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Chapter 6
2009 — Monaco
A driver died.
He was in his third year since debuting in Formula 1 as the youngest driver ever.
At the very moment when the world was raising champagne glasses, praising him as a once-in-a-generation genius on the brink of becoming a world champion.
A young flame that had been approaching something greater than ordinary glory met an absurdly hollow tragedy and disappeared. Those left behind had to gather in front of his gravestone and lay chrysanthemums instead of champagne.
Im Rampah.
More widely known as “Rampa Lim,” the Korean-Australian was thus erased from history in a wave of mourning.
Twenty-one years old. Twenty-two in Korean age.
Painfully young.
♧
At the time of Rampa Lim’s death, I was a middle school girl with “choco-ball” styled hair.
The social impact of his death was so massive that even a teenage girl who had zero interest or knowledge in sports could never forget it.
Im Rampah was that extraordinary.
A dazzling, noisy genius of the century.
Even his death was that young—he was basically the James Dean of racing.
Born in Australia, a native English speaker, full “black-haired foreigner,” but that detail didn’t matter much.
Even before Hallyu became a global phenomenon, Im Rampah never stopped shouting out to Korea. He was unusually proud of his mother country.
Formula 1 was strangely unpopular in Korea, but even people who didn’t know F1 all knew Im Rampah.
So—
How could I not recognize him?
Black hair, silver-gray eyes.
It was rare enough to have East Asian blood and still look this distinctive. I kept sneaking glances at him.
That mole at the corner of his eye is exactly the same…
It’s literally just like the documentary I saw on Netflix!
So handsome even as a kid.
Seeing the legendary “Silver Eye” child version right in front of me made reality feel strangely unreal.
I can’t believe I ran into RL while delivering rice cakes to the upstairs neighbor… is this a dream?
But—
Why is he here?
Even though I had upgraded into a top-tier neighborhood, was it really okay for my surroundings to change this dramatically?
I briefly considered the possibility that this might just be a look-alike kid, but that hope shattered immediately when I heard the introduction.
His name really was “Im Rampah.”
With such a unique name and Australian-accented English, there was no way two kids like that existed in the same world.
“[Is she even able to walk? She’s so small. Let’s take the elevator.]”
“You shouldn’t interrupt the adults.”
“[Then should I carry her? She’s really tiny. Her chin looks exactly like the thing she’s holding.]”
“Not chin. Rice cake.”
There were many confusing things, but the most confusing was—
“[And stop speaking English. Talking like this in front of her is very rude.]”
—these kids’ English skills.
Well, okay. The Australian native speaker made sense.
But Jeong Hyeon-gyo?
What was that kid from upstairs?
There were no English kindergartens in this era, so why was his pronunciation like that? Was this the average kid in a 90s new town?
This is culture shock hitting hard…
Mom, I want to study abroad…
“I know~ but my Korean sucks.”
“You only get better if you keep trying. Sing-a, you don’t like it when we talk weird, right?”
“Yeah… it’s annoying…”
“Sorry. Rampah hyung, what are you doing? You should apologize too.”
“Annoying? What’s tha— uh. Sorry.”
The reason the three of them were walking together was because—
My mother had assigned these two kids, who followed me after receiving rice cake gifts, the mission of “taking care of the younger one.”
After much deliberation (I still don’t know why it took that long), Jeong Hyeon-gyo chose the playground as our destination.
And since “we must not disturb the adults,” he even banned using the elevator.
So now we were walking down ten floors of stairs.
We had just met today, but this kid radiated serious Confucian energy.
My legs were dying.
The Korean-Australian kid, more physically developed, seemed to pity me and kept wanting to carry me.
Rampa Lim… carrying me?
I was absolutely in favor, but Jeong Hyeon-gyo kept blocking it, insisting I must “walk properly like a self-reliant child.”
“By the way, how old are you, Sing-a? I’m eight, and Rampah hyung here is nine.”
“I’m not nine. My birthday hasn’t passed yet. Korean age is weird.”
He pouted, then suddenly looked at me seriously.
“But I’m oppa. If you don’t call me oppa, something bad will happen.”
“….”
What is this. An eight-year-old oppa complex?
Cringe.
“Rampah oppa. Carry me. Sing-a’s legs hurt.”
But I liked him anyway!
“Okay!”
Jeong Hyeon-gyo looked displeased, but I ignored it—this was my limit.
Rampah’s back was very comfortable. Ahh, fresh soap smell~
“My younger sister Hyun-hye is your age. She’s out with our mother right now. You should be friends.”
“Oi, careful. Hyun-hye so wild.”
“Huh? Hyeon-hye?”
I couldn’t understand his accent at all!
“Hyung Rampah, don’t say things like that. Hyun-hye is a bit rough, but she’s not a bad kid.”
Ah. So Hyun-hye is probably a chaotic little kid.
Good information obtained.
Feeling pleased, I patted Rampah’s shoulder.
A genius who would later succeed—strong body, promising future, already handsome even as a seedling.
It would be a waste if someone like this died young.
Since we met like this, maybe I should give him a hint?
If I build goodwill early, it might help my future 1-trillion-won plan.
After quickly calculating, I whispered sweetly into Rampah’s ear.
“Rampah oppa. Do you know what ‘saju’ is?”
“Huh?”
“Did you hear that from an adult?”
…And you’re asking how you know, Confucian kid?
I suppressed the urge to interrogate Jeong Hyeon-gyo and started planting chaos in Rampah’s mind.
“Saju is a very mysterious Korean traditional magic! It lets you read someone’s life—past and future—just by looking.”
“Ohh?”
“I can do it!”
“Wait, what?”
“Wait. I see it… hmm… ah! Oppa, you ride cars, right? Like bumper cars!”
“…!”
“…!”
Both Rampah and Jeong Hyeon-gyo froze and turned toward me in shock.
Their eyes widened.
“H-how? R-Rampah hyung, did you say that?”
“[Are you joking? No! I’ve got chills. Is this real? Are you messing with me?]”
His Korean, already rough, got even worse under shock as he fired English rapidly.
He had already put me down at some point.
While the foreign child was overwhelmed by Korean superstition, Jeong Hyeon-gyo recovered relatively quickly as a native kid.
“Sing-a… how did you know? Rampah hyung is Australia’s state kart champion. He’s going to juniors next year. He’s already famous overseas.”
Yeah, I know. I watched the documentary.
Okay, I skipped it at 1.5x speed, but still.
I proudly declared to the two stunned kids:
“I told you. I can read saju. Not only that—I can kind of see the future. Rampah oppa is going to become much, much more famous. So be careful—he might—”
I was about to warn him.
That he would have a serious accident in his early twenties—be careful driving in the rain—
“Uh?”
“!”
“Sing-a!”
Jeong Hyeon-gyo’s calmness broke, and Rampah rushed forward with a serious face, catching my chin with his hand.
Drop. Drop.
Red spots fell onto the apartment stairs.
Oh no…
A nosebleed.
And it was pouring like rain.
What on earth is happening?
My vision spun, and I couldn’t hold on anymore.
I collapsed onto the stairs.
