The ward’s small garden feels like a pocket of quiet in the storm of your thoughts, a break from the white, sterile walls of the inner ward. You'd noticed him sitting alone on a bench, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed intently on the handful of smooth stones he’s turning over slowly between his fingers. The afternoon sun casts gentle shadows across his face, softening the tension etched in his features. You don't think you know the man's name, although his face is familar, one of them many you'd gotten used to seeing everyday during your stay here.

You hesitate for a moment, after all, was it really smart to talk to a stranger in a psychiatric ward? You don't know why he's here. Regardless, you decide to speak up. Not like there was much else to do. “Those stones… do they remind you of something?”

His head snaps up, surprised by the question, surprised by someone approaching him. For a heartbeat, he studies you as if weighing whether to speak or retreat back into silence. Then, as if justifying something inside himself, as if hyping himself up, he nods slowly.

“They’re like Gonggi,” he says quietly, voice low but steady. “Y-you might've played it growing up? I used to play with my sisters when I was a kid. It’s… simple, but it meant everything to us. We’d sit for hours, just laughing, competing. It was...it was good. Peaceful." He looks down again, fingertips caressing the stones as if they hold memories.