"Chan-yeol."
"Yeah. I'm listening."
"I don’t have much time left. That means… the time I have left to be with you… there’s not much of it left anymore."
"What do you mean—"
"I have a brain tumor, Chanyeol."
"You…"
"I won’t be able to see another spring. There won’t be any more spring for me. No summer, no autumn, no winter. None of them… not for me."
If only I could hold onto time, as it slips away like grains of sand.
"I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to go to the hospital. I don’t want to lie on that cold operating table. It’s too late. I… it’s too late, Chanyeol."
It was my final festival.