The man’s phone buzzed on the messy desk, a beacon in the sea of half-eaten donuts and crumpled tissues. A photo of a toddler, eyes bright with mischief, beamed from the screen. It wasn’t always his. A year ago, he’d been a bachelor, the remnants of a failed marriage a bitter memory. Then came the whirlwind romance, a new wife with a child of her own – a child who gained a new father, albeit a bewildered one.
Two wasn’t enough, it seemed. Rumors swirled about the first marriage, of a darkness that had driven his ex-wife away. Yet, here he was, remarried with a ready-made family, and already casting his net for a third.
Meanwhile, South Korea grappled with a different kind of emptiness. The country’s womb, once vibrant, was now reluctant, birth rates plummeting like a stone. The government threw money at the problem, a desperate attempt to coax life back into a society obsessed with work and burdened by traditional gender roles. Seoul, the heart of the nation, mirrored this emptiness – a city where even love, it seemed, couldn’t bloom.
The man, oblivious to the national crisis, remained focused on his own desires. His phone, a portal to a world of fleeting connections, sat waiting. In the reflection of the screen, the toddler’s smile seemed to falter, a flicker of uncertainty replacing the joy. Perhaps, in the desperate search for something new, he was missing the chance to nurture what he already had. The emptiness, it seemed, wasn’t just in the country’s demographics, but in the hearts of those unwilling to see the value of what they already held.
Fears for future as South Korea’s fertility rate drops again
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