At this moment, the spoon in my hand is aimlessly stirring the milky swirls floating on my coffee.

  The clinking of metal against the porcein rim of the mug creates a chaotic rhythm.

  Ding ding clink, clink ding ding.

  It′s just like my current mood—without rhythm, yet full of an urge to express something.

  It′s clear, like a puzzle game pyed over the years. No matter how many pieces are scattered on the ground, with persistence, you can always pick them up one by one and piece them back into their original form. That moment always comes.

  Yet, I′m still overwhelmed.

  Because I′ve realized—the puzzle of memory is not lifeless.

  Memory accumutes gradually, becoming more and more abundant and more complex, making it impossible to piece together all the fragments.

  On one hand, I try to recall the old parts, while on the other, I strive to grasp the parts that are slowly becoming part of my life.

  His puzzle, however, is the simplest, most unadorned, and most straightforward one I′ve ever seen.

  Anyone who has pyed with puzzles knows that intricate designs are actually easier to figure out because each piece is so unique that its pce becomes quickly apparent.

  But the simpler the design—like a clear blue sky or an expanse of green grass—the harder it is to piece together.

  Because each piece is too simple, too pure, it takes a long time to understand the connection between one piece and the next.

  And to understand its connection to myself.

  I took a deep breath.

  To replenish oxygen, to gather courage.

  And to savor the rich aroma of coffee.

  Then, I′m going to tell a story.

  A book needs at least one story woven into it, and if it hopes to sell well, that story is best about love.

  Telling people what love is, how to love, how to be loved, or solemnly defining what true happiness is—whether it′s the belief that relying on others is fleeting, and that happiness is best found within oneself.

  But I′m not sure when this story begins.

  If you′re expecting to tightly hold in your hands a romance novel, I don′t know. But I′m not afraid.

  Perhaps the story won′t begin until the very st page of this book, though even that would be a luxury.

  Perhaps the story will never sprout at all.

  Simply because no one can truly understand, at the very beginning, what everything happening to them really means.

  At least, I can′t.

  Only when I truly understand myself will I be able to grasp what the happiness I′m searching for looks like.

  But after realizing what once gently surrounded me, I may never find that piece of the puzzle again.