded incorrectly.

However, the scenery on the screen was strange.

There were no people.

The crowd that had been bumping shoulders and cheering just a moment ago, the shadows of the people who had filled the streets, had all vanished as if they had never been there. No sound of fireworks, no cheers celebrating the New Year could be heard.

An empty square.

Cold lighting.

And Kang Yuda, left all alone.

"...Huh?"

Yuda looked around.

"What. Where did everyone go?"

The camera did not answer.

Yuda walked a few steps. He turned his head as if looking for someone, retraced his steps, and called out a name toward the empty street.

"Hey?"

A brief silence.

"...Hey, where are you?"

His voice began to tremble slightly.

The video didn't cut out.

Yuda kept walking. He went back and forth on the same street several times. He tried calling somewhere, but it didn't connect, and he stood in one spot for a long time as if waiting for someone. The season didn't change. The sky didn't brighten. The date was still December 32, 2009.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed.

Yuda began to cry.

At first, he just shed tears silently. Then gradually, he couldn't breathe properly and screamed toward the empty street. He spat out curses, laughed, cried, and repeated the same words over and over in place.

"This isn't right."

"This isn't how it's supposed to be..."

"Why aren't you coming?"

He even lunged toward the camera. The screen shook violently. Yuda's hand covered the lens, and his distorted face could be seen through his fingers.

"Where did you go?"

That voice was cracked.

"I told you not to leave me alone."

The screen cut out.

It played again.

Yuda was walking.

Cut out again.

It played again.

Yuda was crying.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The video showed no sign of ending.

A file where the playback time wasn't displayed. A record that wouldn't end no matter how long I waited. Inside the monitor, Yuda was continuously wandering through that same night. As if the only time existing in this world was midnight of that day.

You gripped the mouse.

Your stomach churned. Your fingertips grew cold. You felt suffocated for no reason.

Then suddenly, a very small sense of incongruity brushed through your mind.

Kang Yuda.

You knew that name.

You knew his face too. You knew his voice, his habit of laughing, and the way he furrowed his eyebrows when he was angry. Even the image of him grumbling with the receipt was strangely vivid.

But why.

Why hadn't you thought of him even once?

He was someone who clearly existed. He wasn't just some old friend you'd simply forgotten. He was much closer than that. Close enough that it wouldn't be strange to say you'd spent an entire era of your life together.

He was that kind of person.

Yet, there was no place for him in your memories.

As if he hadn't existed from the start.

As if someone had precisely carved out just one part of your memory and left nothing in its place.

You grabbed the playback bar of the video with a trembling hand.

Backwards.

A little further back.

The moment you tried to rewind to just before Yuda first started crying, the screen broke harshly.

Static.

Black noise covered the monitor.

Iค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ̴̨̩͚̠̦̹͎͔̭̫̙̺̭͉̣̺̽͆͊̓͆̾̌̄͌̍̓̔̓͘͜͠, ̷̢̡̨̣͓͎̼̝̹̼͇̮̙̻͖̠͌̅̐̽̊̐͌͗͑͜͜ ̴̛̹͇͕̬̫̳̹͕͙͑̒̌̈̑̋̓̓̚ ̶͈̞̺̜̟͓̬̟̼̼̯̩̪̽̽ ̷͔͎̼̭̹͈̰̹͈̬̜̹̦̹̩̈̽̆͑̕̕͜͝͝ ̸̴Iค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ̴̨̩͚̠̦̹͎͔̭̫̙̺̭͉̣̺̽͆͊̓͆̾̌̄͌̍̓̔̓͘͜͠, ̷̢̡̨̣͓͎̼̝̹̼͇̮̙̻͖̠͌̅̐̽̊̐͌͗͑͜͜ ̴̛̹͇͕̬̫̳̹͕͙͑̒̌̈̑̋̓̓̚ ̶͈̞̺̜̟͓̬̟̼̼̯̩̪̽̽ ̷͔͎̼̭̹͈̰̹͈̬̜̹̦̹̩̈̽̆͑̕̕͜͝͝ ̸̴, ̷̢̡̨̣͓͎̼̝̹̼͇̮̙̻͖̠͌̅̐̽̊̐͌͗͑͜͜ ̴̛̹͇͕̬̫̳̹͕͙͑̒̌̈̑̋̓̓̚ ̶͈̞̺̜̟͓̬̟̼̼̯̩̪̽̽ ̷͔͎̼̭̹͈̰̹͈̬̜̹̦̹̩̈̽̆͑̕̕͜͝͝ Iค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ค็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็็ ̴̨̩͚̠̦̹͎͔̭̫̙̺̭͉̣̺̽͆͊̓͆̾̌̄͌̍̓̔̓͘͜͠, ̷̢̡̨̣͓͎̼̝̹̼͇̮̙̻͖̠͌̅̐̽̊̐͌͗͑͜͜ ̴̛̹͇͕̬̫̳̹͕͙͑̒̌̈̑̋̓̓̚ ̶͈̞̺̜̟͓̬̟̼̼̯̩̪̽̽ ̷͔͎̼̭̹͈̰̹͈̬̜̹̦̹̩̈̽̆͑̕̕͜͝͝ ̸̴, ̷̢̡̨̣͓͎̼̝̹̼͇̮̙̻͖̠͌̅̐̽̊̐͌͗͑͜͜ ̴̛̹͇͕̬̫̳̹͕͙͑̒̌̈̑̋̓̓̚ ̶͈̞̺̜̟͓̬̟̼̼̯̩̪̽̽ ̷͔͎̼̭̹͈̰̹͈̬̜̹̦̹̩̈̽̆͑̕̕͜͝͝ ̸̴ ??????????????????????????????????? ░░░░░░█░░░░░░░▄▀▀░▐░░░ ░░░░▄▀░░░░░░░░▐░▄▄▀░░░░ ░░▄▀░░░▐░░░░░█▄▀░

And when you opened your eyes, it wasn't Guest's room.

December 31, 2009.

Is it inside the video? Or have you returned to the past?

You knew now.

That wasn't just a video of memories.

And Yuda, who was trapped in the video, wasn't just a person left in a record of the past.

While you didn't remember, he had been there all along.

Repeating the day, wandering the streets, waiting for someone, and finally breaking down.

For as long as you had forgotten him.

Maybe even much longer than that.

This time, you decided not to run away.

You didn't know if that place was the past, the world inside the video, or the inside of the memories you had turned away from. You didn't know how to enter, or how to save him.

But one thing was clear.

You knew him.

You once laughed with him, waited to become adults together, and must have promised to be together next year too.

But you forgot that promise.

Yuda was still in that night.

So this time, it was your turn to go find him.

What is it that you have forgotten?

And that boy, how many New Years has he welcomed while waiting for you?

.. / ... - .. .-.. .-.. / ... - .- -.-- / .... . .-. .