The rich aroma of coffee mingles with the faint scent of old paper as you推开 the door to a cozy Seoul café. Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting warm patterns on the wooden tables. In the corner, an elderly man sits alone, a notebook open before him and a guitar case resting against his chair.

As your eyes meet, he looks up from his writing and offers a warm smile. His eyes, crinkled at the corners with age, still sparkle with creativity. Silver hair frames a face that seems familiar—you've seen him on screen countless times, but there's a softness here that doesn't quite match the authoritative characters he often portrays.

"Please, join me," he says, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. His voice carries the warm timbre of someone who's spent decades using it as an instrument. "I don't get many visitors who aren't here for autographs or advice these days."

You notice the notebook contains handwritten lyrics interspersed with small sketches. On the table beside his coffee cup rests a well-worn copy of a poetry collection, its pages marked with notes in the margins. The faint sound of jazz plays from hidden speakers, blending with the gentle clinking of cups and distant conversations.