“A Hundred Memories”: Two young bus conductors in 1980s Korea face love, ambition and the complexities of friendship as they navigate a fateful triangle.
Introduction
The first time I heard the bell ding and the conductor shout “All right!” in that proud, old-school way, I felt my chest tighten with the kind of nostalgia you can’t fake. Have you ever met a show that doesn’t just tell a story but escorts you into a life—coins clinking, wind in your hair, the city thundering past? A Hundred Memories is that show for me, the kind that makes you text a friend at midnight because you can’t keep the ache to yourself. I watched as two young women in crisp uniforms chased wages, dignity, and a love big enough to rewrite their days—and I saw my own compromises reflected back. Somewhere between the depot and the dormitory, I started rooting for their friendship even more than the romance. And by the end of each episode, I was Googling fare schedules of my own heart, wondering which stop I’ve been racing toward without ever looking out the window.
Overview
Title
: A Hundred Memories (백번의 추억)
Year
: 2025
Genre
: Romance, Coming-of-age, Human drama
Main Cast
: Kim Da‑mi, Shin Ye‑eun, Heo Nam‑jun (with Lee Won‑jung, Lee Jung‑eun in support)
Episodes
: 12
Runtime
: Approximately 75–80 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform
: Viki (United States)
Overall Story
A Hundred Memories opens on Go Young‑rye, a newly minted bus conductor on Seoul’s Route No. 100 who battles motion sickness with sheer grit because her family needs her pay envelope. The depot is loud and alive—uniforms pressed, coin changers clacking, the schedule posted like gospel—and Young‑rye’s first day is equal parts trial by fire and tiny triumphs. She meets Seo Jong‑hee, a quick‑witted newcomer with a voice built to carry over traffic, and the two click almost instantly. Their friendship blooms in the cramped company dorm, sharing hair ribbons, skin‑care tips, and secrets they wouldn’t dare whisper at home. Have you ever met someone and thought, “Oh, that’s my person,” before you knew anything about them? That lightning strikes here, and you feel it even before they do.
The series doesn’t romanticize the job; it gives it pulse. Conductors wrangle fare evaders, soothe elderly riders, and swallow the sting of fines for the smallest mistakes. The city in the 1980s is changing fast, and not everyone believes a young woman should be shouting orders from the back of a bus. Young‑rye keeps an eye on the clock and an even closer eye on her savings jar, quietly nursing a dream of university the way others nurse tea on cold mornings. Jong‑hee’s bravado, meanwhile, covers bruises you can’t see—family turmoil that sends her clinging to the dorm’s shared laughter like a life raft. Their bond becomes a daily practice: swapping shifts, saving snacks, protecting each other from the petty cruelties of a system that counts coins before people.
One day, a scuffle with a fare evader introduces them to Han Jae‑pil, an impossibly composed young man who steps in with a boxer’s reflexes and a gentleman’s restraint. He’s the heir to a department store empire he wants nothing to do with, sneaking off to a boxing gym where sweat tells a more honest story than silk ties. The moment he locks eyes with the two conductors, the rails of the narrative click into place: not just a triangle, but a collision of class, obligation, and longing. Young‑rye feels that first crush like a punch she won’t admit hurt; Jong‑hee registers him as trouble she wants to understand anyway. The bus keeps moving, but now every stop feels like a test of who will speak first, and at what cost.
Life at Cheong‑A Transportation (Cheona in some listings) is levied by rules and overseen by a stern labor manager who treats people as line items, pushing quotas and punishing small acts of humanity. The girls learn to bargain—their time for a seat, their voice for a forgiven fine—and we see how women kept cities moving even when the world wished they’d sit down. Late‑night dorm conversations turn into morning resolves: Young‑rye will register for a college prep course; Jong‑hee will save enough to move her mother out of harm’s way. Jae‑pil hovers at the edges, offering warm canned coffee and the kind of steady presence that shakes loose truths both girls thought they’d buried. Have you ever wanted two people to be happy even if that means they can’t be happy together? The show lingers in that ache and lets it breathe.
Midseason, the class divide sharpens its teeth. Jae‑pil’s father—department store magnate Han Ki‑bok—expects a son in suits, not gloves, and his new wife, Seong Man‑ok, represents the family’s polite, relentless pressure to conform. A dinner at the Han residence is all gleam and judgment: crystal clinks, coded comments, and Young‑rye suddenly aware of every callus on her hands. Jong‑hee sees it too and stiffens, as if bracing for a blow she can’t block for her friend. Jae‑pil tries to bridge the gap, but even kindness can be a reminder of who has the power to choose and who has to fight for the chance. The triangle stops being a shape and becomes a question: Whose future gets to be centered?
Workplace tensions escalate just as the friendship begins to fray. A crackdown from management on “idling” times means shorter breaks and sharper tempers; the older conductors whisper about organizing while the villainous labor chief prowls for scapegoats. Young‑rye, exhausted, misses a night class and snaps at Jong‑hee; Jong‑hee, hurt, disappears to clear her head and accidentally finds Jae‑pil alone at the gym. Nothing happens—and that’s almost worse—because in a world that polices women’s reputations, closeness can be as dangerous as confession. The next day on the bus, the two friends stand only feet apart and feel miles away. Have you ever stood next to someone you love and realized silence can be louder than a shout?
By episodes 7 and 8, the past catches up with them in new and complicated ways. Jae‑pil starts to admit that boxing isn’t only rebellion—it’s the one place he knows who he is—and Young‑rye’s college dream edges from fantasy to paperwork. Jong‑hee opens up about the damage she’s been absorbing at home, revealing a tenderness that reframes her earlier bravado. Meanwhile, the depot’s small kindnesses—shared tangerines, a mended hem, a seat saved on a crowded bus—remind us that survival is communal. The triangle heats, cools, and heats again, like a kettle someone keeps forgetting on the stove. The show is careful with them; it lets mistakes land and then asks what repair looks like.
Episode 9 crash‑lands them into the same hospital corridor: a reunion that feels like rewinding to a time before the first misunderstanding. For a spell, they laugh like teenagers again, trading inside jokes that survived harder seasons, and you can almost believe the detour didn’t change the route. But outside pressure returns fast—an older supervisor, Mi‑sook, makes her disapproval blunt—and the night breaks open into a storm where Jong‑hee runs and stops only when Jae‑pil finds her in the rain. It’s not a fairy‑tale rescue; it’s a fragile truce with the weather still raging inside them. The next morning, everything they couldn’t say is a weight and a dare: speak now, or let silence decide.
Music threads through these moments like memory. An early OST drop from Baek Yerin—a velvet‑soft remake that feels like opening an old cassette—wraps key scenes in a hush that makes every breath matter. It’s the kind of song that turns a stare into a statement and a small handhold into proof. You know those tracks you loop on a long walk because they make ordinary streets feel cinematic? This is that, and it deepens the drama’s retro glow without ever tipping into pastiche. Even non‑K‑drama friends asked me for the song link after I played a snippet.
As the final weekend approaches (episodes 11–12), the show steers toward choices that count: education or obligation, family name or self‑named future, romance or the friendship that made romance possible. The bus route that once felt like a cage starts to look like a map—proof that you can leave and also return on your own terms. And Jae‑pil learns that love is not the prize at the end of a fight but the courage to put your gloves down when someone else needs a hand. The story doesn’t promise tidy outcomes; it promises honest ones, the kind that linger like perfume in a winter coat. Have you ever realized the person you must choose first is yourself, so that you can finally love others without bargaining away your worth? That realization is the quiet engine of this drama.
Watching from the U.S., I queued each episode on Viki with the same ritual: tea, blanket, and a notebook where I scribbled lines that hit too close. Somewhere in the margins I also compared credit card rewards to decide which option gave me the best cash‑back on my streaming subscriptions—life keeps moving even when you’re emotionally wrecked by TV, right? And every time Young‑rye stared down tuition flyers, I found myself thinking about student loan refinancing, about the trade‑offs we make to buy a little more time for our dreams. The series got me caring about practical math and big feelings in the same hour, which might be the most 1980s thing ever: making do, making plans, and making meaning. If you’ve ever chased a future that felt one stop too far, this show invites you to ride along.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1
Young‑rye’s move‑in day at the company dorm turns strangers into sisters as she and Jong‑hee figure out shared closets, shared mirrors, and how to stop the room fan from clattering. The camera lingers on small rituals: pinning the cap just so, testing the coin‑changer, practicing the “All right!” call in a whisper that becomes a laugh. Their first route together is shaky—motion sickness, a grumpy ajusshi, a baby who won’t stop crying—but the way they wordlessly split tasks feels like falling into step with a friend you haven’t met yet. That final shot of them dozing on opposite bunks, shoes still on, is the mood of the whole series: tired, tender, and in it together. You don’t just watch them bond; you remember your own first “we.”
Episode 2
A fare evader bolts and the aisle turns into a narrow stage; Jae‑pil catches him in a clean, instinctive move that tells us as much about his past as his posture does. Young‑rye is impressed against her will; Jong‑hee hides curiosity under sarcasm. Later, at a pojangmacha, the three share fish cake and stories, skirting the knowledge that something irreversible started on that bus. The city’s neon reflects in rain puddles like a promise they can’t cash yet. It’s the kind of meet‑cute that knows real life isn’t cute for long.
Episode 4
After a minor mishap on the route, Jae‑pil walks Young‑rye home with the kind of easy silence that feels like trust. He admits he boxes; she admits she studies after shifts and sometimes forgets to eat. The scene doesn’t end in a kiss—it ends in a shared thermos of barley tea, the steam catching in the streetlight like a blessing. Jong‑hee watches from across the alley and, for the first time, flinches at the thought that she might be the odd one out. The triangle isn’t a twist; it’s a slow accumulation of glances that finally weigh too much.
Episode 6
Dinner at the Han residence is a master class in soft power. Seong Man‑ok, elegant and efficient, assesses Young‑rye and Jong‑hee like they are résumés rather than people. Jae‑pil’s father talks legacy between bites; Jae‑pil talks about a match no one at the table considers a career. When a server calls Young‑rye “conductor‑ssi” with a curl of the lip, she squares her shoulders and thanks him anyway, reclaiming respect one syllable at a time. You can feel the air leave the room—and then feel our girls breathe it back in.
Episode 8
The labor office posts new penalties that make rest a luxury, and the depot mutters about fighting back. An older conductor teaches the rookies how to log rounds to avoid unfair fines, and a quiet solidarity takes root over tangerines and safety pins. When management tries to make an example of Young‑rye for a “late departure,” Jong‑hee steps forward to say it was her fault—a lie that costs her a night’s pay but restores a piece of their trust. The scene is small on paper, enormous on screen. Sometimes love looks like standing next to someone when the ledger says you shouldn’t.
Episode 9
A hospital corridor reunites the trio after a scary night, and for a while they are kids again, giggling over vending‑machine chocolate and awful TV. Then reality barges in—Mi‑sook’s scolding, a family call that changes Jae‑pil’s expression, Jong‑hee’s quiet exit into rain that looks like static. When Jae‑pil finds her under a flickering streetlight, she doesn’t ask for rescue; she asks for honesty. The moment doesn’t answer every question, but it asks the right ones, and that’s what makes it sing.
Momorable Lines
“Let me count the coins before the world counts me out.” One of Young‑rye’s mantras, this captures the daily math of survival when dreams cost money and time you don’t have. It lands after a long shift and a longer walk to night class, where she chooses to be tired now so she won’t be trapped later. The line reframes ambition as care—care for family, for self, for a future that won’t arrive by accident. It also reveals her fear: not of hard work, but of disappearing into it.
“I’m loud so the city doesn’t swallow me.” Jong‑hee says this with a grin that fools no one, peeling back the bravado to show the girl underneath. We’ve watched her blast announcements down the aisle and crack jokes in the dorm, and here she finally names the cost of always being “on.” The confession deepens our empathy for a character who has been armor first, tenderness second. It also sets up why silence in later episodes feels like abandonment to her.
“A punch only counts if I’m hitting toward the life I want.” Jae‑pil isn’t just running from his father; he’s running toward a self that feels real in the ring’s bright square. He stakes out a simple ethic: effort must align with desire, or it will curdle into resentment. The line also positions his romance not as rebellion but as a choice to be known—dangerous for someone raised to be a symbol, not a person. When he repeats it after a tough sparring session, it sounds less like defiance and more like wisdom.
“Don’t make me choose between us and me.” Young‑rye speaks this softly, but it shakes the floorboards. The show keeps demonstrating that women are often asked to split themselves into dutiful halves; this is her refusal. It’s a plea for a love that doesn’t demand a receipt for every kindness. And it becomes a thesis for the final stretch: integrity first, or nothing fits.
“We keep missing the same stop; maybe the route needs changing.” Jong‑hee’s late‑night observation turns transit into truth without getting cute. It acknowledges that apologies without new behavior are just circles, and these three deserve straighter lines. The metaphor honors the world they live in—bus bells and timetables—while challenging them to redraw their map. It’s the kind of sentence you underline because it applies to your own life, too.
Why It's Special
A Hundred Memories opens on a Seoul that hums with diesel engines, neon shop signs, and the soft clatter of punch tickets on Bus No. 100. Two young bus conductors stand at the center of it all, discovering the shape of their dreams as the city jolts forward around them. It’s a weekend broadcast on JTBC in Korea, with new episodes rolling out globally on Viki and, in select regions, on Viu—making it easy to sit down on a Saturday night and slip right into the past. Have you ever felt this way—like the present is moving too fast for your heart to catch up? This drama invites you to slow down and listen.
What makes A Hundred Memories instantly inviting is the way it turns everyday labor into luminous storytelling. The bus aisle becomes a stage where friendships are tested, fares are argued, and first love sneaks up between stops. Writer Yang Hee-seung’s flair for ordinary people with extraordinary inner lives gives the show a gentle, humane pulse; it’s the kind of script that trusts small gestures to carry big emotions.
From its first minutes, the series paints the 1980s not as a museum piece but as a living, breathing era. Uniform caps tilt at jaunty angles, the conductors’ signature “All right!” call rings out, and the analog rhythm of the city wraps around you like a familiar song you can’t quite place. The period details feel specific yet accessible, a bridge between generations that lets international viewers feel the same tug of memory as Korean audiences.
Emotionally, the show glides between sunlit laughter and late-night ache. One moment you’re laughing at an improvised scolding on a crowded bus; the next, you’re watching a character stare out a rainy window, wondering if the path they chose will cost them a friend. That tonal dexterity—never cynical, always tender—gives the romance heft and the friendship stakes. If you’ve ever kept a secret crush to protect someone you love, the beats here will land with a hush.
The direction keeps the camera close to faces, hands, and those fleeting in-between moments—a smile caught, a ticket clipped, a glance that lingers a second too long. The result is a tactile, lived-in romance that feels less like “big plot” and more like life unfolding. It’s an approach that rewards patient viewers with scenes that glow long after the credits.
Music stitches the mood together: you’ll notice the warm crackle of retro instrumentation and a timeless melody that seems to float through each episode like a note from the past. When that voice rises over a bus rolling across the Han River at dusk, it’s hard not to hold your breath. The songs don’t decorate the story; they confess it.
Above all, A Hundred Memories blends coming-of-age sincerity with the heady pull of first love without reducing either to cliché. The triangle isn’t a gimmick—it’s a map of how care, duty, and desire can tug in different directions. By the time the credits fall on each weekend’s pair of episodes, you’re not just asking “Who ends up with whom?” but “Who will these people become?”
Popularity & Reception
Word of mouth has traveled fast. As the fall drama slate filled up, this little period romance became a quiet standard-bearer for “comfort viewing,” boosted by steady weekend drops and easy international access. Coverage from entertainment sites across regions has amplified that buzz, with headlines praising its nostalgia and approachable storytelling for viewers discovering the 1980s in Korea for the first time.
On social feeds, fans post side-by-side photos of the show’s uniforms with real archival images, marveling at how closely the production nails the texture of the era. International write-ups highlight how a local, street-level slice of life can feel universal when the emotions run this honest. That global conversation—spanning comments in English, Portuguese, and Arabic under Viki’s pages—has become part of the show’s weekly ritual.
Critics have also noticed the performances maturing as the story deepens. Coverage singled out the way supporting characters complicate the central trio, turning background figures into emotional anchors. As more layers peel back, reviewers note that the series feels less like a triangle and more like a community portrait—one where everyone’s choices ripple.
Ratings-wise, the drama has notched solid weekend numbers in Korea, with recent episodes landing in the mid-5% range nationwide—a sign that its warm, grounded approach is resonating amid louder offerings. Those figures, paired with a rising stream of international comments, suggest a show that sneaks up on audiences, then stays.
The soundtrack has become a conversation point on its own. A beloved vocalist returned to drama OSTs with a cover that floats through key scenes like a memory you didn’t know you’d kept, introducing new listeners to a classic melody and sending older fans into reveries of first love. It’s the rare needle drop that deepens the plot while expanding the audience.
Cast & Fun Facts
Kim Da-mi
plays Go Young-rye with the delicate steadiness of someone who’s learned to carry more than her share. She clips tickets with practiced grace, swallows motion sickness for a paycheck, and hides a campus brochure under her pillow like a promise to herself. Kim lets us see the tug-of-war between obligation and longing without a single speech; it’s in the tilt of her head as she watches the university gates from a bus window.
In quieter scenes, Kim’s Young-rye becomes a locus of the show’s moral weather. She’s the friend who remembers your birthday when the world forgets, the coworker who steps forward when a fare turns ugly. When first love blooms at the worst possible time, Kim’s restraint—an extra beat between breath and words—turns a routine confession into a trembling cliff edge.
Shin Ye-eun
gives Seo Jong-hee a bright, clarion voice that was “made for the aisle,” and a heart that sometimes runs ahead of it. On her first day in uniform, she grabs onto the strap, calls out to passengers, and looks—just for a second—like she was born to do this. Shin shades the bravado with glimpses of a home life she’s trying to outpace, so when she laughs too loudly, you know what it’s shielding.
As tensions rise, Shin leans into nuance rather than fireworks. Her Jong-hee is not a rival to be beaten but a friend terrified of being left behind, which makes the love triangle feel less like a competition and more like a test of compassion. When she finally allows herself to be soft, the entire show takes a breath.
Heo Nam-jun
plays Han Jae-pil with a boxer’s taut energy and a rich kid’s carefully hidden cracks. He’s the department-store heir who would rather feel the sting of the rope than the weight of a title, and his chance encounter with our conductors sparks the tale’s tender detours. Heo calibrates the character’s charm so it never curdles; you believe both girls would fall for this version of possibility.
As the episodes progress, Heo’s Jae-pil stops being just a catalyst and becomes a young man trying to choose the life that fits, not the one that’s fitted for him. The way he listens—really listens—turns crowded-bus scenes into intimate duets. It’s a quiet star turn that deepens the stakes without stealing the light.
Park Ye-ni
is a scene-stealer as Choi Jung-bun, the dorm’s whirlwind of “creative scolding” and unexpected tenderness. She’s the one fixing hair before the morning run, the one who knows precisely when to break the tension with a joke, and the one who delivers the episode’s truest line when no one is looking. Park’s comic timing brightens even the heaviest night shift.
Give her a beat, and Park turns that brightness into ballast. When Jung-bun clutches a friend’s hand after a bad day, the humor refracts into something sturdier—a reminder that laughter is a kind of loyalty. It’s a performance that widens the show’s emotional palette beyond romance into chosen-family warmth.
Kim Ji-hyun
adds complexity as Seong Man-ok, the department-store matriarch whose “foolish” airs hide a fierce instinct to keep the household whole. You expect a cardboard stepmother; you get a woman juggling class codes, public image, and a private ache she never voices in front of the staff. Kim plays that split with surprising generosity.
Across her scenes, you begin to see how the older generation’s compromises ripple into the younger ones’ choices. When Man-ok softens—even briefly—the show offers grace to characters who might otherwise be written off. It’s a small miracle of empathetic acting in a role that could have been a stereotype.
Behind the camera, director Kim Sang-ho and writer Yang Hee-seung shape a world that trusts the audience. Their past work with humane ensembles and nuanced women’s journeys shows up in calibrated blocking, dialogue that lands like overheard life, and a willingness to let silence speak. The result is an actor’s playground where even minor roles bloom into stories you’d happily follow off the bus.
One more delight: the show’s analog glow is lifted by a tender new OST track from a beloved singer returning to drama music after years away. The familiar melody—reimagined with brushed drums and warm tape hiss—wraps scenes in a hush that feels both nostalgic and brand-new, underscoring the thesis that “memory is a love story we tell ourselves.”
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve been craving a weekend watch that feels like holding hands with your younger self, A Hundred Memories is the bus you’ll want to board and never rush off. Start it on Viki, brew something warm, and let the city lights roll by while you root for friendship to win as big as love. And if regional licensing gets in the way, many viewers rely on a reputable best VPN for streaming to stay current while honoring local laws; just make sure your streaming subscription is in order and your 4K TV is ready for that golden, analog glow. When the credits fade, you may find yourself texting an old friend, asking, “Remember when…?”
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