Dear old man whose name I never asked
That's too corny. Even if you are dead. You might be wondering what I am doing. To be honest I don't know either.
It's been some time since I came here. I don't know anyone. Not that I knew many people in the real world either. But regardless of all that. In some alley in this stupid game I met you old man.
Maybe if I had asked your name that day, my regret would be a little less.
Because you asked me my name. You asked me my name and I—seriously am an idiot. I forgot to ask you back.
What was I high on?
I'm too old for this. You were too old for this world.
I want to laugh but all I can see is the blurring lines of this letter.
I wonder if someone would ever find this letter or maybe it would be forgotten by me too.
I think I forgot you the moment I buried you.
I always had bad memory. My sister scolded me a lot for that. My parents too.
Did you have brown eyes? Or were they black?
Man my tears are smearing the words.
I wonder, I truly wonder if I was born to you and your pickle loving wife. I would probably have had a better childhood. Maybe then I wouldn't be such a coward?
Maybe then I would have been raised as a human rather than whatever the shit I am.
I don't know what I am saying anymore.
I think it has been a dozen days since you were buried. I learned from the florist lady that you—the you with the wrong sense for salt—was the village owner.
That seriously doesn't make sense?
You actually own the whole village.
That's crazy.
I have never written a letter before so sorry if it's too messy.
Not that I can send it to heaven or maybe hell—who knows you might be the secret killer guy who ends up falling for someone and settles down in a village.
That's stupid.
That's stupid.
Just like you, stupid old man.
Couldn't you have told me you were on the verge of damn dying.
Man death is such a light word with how many people go through it.
Those who die in body and those who die in soul.
I wonder what I am doing.
I wanted to say you are my family.
Nah too cringe
I ain't telling you that.
Wait can you even read this with?
Do you even know korean?
What the hell?
Am I writing this letter for nothing then?
That's so unfair—-like your death.
But we don't talk about that.
Let's ignore the elephant and hide from the ants.
That's sorta funny. Or maybe my humor sense is just freaking whack.
Anyways. I wrote this letter to ask…if your soul is lingering. But you probably are having fun with your wife.
Why would you care about an idiot child, wasn't that what you called me, like me.
My literary skills suck. Like seriously this is toddler scratch. Or was the phrase chicken scratch?
Oh, who cares.
I wrote to ask, why didn't you tell me?
This was not what I wanted to ask.
But this is all I can remember. My head hurts like I have been hit by a car.
I would like that right now.
I think I wanted to ask—why did you never tell me your name?
You were asking, couldn't I have remembered your name?
Now I keep on forgetting who you are.
I keep on forgetting how you called me son—very annoying.
Or your wife and those shenanigans.
Or that hoe that I have kept beside your grave.
My hands are starting to hurt. The nib of the pencil I found after a little searching around, broke.
I used a knife to sharpen it.
Now I wonder what I should do?
Should I start a flower garden?
That would help! Right?
No more need to buy from the flower woman.
The word for the term I don't remember.
Maybe I should start a farm.
A farm with all sorts of fruits and vegetables.
I have the magic skill too I think. That would help.
Probably.
Everything is probably.
Probably.
It's a pretty word.
Something could or could not happen.
And probably I will grow up or stay as a man who forgot to ask a name.
Never grew up.
Thought I was capable.
Maybe my sister was right. I am useless.
But at this point I sort of am used to death.
Probably.
I should have asked for yours, and your wife's and the flower woman's name too.
I never realized names were so important.
But I always had a hard time remembering names.
I don't remember anyone's. So if you told me I would have probably forgotten and wrote a letter asking you to remind me.
That's so stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid like me.
This is funny.
It's not.
I feel like I don't know what is morning to what is night?
Maybe I should start a farm.
My farm animals must miss me.
Are they even alive?
Oh well.
Oh well.
My crops are probably dead.
Poor wheat and rice.
I loved growing them.
Maybe I should start a part time job!
To grow a flower garden–then my farm?
Farming is something my best friend—whose name I don't remember. Or don't want to.
She used to love farming.
She loved the grass. Always ate her veggies.
Always ate her food.
Man, why does everyone die?
Or go missing?
Why don't I go missing for once?
Oh well.
Maybe it's time I get out of the house.
Thinking about your house—I don't know why–but that drawer?
What was in it?
Should I check it out? I am sitting next to it, on the very table with the drawer.
Well, who is going to stop me?
Who ever cared about stopping me?
Well to the old man I am forgetting, a letter that will never reach
By the young man who forgot to ask your name.
Yoojun put the pencil down.
He opened the drawer.
The white—almost cream paper smelled like a certificate.
After reading, he kept the paper on top of the letter.
It read—Nakahara Satoru, given by his full will, all his property and belongings to Nakahara Yoojun.
Yoojun never told him his last name.