Shattered Peace

The child's unwavering gaze sent a sharp ache through Yeon-jae's chest. What Ji-woo had asked about was the piano, but it was a story bound inextricably to Je-heon. She had always known she would have to tell him someday. She had never imagined that day would be today.

How was she supposed to explain? Yeon-jae's lips parted and closed, parted and closed, as she hunted for an answer.

"It's not that I hate it... Mom just can't play the piano anymore."

Whenever she sat down to perform, a paralysis would seize her without warning. Even the hospital had found no clear cause. They simply called it a symptom of PTSD.

"Looking at the keys just hurts."

She had gotten much better, but she still trembled in front of a piano—the dread that the symptoms might return at any moment. Which meant the life of a pianist, someone who had to shape every note with such delicate precision, was no longer possible. But it was far too deep a story to lay at Ji-woo's feet. There was still so much the child didn't know. Who his father was. What kind of life Yeon-jae had lived. She wanted to show him only the good things, to tell him only the good things, and so she wanted to bury the past where it belonged—in the past.

"But Mom, you do play the piano, don't you?"

Ji-woo, who had been watching her quietly, tilted his head. He meant the accompaniment work she took on the side.

"I mean it's hard for me to play the kind of beautiful music you're thinking of."

The child's innocent gaze pressed down on Yeon-jae's heart. It had been more than five years, and still, even speaking the word piano made her chest ache. The instrument she had once loved so fiercely had become something that caused her pain. A bitterness flickered through Yeon-jae's eyes.

"The piano Mom plays isn't... wonderful anymore."

The words came out thick, her voice wet with unshed tears. She swallowed back the rest—that she only played it now to make a living.

Ji-woo's eyes darted back and forth, wavering as if he were turning her words over, trying to make sense of something that didn't quite add up. After several silent seconds, the child gave a firm nod.

"So you don't hate the piano?"

A thought flickered through Yeon-jae's eyes. It was a difficult question. Something that hurt precisely because she had loved it so much—because she had had to strip that love away. She stood on the boundary between dislike and affection, a line too fine to draw cleanly. Under the child's insistent gaze, Yeon-jae gave a small nod.

Whether that was the answer he had been hoping for, Ji-woo's face brightened at once.

"Then..."

As if steeling himself to say something difficult, Ji-woo squirmed this way and that. Then he slowly swung the two hands clasped in Yeon-jae's.

"Can Ji-woo play too?"

"The piano?"

The child nodded hard. The eyes looking up at her sparkled with anticipation. Watching her son swell with hope, Yeon-jae found the words would not come.

The truth was, she had known for some time that Ji-woo had been watching her carefully. It was around the time the child had started playing the old, broken-down piano in the inner room more and more often. One day, Yeon-jae hadn't been able to hold it in, and the tears had come. It was like looking at her own childhood self.

Even a mother who knew nothing of classical music would have understood that a prodigy like Yeon-jae wouldn't stop at a neighborhood academy. She understood now, the heart of a mother who had wanted to give her piano lessons and simply couldn't. Little Yeon-jae had found it so hard to accept reality. And in the end, she had caught Myeong-hee's eye, entered the Foundation, and begun to play.

She saw that younger self in Ji-woo. They said no parent could win against their child. Afraid it would all happen again, she had pulled Ji-woo into her arms that day and wept. After that, the child never played the piano at home again. She had wanted to believe he'd simply lost interest. She never imagined he thought she hated the piano.

Something in Yeon-jae's chest went hard as stone. What should she say? How could she speak so that her precious child wouldn't be sad?

"The piano at home is a wreck, Ji-woo. You can't play on that one." After a long search for the right answer, Yeon-jae's lips parted softly. "It's too old to fix. And buying a new one would be a bit of a stretch."

It was true, but it was also true that she had deliberately left it unrepaired. She didn't want to torture the child with false hope.

Watching Yeon-jae explain it all so carefully, Ji-woo shook his head.

"I don't even need a piano!"

Then he smiled, a smile still untouched by the world.

"The mister said he'd teach me piano. Mom, he said it wouldn't cost any money. He said there's a super expensive piano there, and I can play as much as I want."

As the child chattered on, Yeon-jae's mouth went dry and rough. His voice, pitched high with excitement, and those bright shining eyes, stabbed at her heart again and again.

Today of all days, he looked so much like Je-heon. And the word that rode out on the child's tongue—free—stung with a particular sharpness.

Once she was sure Ji-woo had fallen asleep, Yeon-jae switched off the mood lamp by the bed. Moving carefully so as not to wake him, she came out to the living room and sat down at the table. The living room, which only moments ago had been full of sound, was now silent. They had eaten pizza, and well into the late hours the child had chattered on about everything that had happened that day.

"Mom, they said that handsome mister is like a really, really important person."

"He said we could move to a bigger house."

It was only when Yeon-jae noticed it was past ten and told him it was time for bed that Ji-woo finally stopped talking. He had always been a bright child, but tonight he had been especially lively. Probably because of the hope that he might get to play the piano.

Does he really love the piano that much?

They said genes were a frightening thing. That bulldozer stubbornness was just like her own. A bitter smile touched Yeon-jae's lips.

She lifted her gaze and slowly took in the apartment. A single room and a living area—it was terribly cramped. Ji-woo still liked sleeping with his mother, but they couldn't live here forever. She had been saving so they could move to a bigger place around the time he started school. When even putting money aside was a stretch, a piano was a story from another country.

People around her suggested she at least send Ji-woo to a piano academy, but Yeon-jae knew better than anyone. Ji-woo was not the kind of child who would stop at an academy. If he learned at an academy, he would enter competitions. If he entered competitions, he would start wanting private lessons. And then, naturally, he would start thinking about majoring in it. She could see the future as clearly as if it had already happened: he would say he could study at the Foundation, that he would play the piano even if it meant taking a sponsorship. Just as she had.

And if she had been an ordinary person—if she had never gone through the Foundation—it would have been different. She would have seen it as an opportunity that had come to Ji-woo, and she would have accepted it gladly.

Yeon-jae let out a long sigh.

Her gaze dropped, and a dark brown document envelope sitting at the edge of the table came into view. Yeon-jae picked it up, considered throwing it away as it was, then set it back down. She didn't need to open it. She could picture perfectly well what was inside. She slumped back against the chair as if collapsing into it, and closed her eyes.

She worked in a rush until it was time to pick Ji-woo up from kindergarten, then went to get him when the day ended. Coming home, talking quietly with her child, watching him fall asleep—that was Yeon-jae's only happiness. A peace she had only just managed to reclaim. It had taken five years to get here. And in the instant she faced that man, all that time had crumbled as if it had meant nothing.

Je-heon's face flashed before her without warning, and Yeon-jae's eyelashes trembled. The man she had driven away so coldly, who had then shown up as if nothing had happened and talked about sponsorship. What kind of father in this world sponsored his own son? Yeon-jae's face twisted in pain as she swallowed the words she couldn't bring herself to say.

The tension that had been driving her all day finally receded, and a flood of thoughts rushed in. Among the countless worries, the one that rose highest was Ji-woo. Right now, the most precious thing in Yeon-jae's world was her son. Ji-woo, so precious she wouldn't have felt a sting even if she tucked him into her own eye.

Entering the Foundation meant entering Myeong-hee's field of vision. And if that happened, it would only be a matter of time before Ji-woo's existence became known. The image of Myeong-hee that rose unbidden sent a shiver over Yeon-jae's skin.

Myeong-hee, who hated her with such vicious intensity. If she found out that Yeon-jae had given birth to what might be her only grandchild, the outcome was as clear as day. Je-heon had no memories. Could a man who hated her protect a Ji-woo who had appeared out of nowhere?

And more than anything, Je-heon already had a partner. Whenever she found herself wondering about him, she would look him up. That was how she had found the engagement news. She had come across that article years ago, so they would have seen it through by now.

This connection has to be left behind, just as it is. For everyone's sake.

Her trembling eyelashes gradually lifted, revealing Yeon-jae's brown eyes. She was just about to drop the envelope in her hand straight into the trash when a vibration cut through the silence. She stared at the brightly lit phone screen.

It was an unsaved number, but Yeon-jae recognized it at a glance.