On one of those visits, we were riding a bus together, sitting side by side, watching the city pass by. Somewhere between the stops, I spoke-perhaps for the first time-about a pain that lives at the core of this book. I told her about the moment when MOA begins to give up: standing beneath a ceiling fan, staring at it, wrestling with thoughts he can no longer quiten it.

As I spoke, I saw her eyes fill with tears. After a long pause, she said softly, "Turn this pain into a story."

MOA walks alone through a crowded market. He wears glasses-not as an accessory, but as a shield. Behind them, something is breaking. As he moves forward through the noise and color of the world, he is also traveling backward, toward the beginning of his own life. The tears fall freely, hidden behind dark lenses, unseen by the people rushing past him.

That is where this story truly begins.

This book is not written to impress. It is written to be honest.

What you hold in your hands is shaped by lived moments-some painful, some tender, some quietly hopeful. All of them real. If even one page makes you feel seen, less alone, or understood, then this book has already found its purpose.

Thank you for trusting this story with your time-and with your heart.