Chapter 00 …
The Girl of Unshaken Mind
From a very young age, I was a child with unusually keen intuition.
Whether that was truly because I was born with some kind of spiritual gift, or—as my grandfather used to say—because of that strange ring, I don’t know. Either way, I possessed a sensitivity that others did not.
What I want to talk about isn’t simply the question of whether intuition exists. It’s the story of that strange ring I mentioned earlier.
That ring carried a problem of a much higher order—something inexplicable, elusive, an unresolved issue.
When I was seven years old, a ring was discovered one day in my father’s study. My father, who was said to have died in a traffic accident. No one knew since when, but it had been carefully placed in a corner of the bookshelf.
As a result, the ring naturally became one of the few heirlooms passed down to me.
To me—someone who couldn’t even remember my parents’ faces—it didn’t carry much meaning. But to my grandfather, it seemed to be an object of great significance.
The day the ring was first found, my grandfather burst into tears. He told me we should cherish it, that through the ring we should think of my parents as still being by our side.
That was the first and last time I ever saw my grandfather cry in front of me, but even now, I remember clearly the 모습 of him I witnessed that day.
I loved my grandfather. He was my only blood relative, always kind and wise. Through him, I learned many things.
I still don’t quite understand feelings like deep affection or desperate longing, but if I had to name someone who came closest to that kind of attachment in my short life, it would undoubtedly be my grandfather.
For that reason, I decided to treasure the ring as though it were my father’s keepsake, if only for my grandfather’s sake.
And it is from this suspicious and peculiar ring that my story truly begins.
My grandfather said the ring was my parents’ love, their wish to protect me. Personally, though, I called it the “Absolute Ring.” Of course, it didn’t actually possess any kind of absolute power. Still, it undeniably had something mysterious about it.
When I wore the ring, I saw and heard strange things. The sound of wind whispering between leaves when trees danced as if they were singing; large, pure-white feathers occasionally lying in rooms with no apparent owner; gentle waves of light crossing the sky on days like Christmas or Buddha’s Birthday.
Sometimes, young animals whose down hadn’t yet fallen would wander into my grandfather’s old countryside house and crawl onto my lap. In moments like that, I felt as though I could understand their stories—but in truth, I didn’t trust that feeling very much.
To be honest, I thought I might be crazy.
But my grandfather called the ring’s power a gift from my parents, an expression of their love sent down so I wouldn’t be lonely. So I chose to treat it as nothing more than a kind of “sensitive constitution.”
Whether it was because of the ring or an innate ability of mine, the important thing was that I sometimes saw things I wasn’t meant to see—things I couldn’t openly tell anyone about.
For that reason, until my grandfather passed away, I didn’t attend school. He used the excuse that his granddaughter was frail. Despite not being well-off, he raised me by holding me close all day long.
In hindsight, he was fairly spry, but not particularly healthy. A granddaughter with “spiritual gifts” must have been quite a burden to him.
Yet my grandfather never once said anything like that. And I, who grew up reading books all day in a small study crammed with the volumes my scholar father had left behind, failed to fully realize the situation. It was only after my grandfather passed away that I began to vaguely understand the devotion and effort he had given me.
In short, I grew up in a world removed from ordinary life—buried in distant scenery in a quiet mountain village where houses were scattered far apart.
Finger-sized girls sitting on newly bloomed petals, round orbs of light hovering around dew-covered leaves, strange insects I had never seen or heard of, traces left behind by the dead, translucent figures drifting near graves. And sometimes—very rarely—
I saw angels.
There was one in particular: a man like blazing fire, like the sinking sun. His flame-like hair shimmered gold, then red, then swirled into pinkish violet like clouds at dusk. Whenever I saw an angel up close, it was always that man.
A radiant, beautiful-faced angel stood quietly beside me, like a sculpture stained by sunset. Draped in layers of fluttering white garments, he would sit beside me all day, then disappear.
He was always watching me.
Just as I observed strange landscapes, he watched, examined, and confirmed me. He lowered his gaze and let out breaths as though swallowing something overwhelming.
To me, he was like the air naturally surrounding me. There was no reason to be conscious of his existence. From the moment I became aware of the world, the angel had always been part of my daily life.
The first time he spoke to me was one late summer afternoon when I had just turned ten. I was sitting on the wooden porch of my grandfather’s old house, swinging my legs and gazing at the garden. It was also the first day I saw an angel other than him.
Summer was drawing to a close. From the distant sky, another angel descended slowly and landed lightly. While I stared blankly, accustomed to the presence of angels, the unfamiliar one folded his wings and bowed politely to the man. The man accepted the greeting as if it were only natural.
The unfamiliar angel didn’t linger by my side. Instead, he slowly walked into the room where my grandfather was enjoying his afternoon nap. Seeing where he went, I stood up to wake my grandfather, thinking a guest had arrived.
That was when the angel who had always stayed by my side touched me for the first time.
When I turned around at the sensation of someone gripping my shoulder, the angel suddenly looked sorrowful. His golden eyes—shining beautifully and elegantly, as though made of pure molten gold—softly closed in a pitiful expression. That was the day I first realized that they could touch me.
I tried to ask something, but he stopped me first, lifting his index finger to his lips. As if he were about to say something, he parted his lips—then smiled faintly instead.
“There are things in this world…”
The angel spoke for the first time. It was also the first time I realized how beautiful an angel’s voice could be.
It was like singing. Like the clear sound of bells, the way a children’s choir’s hymns would echo through the village speakers from the small church on the outskirts. In that ringing voice, the man whispered,
“Some things are better not seen, and not known.”
I didn’t understand his words. Before I could even react, I fell into a sudden sleep. When I woke, it was evening—the time when the woman next door came by with a basket of freshly steamed corn.
Seeing me asleep on the porch so late, she told me to go inside and sleep properly, helping me to my feet.
Then, as she went to inform my grandfather, she called out to him several times before approaching him with a puzzled expression. Not long after, she realized that something was wrong.
At the time, I didn’t even know what it meant for someone to fall asleep and never wake up again.
The woman hugged me tightly, bursting into tears, her hands trembling as she made a phone call somewhere. Soon, unfamiliar people arrived. They touched my grandfather gently, then carefully laid him onto a simple bed. Even then, I stared at them blankly—only much later realizing that the angel beside me was gone.
The red-haired angel never appeared again after that.
Only after some time passed did I clearly understand what it meant that my grandfather had died. Why the second angel had entered his room that day, and why the red-haired angel had stopped me—I understood it all. I finally realized that I would have to sleep alone, eat alone, and that I could no longer live in that house.
That was also the day I was left alone in the world, inheriting not a few things.
My grandfather had saved enough money for me to use for several years after I became an adult. The neighbor woman handed me the bankbook—likely meant for college tuition—with reddened eyes.
What remained to me were the belongings of three people: my father’s books, my mother’s instruments and paintings, my grandfather’s small house, the bankbook—and the ring.
None of it was immediately usable. Everything except the ring was neatly stored in an unused warehouse at the village hall.
I didn’t go to an orphanage. I had no relatives I could contact, but the village where I had lived with my grandfather was a warm-hearted place.
I stayed at the village head’s house, growing up showered with affection from the elders. As the nearby area developed, new people moved in, but aside from a few, no one seemed to dislike me.
No one threw stones to stir resentment in my heart, and I never developed grudges toward others. In a small village of fewer than thirty households, I grew up peacefully, experiencing neither great love nor deep hatred.
Before long, I attended elementary school for the first time, entering at the appropriate age thanks to various forms of support.
I was fairly good at studying, so I attended a private middle school with a dormitory on a scholarship. I never touched the college fund my grandfather had left behind, and I believed I never would.
I continued to earn decent grades in middle school. By rural standards, at least, I was never told I was bad. When I became confident I could maintain similar results in high school, I took a chance and applied to a larger private high school than my current one.
It was located far enough away that I’d need to take a bus that ran only twice a day and travel for over an hour. I couldn’t apply to a truly prestigious school due to my circumstances, but it was reasonably well-regarded in the region. I’d heard that children from well-off families nearby often attended it. More importantly, it was backed by a foundation—something that mattered greatly to me.
I needed a scholarship. I needed a secure future, and I needed to attend a city school where I could work part-time to prepare for it. I couldn’t bear to impose on the village head any longer.
Thanks to a recommendation letter from the village pastor, my tuition and meal costs could be covered by a religion-based scholarship. But to move out of the village head’s house, I needed to attend a school with a dormitory—and that meant money. In the surrounding area, this was the only school that waived dormitory fees for merit scholars and allowed them to work part-time.
A high school student’s part-time earnings wouldn’t amount to much, and it would inevitably consume time. Still, I had no intention whatsoever of using the money my grandfather had left me.
To prepare for the future, I needed to live efficiently. If tuition, meals, and dormitory fees were covered, I could save everything I earned from part-time work. On weekdays, I’d focus on studying while doing simple jobs like grading or typing, and on weekends I’d look for hourly work.
If I managed both school and work consistently for three years, I’d have some savings by graduation. With scholarships in college, early independence wouldn’t be impossible.
If my grades fell due to working, unpleasant consequences would follow immediately—but I was confident they wouldn’t.
When it came to academics, I was naturally efficient, and I invested more time than that efficiency alone required.
In short, I lived thoroughly. I’d never felt strong desire or possessiveness over anything, but I believed I had a duty to strive for happiness equal to the value of the savings my grandfather had amassed by denying himself even when he was ill. I considered it an obligation.
Studying wasn’t difficult, and if something not difficult promised so much, there was no reason to refuse it.
My goal was simple: to live an ordinary life. To live so ordinarily that no one would say there was something wrong with me.
If I had been an excessively unusual granddaughter and that had worried my grandfather during his lifetime, then I had both the duty and the will to live an ordinary life for his sake. That was how important he was to me.
I didn’t know the proper way to return love, nor did I understand the standard of normalcy—but this was the best choice I could make to repay him.
To live inconspicuously, without distinction, and to obtain ordinary happiness without trouble.
The affection I never fully understood left behind a sense of duty, and I had no intention of turning away from the one thing I did understand.
During the winter vacation when I first left the countryside for the city, I realized how rare it was to encounter anything strange there. There were no spirits in the city, no animals that approached me to speak, no trees that sang with rustling sounds.
Since the day my grandfather passed away, angels had disappeared from my side as well.
I stood alone there too. The semester wouldn’t begin for several more months.
Though there were pre-admission orientations, attendance wasn’t mandatory. Using that as an excuse, I came to the city early on a whim. It was less a plan than a vague impulse—why not? I was going there eventually anyway.
Through the connections of a childhood friend, I found a place to stay and took a long bus ride to look around the school campus. The outbound trip just before Christmas Eve was terribly crowded, and after spending three hours on the road, I finally arrived in the city where the school was located.
All weekend in the city, nothing strange appeared before my now-older eyes. That is—until today.
It was Christmas Eve, a rare and peculiar night when faint choir songs drifted from somewhere. As I wandered the campus of the school I would soon attend, I sat down to rest on the snow-covered stone steps of the garden—and a fist-sized lump of light landed on my lap.
“Are you Solani?”
The light spoke.
Looking closer, it took the shape of a small dwarf with a long white beard. A softly glowing old man, holding a book larger than his own body open on his lap, looked like something straight out of a Christmas fairy tale.
His face was youthful and rather cute, but his beard made him look like an elderly man. It was the first strange being I’d seen in a long time. After hesitating over how to respond, I finally decided to speak to the strange creature.
“Yes.”
It was the name my mother, who loved music, had given me.
I barely remembered anything about my parents, but I faintly recalled my mother humming or playing instruments, the melodies lingering like a shadow. That was all.
The name “Sola” was unusual, but I’d never felt it had any particular advantages or disadvantages.
In truth, I’d never had strong preferences. The value of a name was simply that it allowed others to remember me easily.
As I blinked blankly, my gaze met the mysterious silver eyes of the baby-faced elderly spirit.
“My name is Moon Sola.”
“I have come to meet you. From a place unimaginably high, I was given the mission to find you.”
It spoke calmly. Its gentle, warm tone suddenly reminded me of my grandfather.
“May I ask you a favor?”
I didn’t know how to respond.
I remained silent. I’d seen strange things before, but I’d never been involved with them. I needed to calculate whether ignoring this would benefit me, or whether granting the request would.
The conclusion came quickly. It was better not to get involved in unnecessary matters.
I carefully set the fist-sized spirit down on the step and stood up. Snow clung to my coat. I brushed it off, then bowed politely to the old spirit.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Hm?”
“I’m very busy with my own life, so it would be difficult to help you. If you have lingering regrets or attachments, I think it would be best for you to resolve them on your own. I’m truly sorry. And if possible, I’d appreciate it if you chose a peaceful, humanitarian method.”
“No, girl. There seems to be a misunderstanding. I’m not a vengeful spirit or an earthbound ghost.”
“Yes, I know. You don’t seem like a bad being, but I really am busy. I’m sorry.”
I bowed once more and went on my way. Behind me, I heard muttering—Sir… sir… in this form, I suppose ‘sir’ does fit…—but I considered it no longer my concern.
I had politely refused, and therefore had neither obligation nor reason to help him, no matter what he said.
Spirits were the sort to grow excited quickly and lose interest just as fast. I was nearly certain he was a spirit, so I didn’t think much of it. Only spirits appeared wrapped in light and no larger than a fist.
But I would realize the next morning, at the place I was staying, that this assumption was a grave mistake.
I had overestimated my understanding of strange beings that most people couldn’t see. The spirit neither disappeared nor gave up. It had crept into the home where I was staying and waited for me by my bedside.
With a deep sigh, the spirit spoke.
“Won’t you at least hear me out? I am Solomon of Israel. You’ve surely heard my name.”
“Solomon.”
I crouched in front of him. Inconveniently, he was sitting on my school bag. I needed to go attend the high school orientation.
Solomon was a man who had once lived as a king in a land half a world away from Korea—thousands of years ago.
“Sir.”
I gently lifted him up. Whether his words were truth, lies, or delusion, there was no reason for me to indulge him. Maintaining a polite demeanor, I placed the old spirit on my desk.
“Of course I know King Solomon, but I’m sorry—unexcused tardiness is fatal to one’s school record. If you have something to say, could you do it after school? Today’s lecture isn’t mandatory, but for a smooth school life it’s best to know who your homeroom teacher is and understand the curriculum in advance. I don’t want to miss that.”
“Unexcused tardiness? School record? Curriculum?”
“More than that, my immediate goal is to graduate high school with good grades, attend a decent university on scholarship for four years, and secure stable employment. I also need to minimize expenses as much as possible. That’s the next seven years of my life. And as I said yesterday, I’m personally far too busy to help you. I’m truly sorry. Please find another psychic.”
“No, wait, child. Girl—”
“I’m heading to school.”
I ignored his voice calling after me.
I had no intention of reversing a decision I’d already voiced without reason—especially when it involved a deranged old spirit claiming to be a king from ancient Israel, half a world away.
