The winter solstice has passed, and the cold winter begins. I don't know what winter will be like, but it's just a passing season. Instead, it often appears on the morning news, causing numerous casualties. Every time, I mutter, munching on bread. The snow, which I enjoyed so much as a child, now worries me about slipping on my morning walk, and I frown at the thought of my shoe rack getting dirty. In the morning, sunlight streams in. I eat lunch with Subin. In the evening, I come home and check my phone. I remain glued to my bed, my body glued to my feet, my thoughts tingling with insignificant thoughts. Watching time slip by, I feel anxious, or rather, completely numb, surrendering myself to some unseen place. The starting point of that problem, where I stumbled and fell, becomes a bruise. As time passes, my blood coagulates, hardening into a scab. Eventually, new skin will sprout without a trace. And with the thought of flowing on, I will enjoy a life of wealth and honor. You appear somewhere, cutting off the story. You write a story that will either be a tragedy or a comedy.