Day 1 (continued) I snapped to attention and sprang up, shouting to those around me, "Did anyone see someone take my bag?" However, whether they couldn't understand my broken Spanish or hadn't seen anything, they shook their heads. Giving up on further inquiries, I began to run aimlessly, thinking the thief might still be nearby. I stopped after an hour of futile searching. Drenched in sweat, I lit a cigarette. Each puff served as a fleeting connection to a realm of pre-theft memories, past plans of my South American trip, and the roads once taken.
In that disorienting moment, I was severed from my physical belongings and the comforting illusions that had accompanied me thus far. Stripped of the vestiges of my old journey days, I stood at the precipice of an unknown, unscripted future, grappling with the stark realization that I was profoundly alone.

I headed to the police station with my shoulders slumped. Inside the dimly lit precinct, I sought to convey my plight, my words a mix of broken Spanish and desperation. Their faces, etched with the fatigue of countless tales of lost belongings, listened politely but with a distant, resigned gaze. The language barrier felt less of words and more of experiences as I struggled to bridge the chasm between my urgency and their routine. With a nod, they handed me a report, their faces echoing the universal sentiment: Such losses were common, but retrievals rare.

The path then led me to the Korean Embassy, where I harbored a sliver of hope for understanding, for solace. But the response was like a cold gust on a winter night. "Call home," I was told. After checking the cost of applying for a temporary passport, my feet carried me back to the hostel — a place I had vacated just that morning. I asked my family in Korea only for the immediate necessity — to cancel my credit card. I didn't go into details because I didn't want to worry them.

I had no other option but to return to the hostel where I had stayed the previous night. I confided in the hostel owner, Daniel, and suggested that I could exchange my labor for a place to stay. Daniel declined my offer. He already had enough employees and issues to deal with, and couldn't accommodate another person. He suggested I try calling my family in Korea for help. But he granted me a night's grace, which came with a firm stipulation: that I make that call, and leave the following day.

As I lay on my bed that night, the weight of my circumstances pressed down on me with crushing force. But rather than succumbing to despair, I found myself drawing strength from memories of my last days in Korea, before the loss of my backpack. In the midst of the chaos and uncertainty, a strange sense of calm and focus descended upon me. I took a deep breath, summoning the last vestiges of my inner strength. This was my journey, after all. And perhaps, in some strange way, this was the real journey I had been seeking all along. It had shaken me out of my complacency, forcing me to confront the things that truly mattered.
Despite the hurdles and the obstacles that lay ahead, I was determined to see this journey through to the end. Tomorrow would be a new day, and with it would come new challenges and possibilities. I had nothing left but my resolve, but that was enough. With a newfound sense of purpose, I steeled myself to face the looming uncertainty, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead with courage and determination.