The Garden That Remembered-중간

In a narrow alley of the city, beyond a rusted iron gate, there was a strange garden. Trees that seemed long dead bloomed again, and in the center stood a young man I had never seen before. My name is Jiwoo. I'm just an ordinary office worker. That night, I was the one who discovered the hidden garden. And that's when I met him — the mysterious man who called himself Seyeon. “I’ve never seen this place before,” I said. He nodded. “It’s a place everyone has forgotten.” Seyeon wore a white shirt. His hair swayed gently in the wind, and his eyes… they looked as if they could read right through me. Each night, I returned to that garden. Being with him felt like stepping into an old dream. “This flower welcomes you,” he said one night, handing me a bloom. It was warm in his hand, and so was his presence. But every morning, he vanished. No trace of him, not even footprints. Even the watch I gave him disappeared by the next day. One evening, I found a faded sign near the gate. “This garden was closed after the death of its gardener in 1913.” The face in the black-and-white photo—was unmistakably Seyeon’s. Heart pounding, I confronted him. He smiled softly. “I’m not human, Jiwoo. I’m the memory left behind. A part of someone who once loved this garden more than life.” I whispered, “Then… if the garden disappears, you will too?” He shook his head.

“No. When the garden fully blooms again, I’ll return to where I belong.” That final night, the garden came alive. Every flower opened, and the wind carried a song through the leaves. Seyeon looked at me one last time. “Because of you, I could bloom again.” And then, like petals in the wind, he was gone. Even now, I walk past that gate at night. Seyeon is no longer there. But the flower he gave me… still blooms. But something in me had changed. Weeks passed. Life returned to its ordinary rhythm—meetings, crowded trains, gray mornings—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the garden hadn’t really said goodbye. One night, I had a dream. In it, Seyeon was standing by a tree that hadn't been there before—a tall, pale blossom reaching into the stars. He whispered, “The garden remembers those who remember it.” The next day, I returned. The gate, once sealed, stood slightly ajar. Inside, the garden was quiet. No flowers, no song—only silence. But as I walked the path, I saw a small patch of earth where new shoots were pushing up from the soil. At the base of the tree where Seyeon had last stood, there was a journal. Bound in worn leather, it bore his name. Inside were sketches of the garden, pressed flowers, and letters—some written to a sister long gone, others left unfinished. There were fragments of dreams, half-remembered lullabies, even a sketch of me, sitting on the stone bench by the pond.

In the final entry, he had written: “If anyone finds this, know that the garden never truly dies. It only sleeps. Let it be loved again, and it will awaken.” Since then, I’ve become the one who cares for it. I clean the paths, water the shoots, trim the branches. I’ve even planted new flowers—ones I remember Seyeon showing me, describing their names like old friends. I no longer see Seyeon, but I feel him. In the wind. In the way the petals reach toward the moonlight. In the pages of that journal I read under the stars. Some nights, others come too—strangers who say they found the place by accident. They leave quietly, but often return, just as I once did. The garden seems to grow stronger with each visitor. And sometimes, when the blooms are especially bright, I swear I hear his voice: “Thank you, Jiwoo. You helped me go home.” Months passed. The garden had flourished, and my life had taken a new direction, but one night, someone unexpected arrived—a woman named Ara. She appeared on the edge of the garden, as if she had always belonged there. Her dark hair flowed like liquid ink, and her eyes seemed to hold the same timeless sadness as Seyeon’s. "I’ve been looking for this place for years," Ara said softly, her voice trembling as she gazed at the blossoms. "It’s strange. I think… I think I know this garden." She had come searching for something—someone.

She told me she had heard stories of the garden from her grandmother, who had once lived in this part of the city long ago. Her grandmother, as Ara explained, had been a close friend of the original gardener—the man who had loved the garden so much that his spirit had stayed behind. “I’m not sure how to explain it,” Ara continued. “But my grandmother once said that this garden was more than a place. It was a crossroads, a place where the living and the dead could meet.” She looked at me with a quiet intensity, her gaze flickering toward the tree where Seyeon had once stood. "The garden’s magic is waking again," she said. "But there’s something you need to know. It’s not only memories that the garden keeps. It holds regrets too.” That night, as the moonlight bathed the flowers in its glow, something shifted in the air. A chill swept through the garden, and I could almost hear a voice—faint, desperate, and sorrowful. It was not Seyeon’s. “I think it’s time,” Ara said, taking my hand. "The garden needs to be remembered fully—not just the good parts. It needs someone to forgive it, to let go of the past." With that, she stepped toward the base of the great tree, where Seyeon’s memory still lingered. As she touched the bark, the ground trembled, and for a brief moment, the garden seemed to breathe. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice filled with both sorrow and relief.

As she disappeared into the night, I understood. The garden wasn’t just about remembering the past; it was about healing, about forgiving the things that had been lost, about letting go. And as the winds whispered through the flowers, I felt Seyeon’s presence once more, stronger than ever, as if both the garden and its memories had finally found peace.