When I counted to three, I heard the sound of laughter like a hallucination. The next moment the young me passed by holding someone’s hand. I looked back quickly, but there was no one there except my classmates staring at me. “Hoseok-ah,” the teacher called my name. Only then did I realize where I was. It was a class field trip. I was counting the fruits that were drawn in the textbook. Five. Six. I kept counting, but as I did my voice trembled and my hands grew sweaty. The memory of that time kept surfacing.
I couldn’t clearly remember my mother’s face that day. I only remembered the chocolate bar she gave me as we looked around the amusement park. “Hoseok-ah. Count to ten and then open your eyes.” When I had finished counting and opened my eyes, my mother was gone. I waited and waited, but she never returned. I had only counted to nine. If I counted one more it would have been fine, but my voice wouldn’t come out. My ears were ringing and my surroundings grew cloudy. The teacher kept pointing, telling me to keep counting. My friends were staring at me. I couldn’t remember my mother’s face. It seemed like if I counted one more, my mother would really never come back for me.
Just like that, I collapsed to the ground.