Chapter 47: Midnight Thoughts

He entered his hotel room, slipped off his jacket, and hung it on the heavy wooden hanger.

He roughly loosened his silk necktie and looked into the mirror.

A face both unfamiliar and yet familiar, soaked in fatigue, stared back at him.

Because he hadn’t slept properly for days, dark circles hung deep under his eyes. Too many shadows were cast over a face still only twenty-seven years old.

He took off his shoes.

A vivid red stain was spreading on the heel of his right sock.

Just as he’d expected during the day.

It looked like it had bled.

He carefully took off his sock.

Blood had soaked through the white cotton, making it look unsightly.

The raw skin, stuck to and then peeled away from the sock, was exposed on his heel.

“Ah….”

Just looking at it made his whole body shiver from the pain.

He went to the bathroom and looked for a basin.

He turned on the hot water, then mixed in some cold.

He checked the temperature with his hand.

It was lukewarm.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, he gently lowered his foot into the water.

“Ugh.”

The moment the water touched the wound, a sharp, nerve-piercing pain shot up his ankle.

He instinctively tried to pull his foot out,

but clenched his teeth and endured.

He took a deep breath.

After a few seconds, the fierce pain gradually subsided, and the lukewarm warmth took its place.

Only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding.

He sat there absentmindedly, foot soaking in the water.

Each time he moved, the water rippled.

Blood from the wound slowly spread through the water.

The clear water turned a pale pink, like diluted wine, and he watched in silence as it changed.

“New shoes are always a trial.”

No matter how expensive or well-made the leather, it took time for them to mold to his feet.

Until then, he had to endure this kind of pain.

He could’ve chosen shoes that were comfortable from the start.

But as a young Asian just starting his business, facing the giants of New York, he couldn’t go around in shabby shoes.

First impressions decided everything in this world.

Especially when dealing with white men ready to look down on him, every little detail could become either a weapon or a weakness.

The water started to cool.

He turned on more hot water.

Steam billowed up.

The large bathroom mirror fogged up in an instant.

Beyond that hazy reflection, he suddenly thought of the letter from Pyongyang.

A letter from Suyoun.

His second youngest sister.

Wasn’t she only seventeen now?

She wrote that she’d recognized her brother after reading his article in the newspaper. Even though it was a blurry black-and-white photo, she said she knew at a glance that it was her brother.

A corner of his heart warmed, almost painfully.

A sensation his past self had never known.

The existence of family. That there were people somewhere in the world waiting for him. That there was a place he must return to.

George Howard had asked him once.

“What sort of man is your father?”

He’d answered, “He’s a farmer.”

Truthfully, he didn’t remember clearly—memories in this body were faint.

But one thing was carved deep inside him: his father had sold five cows to raise the money for his studies in America.

Now he understood what a tremendous sacrifice that was.

In the 1910s, in the Korean Empire, a single cow would be the pillar and wealth of a household.

Plowing the fields, carrying loads, hauling firewood for winter—indispensable in every way. To sell five cows was to entrust the entire future of the family into the hands of one son.

He lifted his foot out of the water.

He checked the wound.

The bleeding had stopped, but the exposed flesh was swollen and red.

Tomorrow morning, he’d stop by the pharmacy and get some bandages.

He dried off with a soft towel.

Careful to avoid the wound. But even the towel’s gentle fibers made him wince each time they brushed past his skin.

He returned to the bedroom.

He opened the trunk and took out another pair of socks.

Soft cotton socks.

He’d wear these tomorrow.

At least until the wound healed.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

The clock on the table showed 10:15.

It was still early, but his whole body felt heavy and worn out, like it was stuffed with cotton.

And yet, oddly enough, sleep wouldn’t come.

Thoughts tangled in his head, drifting like threads all knotted together.

The faces of the shop owners he’d met today.

The wary and suspicious glances that had, the moment they tasted the La Choy canned food, turned to surprise and admiration.

Especially the hearty voice of the owner of Taeguk Store echoed in his ears.

“It’s a product made by our compatriot, of course I should sell it!”

He remembered the broad smile on his face as he ordered 100 cans. In that little shop filled with the scent of kimchi and soybean paste, the warmth of someone who trusted him solely because he was a fellow Korean touched him deeply.

He got up from the bed and went to the window.

He slightly parted the thick velvet curtains.

The sprawling night view of New York unfolded before him like a panorama.

Lights from the endless buildings glittered like stars under the black sky. Even at this hour, horse-drawn carriages and automobiles bustled ceaselessly along the streets.

A city that never sleeps.

Seoul in his past life had been the same.

Neon signs stayed lit until dawn.

But he’d never truly enjoyed those brilliant lights. He’d always seen them through cold office windows, as a landscape that had nothing to do with him.

He pressed his forehead against the windowpane.

The chill of the glass felt refreshing.

His feverish brow cooled quickly.

Suddenly, he thought of Catherine.

What was she doing right now? Was she fast asleep? Or, like him, was she gazing out her own window?

She’d said she looked forward to every Friday.

Was that true, or just the polite, gentle lies society ladies always told?

No.

The look in her eyes had been sincere.

The expression on her face when she said, “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

It was an emotion no acting could ever produce, only the real thing.

James Morgan had said so, too.

“Catherine talks about you far too much. Every dinner, it’s Lee Jun-hyuk this, Lee Jun-hyuk that. It’s enough to bore a hole in my ear.”

He remembered James Morgan’s gentle, laughing face as he said it. A faint smile spread on his own lips.

She was thinking of him, too. He wasn’t the only one waiting for Friday.

He returned to the bed.

This time, he lay down properly.

He straightened his pillow and pulled the blanket up to his neck.

The Plaza Hotel’s bedding was always soft and clean. It smelled as if it had just come from the laundry, with a faint scent of freshly starched linen.

He closed his eyes.

But still, sleep would not come.

Something kept spinning inside his head.

Like the gears of a huge machine, grinding endlessly.

Tomorrow’s hard schedule played out in his mind like a scene from a movie.

He’d have to go to the Brooklyn factory early in the morning, and with Yu Ilhan, pack 380 cans of food.

It was the first delivery, so not a single label, not a single box could be wrong. He wouldn’t feel at ease unless he checked everything himself.

And then the deliveries.

Starting with Heungseong Store, he’d have to go around to every shop that placed orders yesterday.

Carrying heavy boxes, riding carriages, stopping at every store….

“Ah….”

A sigh escaped him.

He was exhausted already.

And he hadn’t even started yet.

But this was business.

It wasn’t like in the movies, sitting in a fancy office signing papers. It was work that required him to go out in person, haul heavy loads, bow and meet customers face-to-face. This was reality.

To be honest, with knowledge of the future, he could live comfortably just investing in stocks.

But then all the thoughts and efforts he’d poured into this would be for nothing.

The truth was, he wanted most to become a great businessman, an entrepreneur remembered by future generations.

In his past life, he’d never done this kind of labor.

Always in a clean office, cooled by the air conditioner, just tapping on a keyboard in front of a monitor.

Even business meetings were always in the finest restaurants or hotel lounges.

Everything was different now.

He had to hustle himself.

He had to fight bare-handed for wealth.

Only then could he survive in this cold city.

“I can do it.”

He spoke softly to himself.

“No, I have to.”

Because there were people waiting for him.

In the house back in Pyongyang, his family waiting every day for news from their son, wishing so earnestly for their eldest to succeed.

And there was Catherine.

Their relationship was still hazy, like mist, but she was already a special person to him. The only reason to look forward to Friday in a monotonous week.

He closed his eyes again.

It seemed unlikely he’d sleep tonight.

Forcing himself would only leave him more exhausted, tossing and turning.

He sat up and went to the desk.

He took out stationery from the drawer.

It was high-quality paper embossed at the top with the Plaza Hotel’s gold logo. He took out his fountain pen from its holder, gently shaking it to make sure the ink was filled.

He decided to write another letter.

A reply to send to Suyoun.

A letter to his family after seven years.

He picked up the pen.

But facing the blank white sheet, he couldn’t think of an opening line. How should he start? “To my beloved family?” Too grand and awkward. “Hello?”—but that seemed far too stiff for a letter after seven years.

He pondered for a long while.

The pen tip just circled the paper.

Worried that a drop of ink might fall, he held it carefully in the air. He didn’t want to stain the Plaza Hotel’s expensive stationery.

In the end, he set the fountain pen down.

“I’ll write it tomorrow.”

His mind was too tangled now. He wasn’t sure what to say or how to express these feelings. He couldn’t write too lightly, but neither could he make it too heavy.

He stood up from the chair.

He paced around the room.

The hotel room was spacious.

A suite, with bedroom and living area separated.

A single night’s stay cost more than a month’s wages for an ordinary laborer. It was too big and empty for just one person.

He went out to the living room.

He flopped down onto the soft leather sofa.

His body sank deeply into the cushions.

On the table was the morning’s newspaper the hotel staff had brought up.

The New York Times. He hadn’t even opened it yet.

He picked up the paper.

The headline on the front page was about Prohibition.

A story about police raiding an illegal liquor store in Manhattan.

But everyone knew it was just a farce.

The raids were for show, and the places called Speak-easies would always reopen the very next day.

He turned the page.

The financial section appeared.

The stock market was still in an unstoppable boom.

Most stocks were hitting record highs day after day.

The optimism of investors filled every inch of the page.

‘Nineteen years from now, all of this will turn to hell in an instant.’

October 24th, 1929.

Black Thursday.

The beginning of the worst economic disaster in history, the Grand Depression.

But at this very moment, no one could imagine such a dreadful future.

Everyone believed in eternal prosperity.

Stocks would keep rising, and the economy would continue to grow forever.

He put down the newspaper.

Knowing the future.

Sometimes it was an overwhelming blessing, but sometimes it was an inescapable curse.

The helplessness of knowing so many tragedies were to come, yet being unable to stop them. The fear that meddling too much might twist the course of history.

But at the very least, he could protect those around him.

Like warning George Howard not to get caught in a Ponzi Scheme. Even just a small piece of advice—that alone was meaningful.

He looked at the wall clock.

The hour hand was approaching eleven.

Now he really had to sleep.

He’d need to be up at dawn tomorrow.

He returned to the bedroom.

This time, he turned off all the lights in the room.

Deep darkness settled in.

Only the faint glow of the city, leaking through the thick curtains, outlined the room’s shapes.

He lay down in bed.

Pulled the blanket up to his chin.

It was warm and comforting.

Even the wound on his foot no longer hurt.

It must have healed a lot.

He closed his eyes.

He tried to empty his mind of thoughts.

He even tried counting sheep, that foolish remedy for insomnia.

One sheep, two sheep… Even after counting to a hundred, his mind stayed clear as ever.

Just then, a very old song came to mind.

Not his own memory, but one from the body’s owner—a lullaby his mother used to sing to him as a child.

He couldn’t remember the words at all, but the faint, tender melody came back to him.

He hummed softly, just loud enough for himself to hear.

Mm mm… mmm… mm mm mm…

Not knowing when he fell asleep, his consciousness slowly faded away.

He dreamed.

A house in Pyongyang. Old but tidy, with tiled roof.

In the courtyard, jars lined up neatly in rows, and in one corner there was a real well, not a pump.

Hens and chicks pecked at feed in the yard, moving about leisurely.

“Oppa.”

Someone called to him.

He turned, and there stood a girl in a white jeogori and a navy blue chima. She looked about seventeen.

Her long, black hair was neatly braided and fell over her shoulder, and her round face beamed with a bright smile.

It was Suyoun.

Even though he’d never seen her face in a photo, he knew instantly. This was his little sister.

“Oppa, why did you take so long to come?”

The girl ran to him and grabbed his hand.

“We’ve all been waiting for you. Mama, Papa, Junghun and Mincheol, and Hayoun too—all of us.”

He tried to open his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. As if he were mute.

Then someone shook his shoulder, firmly.

He opened his eyes.

Ah.

Faint dawn light seeped in through the gap in the curtains.

He looked at the clock on the table.

5:45. Exactly fifteen minutes before the alarm was set to ring.

It had been a dream.

But it felt so vivid.

Suyoun’s face, that clear voice, the old tiled house in Pyongyang. It felt as if he’d truly been there.

He could still feel his sister’s warmth in his hand.

He sat up.

His whole body was sore.

Yesterday’s fatigue from hauling heavy boxes lingered in every muscle.

Especially his foot felt heavy and numb.

The wound seemed a bit swollen after the night.

But he had to get up.

Another busy day awaited him, as busy as yesterday.

He got out of bed.

The cold wooden floor made him fully awake the moment he set foot on it. He went to the bathroom and washed his face with cold water.

The ice-cold water numbed his face, but it chased away the last traces of sleep.

He looked into the mirror.

He looked better than yesterday.

The dark circles seemed a little lighter.

Or perhaps he just felt better because of last night’s dream.

He shaved.

He worked up a lather and carefully covered his chin and cheeks, then moved the razor with care.

The sound of whiskers being cut came clean and sharp.

He rinsed his face and dried off with a towel.

Now, he looked more like himself.

He opened the wardrobe.

What should he wear today?

He’d have to differentiate between what he wore to the factory and for afternoon business calls. He chose comfortable clothes first, planning to change later if needed.

A clean white shirt and black trousers.

As he dressed, he quickly went over his plans for the day in his head.

Packing at the factory, loading the truck, making deliveries, then visiting new clients in the afternoon. He’d also have to stop by the radio station.

He decided not to wear a tie.

He’d be changing into work clothes at the factory anyway.

He put on his socks.

The soft cotton socks he’d laid out the night before.

There was a slight sting where the wound was, but compared to yesterday, it was nothing.

His shoes…

He hesitated for a moment.

Better not to wear the new shoes for a while.

He dug out an old pair from deep in his trunk.

They were well-worn and comfortable after years of use.

The toes were a little scuffed and the shape a bit ruined, but they were easy on his feet. For now, practicality mattered more than appearances.

Once he was ready, he went to the living room.

He checked the time.

6:10. A little later than planned, but it was fine.

He gathered his things.

He packed everything needed for today into his briefcase.

Order forms, contracts, fountain pen, notebook. And, placed on top of his desk last night, the letter from Pyongyang as well.

For some reason, he wanted to carry it with him.

Like a good luck charm.

He stepped out.

The hallway was quiet.

It was still early, so other guests would be deep asleep.

He got into the elevator.

As he descended, he wondered.

Would he be able to sell 380 cans today, like yesterday? No, he needed to sell even more than yesterday.

Only then would La Choy be able to quickly establish itself in this market.

He reached the first floor lobby.

The night shift staff at the front desk, eyes sleepy, gave him a slight nod as he saw him leaving.

“Good morning, Mr. Lee.”

“Good morning.”

He pushed through the revolving door and stepped outside.

The late March dawn air seeped deep into his lungs.

It was cold.

But at the same time, incredibly refreshing.

It was the moment the great city was just waking from sleep.

Milkmen were already rolling carts along the street. Newspaper boys darted past on bicycles. From the nearby bakery, the scent of fresh bread drifted on the breeze.

A new day was beginning.

For a moment, he forgot the fatigue from yesterday, the pain in his foot, and all the worries that had tangled his mind through the night.

He could do it again today.

No, he would definitely succeed.

He quickened his pace.

Toward the Brooklyn factory.

Where Yu Ilhan would be waiting.