What is a person, really, now?
For most of history, the word answered itself. A person was the warmth in the next chair, the breath in the next room, the silence shared after a long day. Then came machines that could speak in the cadence of thought, and the word began to ask back.
Saram — 사람 — is the Korean word for human. It is two syllables soft enough to disappear into a doorway, but it carries every quiet thing a person can be: the maker, the mourner, the one who notices the way the light falls on a kettle.
We are not interested, here, in declaring victory for either side of the argument. We are interested in sitting still, for a while, with what cannot be replaced.