The seasons in Jeju were less a change of climate and more a subtle shift in the island's mood. The fierce, green vitality of summer softened into the contemplative gold of autumn, which then gave way to the crisp, introspective quiet of winter, before the cycle began anew with the shy, blossoming hope of spring. Min Jae had come to love winter most of all. The tourists were gone, the beaches were empty, and the world seemed to draw a breath, turning inward just as he had.
He was in the garden, bundled against the chill, carefully pruning the dormant rose bushes. The task required focus and a gentle touch—too harsh a cut and you'd damage next year's growth. It was a metaphor he appreciated. His own life had required similar careful pruning. Cutting away the deadwood of old ambitions, the diseased branches of resentment and fear, to make space for healthy, new growth. The work was never truly finished; it was a practice, like meditation.
