Reincarnated Van Gogh – Chapter 3
1. The Drawing Child (2)
As I began to learn the language, I gradually came to understand this world.
The fact that this place was a country called South Korea, which I had never even heard of before in my life, and that the year was now 2027—it was all such a distant, incomprehensible tale.
The world had long since passed more than a century, yet Mozart and Beethoven were still being listened to. Beyond that, everything had changed.
People could operate devices without touching them. With something called a TV, they could observe any part of the world.
It made me wonder if this place wasn’t the afterlife.
Otherwise, how could it be possible for drawings to move?
On TV, a yellow, square creature wearing only pants moved freely and even spoke.
Among all the marvels of this world, the most astonishing thing was this child’s body.
Every day, I marveled at the blessing of a healthy body.
Even just being free of the hallucinated voices that once tormented me, calling me worthless, brought back my shattered reason and peace of mind.
There was no longer the pain that used to twist my body or the fear of not knowing when it would come next.
Maybe this miraculous happiness was what everyday life felt like for a healthy person.
But…
Whether intentional or not, it was as if I had taken over the body of a child.
Despite the guilt, I couldn’t bring myself to end my life—because of this child’s grandfather.
He refrained from sharing too many details in front of me, and I couldn’t fully understand, but…
It seemed this child had suffered some kind of accident.
It wasn’t surprising that the old man was so affectionate.
Even now, when I could at least communicate at a basic level using limited vocabulary, I still couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was not his grandson.
“How are you feeling, Hoon?”
I nodded, and he asked again.
“Good?”
Neither good nor bad.
Just overwhelmed by the situation and filled with countless questions.
But even if I tried to explain that I was someone who died 137 years ago, people would just label me a madman, like those who once tormented me.
“Is Hoon speaking a little more now?”
The doctor asked the old man.
“He does… a bit.”
“He won’t improve right away.”
“Phew.”
“You need to stay strong, Professor. That will give Hoon the strength to get better. He’s eating and exercising well, after all.”
The old man stroked my hair at the doctor’s words.
“He’ll get better, right?”
“We’ve already seen one miracle, so we can’t give up now. Oh, and I’d suggest including psychological counseling as well.”
The old man’s expression darkened.
“Psychiatry isn’t what it used to be. In today’s world, everyone has at least one or two mental health issues. Starting treatment and therapy early will help Hoon in the long run.”
The old man sighed deeply and then nodded.
“Let’s do that.”
“Yes. I’ll refer you to the Department of Psychiatry next time. In the meantime, I’ll arrange some psychological counseling.”
“Right. We have to do everything we can.”
The old man stroked my head again.
It felt strange.
At thirty-six years of age, being patted on the head like this was hardly something I could get used to.
In fact, I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d received such a warm touch.
My emotions were complicated.
The next day.
Expecting just a routine walk, I followed the nurse—only to meet someone I hadn’t seen before.
“Nice to meet you, Hoon.”
“Hello.”
I gave the greeting I had learned.
“I’m your teacher today, Kim Hee-won. We’re going to draw together. Do you like drawing, Hoon?”
I didn’t understand what she meant.
She smiled and handed me a blank sheet of paper and a pencil.
‘Is she telling me to draw?’
I looked up.
“Want to try drawing, Hoon? I’ll draw too. Let’s do it together.”
It seemed she wanted me to draw a self-portrait.
To draw…
I’d once believed I would never be able to draw again. Yet here was the chance I had so desperately wished for.
It was just a shame that it had come at the cost of taking over this poor child’s body.
Still hesitating, I picked up the paper and pencil.
“Hoon? Where are you going?”
I had planned to go to the bathroom to find a mirror, but the doctor seemed to realize my intention and pulled one out from a drawer.
“Here you go. Let’s use this.”
The expressionless child in the mirror looked like he had grown up surrounded by love.
No scars on his body. His hands were clean. Even though he’d been bedridden for a long time, regular meals and exercise had quickly brought back his health.
His spotless, fair skin and neatly trimmed hair were proof that he’d been loved.
If a child raised with such care suddenly became unwell, how devastated must his parents have been?
Or perhaps, given they hadn’t shown up yet, there were circumstances I didn’t know about.
That thought showed on my face.
I picked up the pencil.
Dr. Kim Hee-won, psychiatrist at WH Korean Hospital, could hardly believe her eyes.
Today’s patient was a ten-year-old boy.
She felt sympathy for the child, who had lost his parents at a young age.
Go Hoon had been in a traffic accident with his parents and hadn’t regained consciousness.
Despite every medical effort, his heart and lung functions ceased a week later, and 48 hours passed.
His pupils didn’t respond to light, and his blood pressure dropped drastically.
He was in a brain-dead state—unable to breathe without machines.
And then, miraculously, he woke up.
Observing his condition, the medical team suspected that language regression and reduced cognitive ability had occurred.
In truth, that alone was already a relief.
His brain had stopped functioning for 48 hours—there was no way it had come out unscathed.
The very fact he had regained consciousness was a miracle.
Dr. Kim decided to approach him slowly, to assess his current condition over time.
But then—
“My god…”
She momentarily forgot her role and became entranced by the boy’s drawing.
As soon as he picked up the pencil, the dullness in his eyes vanished.
The boy observed himself in the mirror as if piercing through it, then began to move his hand.
Boldly.
Without hesitation, his pencil strokes extended and took shape.
Just moments ago, he had been calm and quiet—but now, he fiercely filled the page.
What had seemed like random, rough lines gradually came together to form a clear image, as though it had always existed there.
Dr. Kim stared, spellbound, only snapping out of it once Go Hoon completed the drawing.
It wasn’t an elaborate piece.
Nor was it perfectly accurate.
But it conveyed the subtle emotional line of a boy trying to endure sorrow.
“How could this be…”
Dr. Kim looked up.
The boy, who had looked so depressed earlier, now had a faint smile on his face.
“Did you used to draw before?”
Go Hoon blinked as if he didn’t understand.
“Did your grandfather teach you to draw?”
Dr. Kim assumed that he’d been taught by his grandfather, Go Soo-yeol—dean of Korea University’s Art Department and one of Korea’s most prominent artists, known by his pen name Haesong.
Both of Go Hoon’s parents were also prominent figures in the art world, often appearing in the media.
It only made sense to think that he’d received special education from a young age.
But Go Hoon didn’t respond.
He merely stared at Dr. Kim and pointed to a blank sheet of paper.
She realized she had forgotten to draw alongside him, as promised.
“Sorry. You were so good that I forgot.”
Go Hoon picked up a new sheet.
With crystal-clear eyes, he silently asked for permission.
“You want to draw more?”
He nodded. Then, he began drawing again.
Oh my…
Dr. Kim wasn’t an expert in art, but she knew this child was extraordinary.
Just a moment ago, he had been restless and fidgety—but as soon as he was given paper and pencil, he focused solely on drawing.
It was an astonishing level of concentration, far beyond what one would expect from a child.
Soon, the scheduled session time came to an end, and his grandfather Go Soo-yeol arrived to pick him up.
“Oh, my dear Hoon, did you have fun with the teacher?”
“Hello.”
Though his grandson only ever repeated that one greeting, it was enough to bring Go Soo-yeol joy.
“Yes, yes. Hello indeed.”
Dr. Kim suddenly realized that was the only thing Hoon had said since entering the room.
A child of this age had spent three hours drawing without saying anything else.
“Hoon, wait here for a moment. I’m going to talk with the teacher.”
The boy didn’t respond. He simply held the paper and pencil tightly in his hands.
Go Soo-yeol seated Hoon in a chair and faced Dr. Kim, concern clouding his face.
“How is he doing?”
Dr. Kim didn’t know how to respond.
She’d met many children over her career, but none quite like Go Hoon.
She calmed herself and asked carefully:
“Professor, has Hoon ever been taught to draw?”
He shook his head.
“Honestly, it’s been so long since I last saw him draw that I’m not sure. His parents traveled abroad a lot.”
Dr. Kim nodded.
“I asked him to try drawing, and I didn’t even know how to respond. He’s very good.”
“Really?”
When Go Soo-yeol responded indifferently, Dr. Kim cautiously handed him the drawing.
“I figured you’d be better at judging artwork than me.”
Art therapy wasn’t her specialty.
“Well, sure, when it comes to the drawing. But for psychology…”
As he turned to the drawing, Go Soo-yeol furrowed his brow.
“This is…”
“That’s what he drew when I asked him to do a self-portrait.”
He couldn’t believe it.
Though it wasn’t detailed, the form was unmistakable.
From afar, it was a charming child’s drawing. But up close, it was something else.
The sorrowful eyes, the confused and trembling pupils—they were captured with unrefined lines, yet powerfully expressive.
The raw, vigorous strokes exuded an indescribable aura.
More than strong—it bordered on unsettling.
Such bold stylistic choices weren’t the result of clumsy practice. They reflected the polish of a true master.
As Go Soo-yeol examined the other sketches Dr. Kim showed, he murmured,
“Hoon drew all this?”
“Yes. It’s just my personal impression for now, but if he’s this observant and expressive, you might not need to worry so much.”
“Is that so…?”
“Yes. We’ll need more time and observation, but from what I see, there’s no need to fear until the test results come back.”
Go Soo-yeol turned his gaze toward his grandson, who was sketching something again in the corner.
“Seems he really wanted to draw.”
Dr. Kim continued.
“He’s still drawing now. He’s spent the last three hours doing nothing but drawing. It’s rare to see a child focus like that. Even adults struggle to concentrate for over an hour.”
Go Soo-yeol couldn’t comprehend what was happening.
His grandson had suffered fatal injuries in a car accident.
They brought him to the best hospital, but they couldn’t offer any fundamental treatment.
All they could do was keep him barely alive through life support.
Even so—
Knowing it was hopeless, he couldn’t bring himself to give up on his only grandson after losing his son and daughter-in-law.
And then… the boy woke up.
Every doctor at WH Korean Hospital called it a miracle.
Despite showing signs of amnesia, language impairment, and extreme anxiety, they were simply grateful he had survived.
But now, this boy who had come back from the brink had created drawings that sent chills down the spine of a man who had spent a lifetime surrounded by masterpieces.
It was unbelievable.
The doctor merely commented that the child drew well, but Go Soo-yeol knew this was on a completely different level.
In thirty years of teaching, he could count on one hand the number of students who had shown such powerful expressiveness.
He still couldn’t believe the three pencil sketches his grandson had drawn.
He turned to look again.
His grandson was glancing around, then suddenly bowed his head and busily moved his hands, occasionally lifting his head again.
Just like he did in the hospital room.
He had assumed the child’s restlessness was due to anxiety.
But he was observing his surroundings.
Go Soo-yeol approached his grandson.
On the paper in the boy’s hands was a drawing of the consultation room.
In exaggerated perspective, both Go Soo-yeol and Dr. Kim were depicted.
A ten-year-old boy’s drawing.
And a master like Go Soo-yeol felt a chill run down his spine.
