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For the past three hours, I’ve watched the world transform around me. Seoul’s skyline disappears in the rearview mirror, replaced by nature and winding roads that eventually lead us into mountains blanketed in fresh snow.

And despite my lifelong distaste for nature, I can’t look away. The outdoors and I have never gotten along. I prefer air conditioning, clean floors, reliable Wi-Fi, and absolutely no risk of ruining my shoes by stepping in mud.

My mother tried to change that when I’m a child. Whenever we visited Puerto Rico, she’d take us to El Yunque, hoping the rainforest would somehow awaken my appreciation for the great outdoors. Eventually, even she gave up and retreated to her private beach house in Dorado.

Dad, on the other hand, thrives in nature. He’d Allegra, his only willing accomplice, on adventures to the hidden corners of the island most tourists never discover. La Marquesa is their favorite. They always returned sweaty, grinning, and eager to tell us about whatever treasure they uncovered.

I never understood the appeal.

But this is different.

This is nature, yes, but it’s nature covered in cold and white. That I don’t mind.

As we drive farther into the mountains, the road winds between tall pine trees covered in snow. The peaks are barely visible in the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight.

Even though the car is moving, everything else is so still it feels almost unnatural.

Beautiful.

It’s the kind of beauty that makes even someone like me wonder if perhaps nature isn't completely useless after all.

It feels as though we’ve driven straight into one of those aggressively wholesome Christmas movies my mother forces the entire family to watch every December.

You know the type.

Emotionally unavailable businesswoman from the city. Tiny and cozy snow-covered town. Ridiculously attractive bearded man who somehow owns both a Christmas tree farm and a bar famous for its homemade fruitcake drinks.

Ninety minutes later, she’s wearing ugly Christmas sweaters, baking gingerbread cookies, and believing in true love.

So completely unrealistic.

Leaning to my left, I rest my forehead against the cold window and watch the snow blanket everything in sight.

The longer I stare at the world outside, all white and powdered-sugar pretty, the more I realize I could get used to a place like this.

And that’s a problem.

A big one.

I don’t like getting used to things.

Because getting used to something means eventually having to learn how to live without it.

The driver—Minho, according to the introduction he gave us somewhere around hour two—glances at me through the rearview mirror.

He smiles nervously at us.

Good.

I prefer people who are slightly afraid of me. Overly friendly people are exhausting. They’re the kind who get comfortable within five minutes and start showing complete strangers pictures of their grandchildren.

I have no interest in anyone’s grandchildren.

“We’re almost there, Miss Volpe.”

I nod.

Thank God.