Chapter 9: Genius (2)
Professor Go Soo-yeol looked fondly at his grandson’s painting hanging on the wall.
The ink painting titled New House, which depicted his home garden, was so well done that it was hard to believe the boy had been dipping his fingers in ink just a week ago.
“He knows how to learn.”
Rather than being impressed by his grandson’s expressive ability, Go Soo-yeol was more proud of the way the boy was learning.
He wasn’t like other children.
On the first day, he calmly sought to understand the characteristics of ink. He spent the entire day grinding ink himself and experimenting with adjusting the concentration.
On the second day, he practiced drawing lines with a brush. He drew so many that by evening, the studio was filled with hanji (traditional Korean paper).
From observing this, Go Soo-yeol could tell that Go-hoon was learning how to control the brush.
It wasn’t mindless repetition.
He spent the whole day drawing lines just to master how much pressure was needed to produce the strokes he wanted.
That persistent thirst for knowledge was admirable.
On the third day, he crumpled paper.
There are many kinds of hanji, and Go-hoon tested them all. He crumpled smooth hanji to see how well it absorbed ink and even layered several thin sheets to try different effects.
Through this process of self-study and observation of the materials he used, it became clear that this child was no ordinary boy.
It wasn’t just about talent.
Because he understood the process of making art, Go Soo-yeol couldn’t help but wonder just how far the boy could grow—what kind of work he would create in the future.
The thought brought a smile to his lips.
Knock knock.
Someone knocked at the door.
“Professor, it’s me—Mirae.”
“Oh, Professor Jang. Come in.”
Go Soo-yeol warmly welcomed his visitor.
The door opened, and in came Professor Jang Mirae, who had joined the Korean National University of Arts’ painting department just last year.
“Hehe.”
She gave an awkward smile.
Seeing Go Soo-yeol puzzled, Jang Mirae pouted slightly as she closed the door.
“What is it?”
“It just feels weird when you speak formally to me. Please talk to me like before.”
“I can’t do that anymore. You’re not my student now.”
“Why not? You’ll always be my teacher.”
Go Soo-yeol chuckled warmly.
Jang Mirae was one of his most cherished students. After graduating from the same university, she earned a master’s in painting from the University of Edinburgh in the UK. At just 31, she had already been appointed assistant professor—a sign of the academic world’s recognition.
“So, what brings you here to torment me today?”
“What? I never tormented you!”
“Hahaha!”
She could never forget the funeral of her seniors, Go Hae-sung and Lee Su-jin.
She had also suffered greatly, but it was seeing her grieving mentor so devastated that had alarmed her.
It was the first time she’d seen Go Soo-yeol like that.
She hadn’t dared try to console him, and when she heard he’d returned to work, she rushed to visit him.
Seeing him smiling again after two months gave her great relief.
“I just came to say hello…”
As she mumbled and was about to sit down, her eyes caught an unfamiliar painting.
An ink painting of a quiet garden scene.
The way light, shadow, and reflections were captured with such balance made it feel like an artwork that bridged Eastern and Western styles.
An oil painting done in ink.
The seemingly unrefined brushwork made the piece all the more striking.
Who could’ve painted this?
What kind of master attempted such a bold technique?
“Professor, whose painting is this?”
“Hoon drew it as a gift for me.”
“Hoon? Su-jin’s son?”
Jang Mirae asked in surprise. When Go Soo-yeol nodded with a smile, she was taken aback.
“But… isn’t he only ten?”
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Impressive? This is… this is beyond that.”
There were many children with artistic talent.
Jang Mirae had been one of them.
But childhood talent usually meant being able to draw objects accurately.
Children’s drawings rarely carried clear philosophical thought or deep contemplation.
But Go-hoon’s ink painting was different.
Not only did it vividly portray the landscape through controlled ink tones and brushstrokes, but it also captured the elegant essence of traditional East Asian art.
Two pine trees stood to the left, with grass and a stone wall rendered beside them.
Nothing else.
Yet the interplay of light and shadow expressed in the empty spaces revealed the brilliance of a sunlit morning garden.
No ordinary ten-year-old could achieve this.
Even students majoring in traditional Korean painting at the university wouldn’t be able to match this.
Before she realized it, Jang Mirae had become completely absorbed in New House.
Go Soo-yeol watched her with amusement and started brewing coffee.
The kettle boiled.
She snapped back to reality only after drinking half the coffee.
“Professor.”
Jang Mirae finally spoke with determination.
“There’s a rookie artist exhibition at the Seoul Art Museum next month. I was asked to recommend someone—let’s submit this painting. No, we have to.”
She was confident this warm and unique piece would be loved by many.
She believed such art deserved recognition.
“No.”
“…What?”
Go Soo-yeol refused firmly.
“I’m keeping it right here. It’s a gift from Hoon—I can’t let it go.”
Jang Mirae widened her eyes.
“You can’t be serious! This is incredible! If it’s shown, people will know about Hoon!”
“Hmm…”
Go Soo-yeol groaned, clearly tempted.
“Still, not this one. He paints several pieces a day—we can pick from those. Is this evening okay?”
It felt like a blow to the head.
“He paints several pieces like this a day?”
“That kid just draws and draws. Like he’s possessed by an artist who died frustrated! Hahaha!”
Jang Mirae, hearing one of his usual cheesy jokes, felt at ease again.
Yet at the same time, her curiosity about Go-hoon deepened.
She had thought of him only as the son of Go Hae-sung and Lee Su-jin.
But if he could produce such ink paintings, he must have been trained in traditional art since a very young age.
His sense of light and refined brushwork clearly came from the influence of his grandfather and parents.
“Okay. I’ll come by around six.”
“Sounds good. Or I could go with you.”
“I’d like that.”
Just as Jang Mirae was about to leave, Go Soo-yeol stopped her.
“Professor Jang.”
“Yes?”
“So you’re saying you really think Hoon’s painting is exhibition-worthy?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hahaha! Really?”
“Of course! You know there’s no one like him—even among my juniors.”
“Is that so? What exactly makes it so good?”
It was now clear he was fishing for compliments.
“How adorable—you’ve become a doting grandpa.”
“Hahaha!”
Later…
I was painting in the living room when I caught the scent of perfume.
Turning my head, I saw a young woman standing there.
Big eyes, lips red like paint.
No young woman had visited while I’d been here.
The door hadn’t opened either, which meant she was close to Grandpa.
She looked at me with pity.
Her gaze was filled with some indescribable emotion—longing, sorrow?
Ah.
I had wondered why no one had said anything. There must be a story here.
No one would look at me like that without reason.
“Mother?”
The woman’s eyes widened.
Judging by her expression, I was right.
Everyone, including Grandpa and the hospital staff, thought I’d lost my memory, so I needed to play along.
“Hello.”
“Oh? Uh… Hello.”
I stood up and greeted her in Korean. She seemed flustered.
“Hoon, Grandpa’s home!”
Just then, Grandpa walked in.
I went to greet him at the door, and he hugged me tightly. It was a bit embarrassing, but he always did this, so I gave up resisting.
“Your mother’s here too.”
“Mother?”
I turned back to the woman. She looked surprised.
“Um…”
“Hoon, she’s not your mother. She’s someone I work with.”
“Ah.”
I had assumed, from how close she seemed and the way she looked at me, that she must be family.
I had made a mistake.
“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”
I bowed my head. She covered her mouth, looking like she was about to cry.
She asked Grandpa:
“Does he remember nothing?”
“Some things he does, some he doesn’t. He hasn’t said much, but I think he misses his mom and dad.”
“Oh no…”
I couldn’t understand everything they said in Korean, but from their expressions, I gathered something had happened to his—my—parents.
They must have died.
It explained everything.
Otherwise, they’d have rushed here the moment I was in danger.
Until now, I had been too absorbed in art to think deeply about it.
“It’s okay.”
Seeing Grandpa at a loss for words, I held his hand.
“They passed away, didn’t they?”
“Hoon…”
The only thing I can do now is live the life this boy can no longer live.
Out of selfishness perhaps, but…
By being a proper grandson to this man, I hope to express some small regret toward the real Go-hoon.
“I don’t remember everything, but… I did feel something was off.”
“Oh, Hoon…”
“It’s okay. I have Grandpa.”
Grandpa began to cry again, tears falling like raindrops.
“Such a good boy…”
It was time I accepted this life fully.
If I were to live as this boy, I had to treat this man with all sincerity.
Even before that…
This man, who had lost both son and grandson, had given me love.
More than pity, more than habit—after spending two months with him, I simply didn’t want to make him sad.
He gave me love when even my own parents hadn’t.
“Don’t cry. I’m here now.”
“Hoon…”
Grandpa hugged me tightly again, and I did my best to return the embrace.
We stayed like that for a while.
It was hard to breathe.
As I squirmed, Grandpa eased his grip and wiped away his tears.
“Then… who is she?”
I asked, looking at the young woman who’d been crying silently.
She sniffled, then crouched down to meet my eye level.
So I wouldn’t strain my neck.
She had tears of black mascara streaming down her face.
