A Second Glow

From Scraps and Nails

If I'm being honest, the thing I've loved most my whole life is playing—games, toys, anything that felt like fun.

People assume it's because of how I grew up. They're wrong. We didn't have money for toys when I was a kid. What I had was leftover wood from my father's stash, and a few nails I swiped from his toolbox. I'd turn them into little things—whatever I could imagine.

My father never said a word about it. Sometimes he'd pick up one of my crooked creations, give it a long look from every angle, and set it back down.

My mother never minded either. In the dead of winter, she'd light a small brass stove in the center of the room, bury sweet potatoes in the ashes to roast, and bring out a big plate of white rice cakes dusted with thick soybean flour. If I got too noisy, she'd just go to her room and close the door.

With no one ever stopping me, our little house was soon crammed full of wooden trinkets.

My little sister and the kids next door would show up almost daily, ready to play.

That was my very first "Game City"—though I had no name for it back then.

The Years In Between

Then I grew up.

And when you grow up, things get complicated. You start to feel like the little things you make aren't serious—or enough people tell you that, until you start believing it too. When it was time to leave for school, I packed them all into a box. I never opened it again.

Over the years, I had a few jobs, met some people, and moved from place to place, but that box always came with me.

It feels like happiness is something you're only given so much of in life.

I had my share when I was young. The years in‑between were steady enough—nothing to complain about.

But there was always this dim corner somewhere inside me.

For the longest time, I didn't know what was in it. You can't see anything without light. By the time I found out, I was already pushing seventy.

Everyone Grows Old

Some say aging hits all at once—like waking up one morning and finding it's a struggle just to sit up in bed, or realizing a full kettle suddenly feels too heavy to lift.

Others say it sneaks up on you. One day you're looking back at the year and the list is shorter than it used to be. You think about calling someone, and you realize a lot of the names you'd dial are just... not there anymore.

I realized I was getting old one winter. A particularly cold one. On a whim, I pulled out that old box.

Around the same time, a distant grandnephew came to visit with his parents.

His name was Hakchan. Still young, he always carried a book with him, and his eyes held a quiet kind of sparkle. When we talked, he told me about his love for bright colors and the sea. Games never came up in our conversations, but the moment he saw the marionette I had made, a shy smile appeared on his face — the same kind of smile my little sister had given me fifty years ago.

I gave him the puppet. And I made a decision.

A Light in the Corner

The group I joined never really had an official name, but everyone called it Travelling Game City.

Kind of like a traveling circus, except we didn't put on shows. Where's the fun in watching other people play? We wanted everyone to join in.

We fixed up an old truck and packed it with every game and toy we could fit. Then we just kept rolling—pulling up in nameless town squares, on sandy beaches, in mountain clearings, and under tents thrown up in the snow.

Kids would show up. Young adults too. Office workers on their way home would stop and give the roly‑poly toy a nudge. Even old folks with canes would wander over to the chessboard to watch a round or two.

I spent eight years with that group. And in all that time, I felt like I'd found the kid I used to be.

I made all sorts of new little things. Some stayed in the towns where they were born. Some traveled with the truck across half the New World. And some—the ones I brought back on my rare visits home—ended up back in that old box.

A Simple Wish

My life hasn't been anything extraordinary. I'm writing this down in case someone out there needs to hear it.

Maybe someday Hakchan will come across this page. Maybe he'll remember that marionette I gave him. And if he does, I hope he'll understand this: doing something you truly love—no matter how small or unremarkable it seems—can still light up a corner of the world. Or at least the one inside yourself.

He may never carve a piece of wood in his life, and that's perfectly fine. He has his books, his colors, the sea. Whatever it is that makes him feel alive—that's enough.

What I really hope is—

That even as he grows older, he'll still find a space that feels like home, and something in it that makes him smile.

Even if it's snowing outside.