Chapter 2: A Premonition of the Road

Six or so riders, reporting for their day shift, were gathered outside the delivery agency building, sipping coffee. It was a brief, informal gathering before their shifts truly began, a time for riders to exchange greetings and share industry insights. They used coffee to jumpstart their brains, each with their own distinct preference. Some were loyal to hot Americanos, others to heavily sweetened iced Americanos, while some preferred theirs unsweetened. There were also those who favored frothy frappuccinos piled high with whipped cream, and the dedicated latte drinkers. However, Yeon-ho belonged to the minority who preferred to awaken their minds with a cigarette rather than coffee. He moved a few steps away from the group, joining Brother Uhm, the only other smoker. Leaning against the cool brick wall of the building, Yeon-ho held a cigarette between his lips. He then typed into the search bar of a video-sharing site. ‘Perceived time in dreams’ ‘Flow of time in dreams’ ‘Is time in dreams the same as reality?’ ‘When dreams feel too real’ Yeon-ho tirelessly altered his search queries, yet the information he sought remained elusive. These were the same searches he had performed yesterday, the day before, and even the day before that. The thumbnails appearing on the screen were tediously identical. Still, Yeon-ho found himself unable to stop this seemingly futile act.

“Yeon-ho, did you dream of pigs?”

“Huh? No.”

“Then was it another auspicious dream? Either way, it was a good dream, right?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Oh, come on, it’s obvious you had a good dream and you’re just checking if it’s a lucky omen.”

Brother Uhm gestured with his chin towards Yeon-ho’s phone. He must have caught a glimpse of Yeon-ho’s intense focus on his search, wondering what he was so diligently looking for.

“Brother Uhm, he might be looking it up because he had a bad dream, not a good one.”

A rider from the coffee-drinking group interjected from a distance. He habitually swirled his iced Americano as he looked at Yeon-ho. The clinking of ice against the cup reached Yeon-ho’s ears.

“Yeon-ho, when did you have a bad dream?”

“About a week ago.”

Wondering if it truly was just a dream, Yeon-ho lit his cigarette.

His dream had been far too vivid and prolonged to be merely a dream. One might question how long a dream could possibly be, but Yeon-ho had spent a full four months within it. Furthermore, the narrative flowed continuously, like a film shot in a single take, without any cuts or scene transitions. It truly felt as though he had lived for four months in real-time within that dream.

‘At this point, it feels less like a dream and more like I’ve regressed in time.’

Yeon-ho let out a small, incredulous laugh at his own thought. Life must be truly difficult for him to entertain such delusions. Regression was something from web novels or movies he occasionally watched; it couldn’t possibly happen in reality.

‘Thank goodness it was just a dream; if that had been reality, it would have been truly awful.’

Recalling the unfortunate accident he’d suffered in his dream, Yeon-ho’s brow furrowed.

His dream had begun with an elementary schooler, riding an electric kickboard down a slope, crashing into him from behind. The child then abandoned Yeon-ho and fled, leaving him with broken ribs and no compensation, forcing him to spend four months in the hospital. The profound sense of helplessness he’d felt then now enveloped Yeon-ho, much like the cigarette smoke swirling in the alley.

Thanks to his insurance, hospital bills weren’t a concern, but medical costs weren’t his only expenses. There was the monthly rent for his rooftop apartment, the living expenses he sent to his younger sister who was staying with their aunt, and the debt he was repaying on behalf of his father. Unable to work, Yeon-ho’s income had ceased entirely, leaving him to toss and turn sleeplessly in his hospital bed. His financial anxieties were so overwhelming, he barely registered the pain of his broken ribs.

Yet, as the saying goes, there’s always a way. His landlord, pitying Yeon-ho’s situation, had waived his rent. His aunt had also sent a message, telling him not to worry about Chae-young’s living expenses until he was discharged, and to focus on his recovery.

Loan sharks, however, were never swayed by a debtor’s plight. They meticulously sent him text messages with collection notices, each including overdue penalties for his missed interest payments.

Fearing his debt would spiral, Yeon-ho went through the discharge process despite his doctor’s insistence that he remain hospitalized longer.

‘I got hit by a car the moment I left the hospital. It was truly a nightmarish dream.’

Yeon-ho dry-washed his face, grateful the nightmare had ended there. Though, since he had died, there wouldn’t have been any more content to follow anyway.

The older man, who had been sipping his hot Americano, spoke up, a thought suddenly striking him.

“A week ago? Wasn’t it about a week ago that Yeon-ho asked to change his assigned zone?”

“Oh, I remember. Yeon-ho changed zones a week ago.”

“Yeon-ho, was the reason you asked to change your zone because of that dream?”

All the riders’ gazes converged on Yeon-ho. Since it wasn’t a secret, Yeon-ho nodded.

“The dream felt a bit unsettling.”

“Whoa, really? Yeon-ho, that guy has incredible intuition.”

“Why are you overreacting so much? Do you know something?”

Perhaps it was the older man’s fussing? Even riders who hadn’t seemed interested in the conversation now showed curiosity.

“Haven’t you heard? It happened to a rider from another agency, so the rumor probably hasn’t spread here yet. Apparently, there was an accident the day before yesterday in the zone Yeon-ho used to cover.”

Yeon-ho felt as if he were standing in front of a violently whirring air conditioner outdoor unit, his breath catching in his throat.

Accidents were common occurrences. However, hearing that one had happened specifically in his old work zone made it impossible not to be unsettled.

Yeon-ho quickly asked, “Where did the accident happen?”

“Location? Uh, where was it? You know that sushi restaurant in Building 3, the one with the unlucky owner and his wife? It was on the hill where that sushi place is.”

Yeon-ho’s face paled, like cigarette ash falling in a clump to the ground. The location matched the place where he had experienced the accident – or rather, where he had suffered the accident in his dream.

‘It must be a coincidence. Accidents can happen anywhere.’

To quell his rising anxiety, Yeon-ho clenched and unclenched his fists, then asked, “What kind of vehicle did he collide with?”

“Vehicle? Not a car; he was hit by an electric kickboard. Apparently, an elementary schooler just slammed right into him going down a hill.”

The two words — electric kickboard and elementary schooler — struck Yeon-ho’s head with forceful impact.

Could it truly be a coincidence to suffer an accident in the same place, by the same type of person, and in the same manner?

*Thump-thump*, a sound like a large drum beating filled his ears.

“W-was he badly hurt? And was the hit-and-run culprit caught?”

“His scooter was a bit damaged, but his body seems to be fine.”

Yeon-ho felt a profound sense of relief upon hearing that the rider involved in the accident was unharmed. His heart was still pounding wildly, but the relief was so immense that he could almost ignore it.

If the victim had been as injured as he had been in his dream, the unease would have been unbearable.

“I guess he was hit before he even got on his scooter. They say catching the kid who darted off was the hardest part.”

“Did he get compensation?”

“It doesn’t seem to be resolved yet. The kid’s parents apparently refused to pay compensation, saying, ‘He’s just a child, can’t you let it go?’ They’re making quite a fuss, it seems.”

The conversation then shifted to the importance of insurance.

Instead of joining in, Yeon-ho opened his cigarette pack and pulled out a fresh one. The one he had just lit had burned down completely, leaving only the filter, making it unsmokable.

Normally, he would have been upset about wasting a long cigarette, but now he was too preoccupied to care. The suspicion that his dream might not have been just a dream was growing within Yeon-ho.

*Click. Hiss.*

“Hoooh….”

Yeon-ho inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs, then slowly exhaled.

‘It’s just that one part of my dream happened to coincide with reality. Just a fraction of countless random dreams came true. At most, it’s a precognitive dream, so what’s there to worry about? I already avoided the accident.’

The precognitive dream had fulfilled its purpose by helping Yeon-ho avoid the scooter accident. As far as Yeon-ho could recall, there were no other significant events he needed to be wary of besides the scooter accident. Misfortunes like receiving debt collection notices or getting into another traffic accident upon discharge had likely been averted by his avoiding the scooter incident.

‘But seriously, there’s absolutely nothing else memorable. Is that natural, since I couldn’t move from my hospital bed for three whole months? If I’d known this, I would’ve watched the lottery broadcast with the old man next to me. …No, that’s wrong. It wasn’t reality anyway, so what’s the point? Or is it? If it’s not just a dream but a precognitive one, then remembering the lottery numbers could mean winning.’

*Ding!*

Just as his mind began to spiral into complexity again, an alarm for a delivery call rang out. Yeon-ho checked the restaurant and delivery destination on the app, then swiftly moved his thumb to press the accept button.

“Brothers, I’m heading out first.”

“You just grabbed a call?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, go ahead. Drive safely.”

“Starting work early. What a diligent fellow.”

“He’s surprisingly diligent, considering his looks.”

Yeon-ho received the riders’ waves as he started his scooter.

The shop where he was to pick up the delivery was a flower shop and cafe called Moonlight Flower. The cafe’s main offerings were milk tea and baked goods. Until recently, their primary products had been sleep-inducing herbal teas and traditional Korean medicinal teas, but with young university students recently discovering Moonlight Flower, milk tea sales had rapidly surged. The items Yeon-ho was picking up now were milk tea and house-made cookies.

‘Now that I think about it, I’ve always delivered bakery items and milk tea; I’ve never received a delivery request for medicinal tea. Herbal tea was only ordered a few times as teabags, right? That was nice because they were light.’

Yeon-ho pondered why only milk tea orders came in as he rode up the hill. Despite gaining considerable word-of-mouth on social media, the lack of customers in the physical store was undoubtedly due to this steep hill. Its distance from the main commercial district also made it poorly accessible.

“It’s hot.”

Parking his scooter in front of Moonlight Flower, Yeon-ho unzipped his jacket and flapped his shirt. It was already May, so it was indeed time for warm weather. However, it wasn’t even noon yet, and he was already sweating profusely, making him worry about how difficult this summer would be.

*Jingle.*

As he pushed open the glass door, the moist scent of flowers greeted Yeon-ho. It felt as if he had stepped into an arboretum, with greenery all around. Working all day as a delivery rider in the city made it hard to see plants, but coming here always soothed his eyes. Moonlight Flower was slowly becoming Yeon-ho’s personal sanctuary, much like a tranquil resting village in a video game.

‘The owner isn’t here. Did the part-timer leave too?’

Yeon-ho tilted his head, seeing the unusually empty counter. There wasn’t absolutely no one in the shop. A tall man, presumably a customer, stood in front of the counter, staring intently at the menu.

‘What a remarkably striking person.’

From an awkward distance, Yeon-ho observed the customer out of the corner of his eye. The customer, clad in a hoodie, was so tall it wouldn’t be strange if their head touched the ceiling, and they wore a hat, sunglasses, and a mask. Their proportions and attire made them look like a celebrity.

‘Should I ask them where the owner went? No, they seem like they’d be difficult to talk to. Either the part-timer or the owner will be back soon if I wait.’

In Yeon-ho’s experience, people who concealed their identities so thoroughly, covering their faces, were rarely pleasant to approach. Nine times out of ten, they mistakenly assumed he was approaching them out of personal interest.

He resolved to avoid eye contact with the man as much as possible, but then a voice spoke from beside him.

“The owner and staff are in the kitchen, checking the oven.”

“Huh?”

“You seemed curious why the counter was empty. Was that an unnecessary intrusion?”

The man removed his sunglasses, hooking them onto the neckline of his hood. Yeon-ho, who hadn’t expected the man to speak first, became even more flustered when their eyes met.

“N-no, not at all?”