He especially loved the red plum blossoms. He said the fiery red color was just like his feelings for me.

He was peculiar, to say the least.

The way he valued red plum blossoms over the green ones was so typical of him. He claimed the red ones were more beautiful.

Because he walked a different path from everyone else, he was always on my mind.

One day he suddenly bought a geomungo, saying he preferred making music to writing poetry, and there were days he would stay shut in his room all day plucking the strings.

Even the way he left this world was different from others, making it impossible to forget him easily.

He resisted the accusations of winning over the people with 'profane music,' but in the end, he was forced to drink the poison.

Perhaps this plum tree was planted to serve as his substitute.

Every night, I sit before the plum tree and talk to it. Strangely, in those moments, I don't miss him. It feels as if the tree has taken his place.

But then, one day, I woke up to find the tree gone. Not a single trace remained. In its place stood not a substitute, but the real person. He was standing right there before my eyes.

Judging by the timing, it seems to be before he fell into his obsession with music. If it's now, I might be able to change his fate.