Chapter 1

It was time.

I stood at the announcement, jolted out of a thought I pretended not to have. Rising, I adjusted my backpack. My suitcase rolled obediently beside me as I joined the line of passengers.

I spared one last glance at the familiar skyline beyond the windows. Busan had been my home for as long as I could remember. After the incident in London, my mother got a well-paying job in South Korea, and we relocated.

Stepping into the aircraft, I was greeted by cool air and faint scent of coffee.

"Thirty Four A", I found my seat by the window. As the aircraft began taxiing, my palms turned clammy. I hated takeoffs. No matter how many times, I have been on a plane, the moment the plane accelerated, always made my heart race.

I opened the lunchbox my mother had packed. Kimchi, my weapon against anxiety. A smile crept onto my face. "Just in case airplane food disappoints," she'd said. The familiar scent calmed my nerves.

"Kimchi?" A voice asked beside me.

"Sorry, Didn't mean to stare," he said with a smile. "I haven't seen anyone bring kimchi onto a plane before."

"My mum packed it. She believes it cures absolutely everything."

He chuckled. "Sounds like my mother. She'd probably pack jollof rice."

"You're Nigerian?"

"Half Ghanaian, half Thai. Kiet Mensah."

"Grace Hwang"

"Nice to meet you, Grace", he grinned. "I'm traveling to my aunty's wedding. She's marrying a Nigerian man".

"I hear an accent, you British?" He asked.

"I was born there. My father is Nigerian. My mother is Irish and Korean ."

His mouth dropped open. "You're African, Asian, and European. What a gene résumé. Are you sure you're not American too?"

"My dad's been to Canada for business. But that doesn't count."

"So you're heading to see him?" He questioned.

"No. Internship programme. For the resumé and experience"

I paused, leaving out a detail I had firmly buried. My father was dead. At least, that's what the world believed.

Almost twenty-four hours later, I arrived at Murtala Muhammed Airport in Lagos. We connected on Instagram, and baded goodbye. And then, transported to the Third Annual Global Heritage Project conference centre.

The project was one of a kind, a conference programme, network hub, connecting young people across Africa and Asia. The first thing I noticed was the number of languages filling the air at once. English. Korean. Japanese. Pidgin. Broken French.

"Welcome to the Global Heritage Story Project."

"Engineering Better Lives".

"A collaboration between young storytellers across earth. Two continent, seven countries."

The first week wasn't what I'd expected. No village visits, no discoveries. Just training, introductions, boring workshops. I ended up in the editorial team, documenting, interviewing, shaping experiences into stories.

I didn't feel alone for long. Gyasi from Ghana, loud and warm, called everyone "sister or brother" within five minutes after introduction. Kenji from Japan, quiet but observant, always knew where missing footage was. Aisha from Cameroon edited with cinematic precision. Tao from Thailand joined days later.

By week's end, we weren't close in a dramatic way. Just small routines, shared tables, familiar faces. Somewhere between training sessions, I understood this wasn't just any programme. It was the beginning of something I couldn't name. Little did I know, something life changing was about to happen.