He jerked his eyes open and gasped for breath. Above him was an unfamiliar wooden ceiling, and the air smelled musty, with a faint hint of mothballs. There was no wail of an ambulance nearby, only the distant, muffled thudding of construction work, steady and dull.
Where was he?
He pushed himself up. This body was clearly smaller, its arms slender. He glanced around the room: an old-fashioned calendar showed April 1995, a faded Teresa Teng poster hung on the wall, and a Korean textbook lay on the desk.
Korea? 1995?
Fragments of memory surged in: his parents had died, he had been adopted by a foster father surnamed Park, and he had a younger sister named So Yeon... He had also been a bar singer in 2025.
Had he transmigrated?
The door opened gently.
A little girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, with her hair in a ponytail, poked her head in. Her round eyes held a timid concern.
Injing was only 8 years old in 1995. If she had been 16 in 1995, she would have been 30 when she debuted in 2009.
Well written, Tara resurrected from the ashes