Description ★Winner of the 25th Munhakdongne Children's Literature Award★ "We didn't do the emergency broadcast, TV! It's Hae-su, not me!" A portrait of modern-day disaster, broadcast live through social media Hae-ri and Hae-su find themselves trapped inside their home. No TV, no internet, no phone works. Pounding on the walls and turning their phones on and off dozens of times does nothing. The children's situation feels all too familiar to those of us who lived through the pandemic—the paradox of home becoming both a nest that protects us and a prison that confines us. Cut off even from contact with the outside world, Hae-ri and Hae-su are at a loss for how to let anyone know they're trapped. But being resilient kids, they never lose hope, and soon find something positive even in the worst of situations. "Maybe they can't find us because there's no door?" "The house is still here. The 119 rescue team will break through the wall and save us." "So... does that mean we don't have to go to school today?" With no school and no nagging mom, the situation gives the siblings an unexpected sense of freedom. Where they once tiptoed around because of the apartment's noise regulations, now—since it's a rescue call—it's fine to blast music and make noise. They scribble giant doodles on the clean wallpaper, and light the stove (something Mom always forbade) to cook ramen. It's a moment that lets readers feel "the strength of children who don't give in to an unreasonable reality, but face injustice through play" (Song Su-yeon). Hae-su records their disaster situation as a vlog and uploads it to "iTube," the only video app they can still access. "I didn't make the door disappear!" "I didn't start the fire!" Thanks to their unwavering sense of humor, the children manage to endure over a month of confinement. People leave comments cheering them on and offering encouragement. But hateful comments follow too: "Obviously fake." "They staged this to make money off views." Even the police, dispatched to the house after Mom's report, wonder if the children's disappearance is more than a prank: "If they were really trapped, could they really be playing at being iTubers like this? Subscribing, liking..." The way people respond to another's tragedy—not with empathy, but with suspicion and doubt—reveals that thick walls stand between people too. Even amid disaster, the children find joy and happiness, carving out room to breathe. Has there ever been a story that shows so clearly that the present moment always matters most? Watching these children live fully in the now makes us reflect on ourselves, caught up in tomorrow and unable to live today. —From the judges' commentary, Song Su-yeon (children's literature critic) "If you want to save us, please give us back a door." A House with a Door vs. A House without One What Is It That Makes a House a Home? Hae-ri, Hae-su, and their mother had been living under the same roof, but caught up in the breathless rush of everyday life, they'd had no time to check in on each other's hearts. Misunderstandings piled up: "Why does Mom nag about everything?" "My sister/brother is so annoying." "Why won't the kids just listen to me? Is this puberty?" But an unexpected disaster makes them realize how precious their family and ordinary days really are. One Day the Door Disappeared shows us that the everyday life we take for granted may not be so guaranteed after all, and asks where the true meaning of home really lies. A house isn't just a physical space or a piece of property—the true meaning of home is a place where we can set down our tired bodies and hearts after a hard day in the world, a place where family can be together. Just as the bluebird the children searched for in Maurice Maeterlinck's classic The Blue Bird turned out to be the turtledove they'd raised at home all along, Hae-ri's family comes to rediscover the preciousness of home—right at home. "If there's no door, then we'll be the door!" An Adventure to Find Home, from Within Home Itself The Strongest Thing of All Is a Heart That Never Gives Up Unable to see their mom or their friends, and confined to their small home, Hae-ri and Hae-su grow more and more exhausted. But Hae-su's playful suggestion—why not hatch a fertilized egg?—soon grows into something more: a hope for new life and change amid their stifling daily routine. The two devote themselves to caring for the egg, holding on to hope. And the hours-long struggle of a small chick fighting to break through its shell and be born, rather than waiting for someone else's rescue...