Lies

"Ji-woo and Seo-ha are at the Arts Center right now."

"The Arts Center? Why would the kids have gone there?"

"Um... we sent out a notice. Did you perhaps not see it?"

Yeon-jae's gaze drifted, unmoored, as she looked down at the circular the teacher held out to her.

"There was a change to the recital, so Ji-woo and Seo-ha were selected to represent Hana Kindergarten in the preschool division of the Daejeon City Fall Ensemble Concert."

"..."

"Since the city of Daejeon is hosting, a teacher from the municipal symphony orchestra has been giving them lessons. I thought you'd already been informed and given your permission. We sent the notice home, and I even asked over the phone... I'm so terribly sorry."

The conversation she'd had with the homeroom teacher on the way here tangled together in her mind. Ji-woo and Seo-ha would be performing at the Fall Ensemble Concert in place of the kindergarten's own recital, and on the day of the concert the kindergarten would visit as a field trip to watch the performance. They'd been at a loss without anyone to coach the in-house ensemble practice when, as luck would have it, support from Daejeon City and the municipal symphony orchestra had come through, and they'd accepted it.

Leaving the teacher still apologizing behind her, Yeon-jae went straight to find the hall where Ji-woo was said to be. The elevator heading down was, of all things, stuck on an upper floor. She turned toward the stairs.

Her heart hammered as she descended. The teacher's explanation barely reached her ears. One thought kept circling in her mind.

"Why...?"

Why had Ji-woo told her he was staying behind at kindergarten to practice?

Yeon-jae rolled her lower lip between her teeth and bit down. Her heart beat in an unsteady rhythm. Before she knew it, her footsteps had come to a halt before a large door.

She stared at the nameplate that read Practice Hall, then reached out with both hands and gripped the handle. She pulled hard, and the door swung wide open.

Laughter leaked through the opening crack and brushed against Yeon-jae's ear. She didn't need to look. She knew whose laugh it was — the voice she had heard countless times over the past five years.

"Teacher! Seo-ha's going too fast."

"Jeong Ji-woo, you're the one who's slow. This is just how fast I play, okay?"

"This piece isn't supposed to be that fast... Huh?"

The two children, who'd been bickering through their practice, both turned their eyes toward Yeon-jae.

"Mom?"

At Ji-woo's startled cry, the teacher who'd been with them sprang to her feet. As the teacher began to introduce herself, Yeon-jae bowed at the waist in greeting.

"Hello. I'm Ji-woo's mother."

"Ah, yes! Hello. I'm Teacher Tami — I handle the ensemble coaching. Ji-woo said his mother was too busy to come. Ji-woo, look, your mom's here!"

Yeon-jae offered an awkward smile at the teacher who kept talking. The beating of her heart began to pick up speed.

"I'm sorry, Teacher, but would it be all right if I spoke with Ji-woo for a moment?"

Ji-woo's round eyes widened, flickering with surprise. The child quietly rose from the piano bench and stepped behind the teacher.

"Ji-woo. Didn't you tell Mom you were practicing at kindergarten?"

"Well..."

Hidden behind the teacher, the child let his words trail off. The realization etched itself over the sight of Ji-woo, who couldn't quite meet her eyes. Yeon-jae's mouth went bone-dry.

She didn't want to admit it, but what she'd thought was true. Her child had lied. The child who had known no one but his mother had told a lie. An emotion she had no name for surged up inside her.

Had her explanation been too lacking for a child to understand? Had her own actions driven him into a corner?

Or if it wasn't even that...

The image of a man suddenly rose before her eyes, and Yeon-jae pressed her lips together. No. That was taking it too far. It was just coincidences piling on top of one another — she told herself that, barely clinging to the thread of reason.

"Ji-woo's mother, is something the matter?"

Sensing that something was wrong, Ji-woo clutched at the teacher's clothes. The teacher, too, seemed to have picked up on the uneasy atmosphere, and it was just as she asked Yeon-jae that the door opened once more.

Ji-woo's gaze, which had been drifting through empty air, shifted toward the doorway. Yeon-jae followed the child's eyes, which sparkled as if salvation itself had arrived. And when she saw the man standing at the end of that gaze, Yeon-jae's heart dropped.

The whole way here, a suspicion had nagged at her. Surely this man hadn't orchestrated all of this. But as she watched Je-heon approach, her unease slowly hardened into reality. Perhaps the reason Ji-woo was here — having even lied to her — was that this man had goaded a child who knew nothing into telling that lie.

Once that suspicion had taken root, it would not easily subside. Like a fire being stoked, it only grew fiercer the closer he came to the hall.

Je-heon dipped his head in greeting and walked toward where Yeon-jae stood. One step. Two. Closing the distance, the man came to a stop in front of her.

"You came?"

A voice low enough that only Yeon-jae could hear it settled against her ear.

"I heard you were so busy. I was going to take Ji-woo home myself after this."

At the unreadable look in the man's eyes, suspicion became certainty. This man had created this situation. She'd been right. Yeon-jae clenched both fists, holding back the fury that threatened to grind its way out of her.

"Why would you be the one taking Ji-woo home, Director?"

At Yeon-jae's tightly suppressed voice, a faint crease formed between Je-heon's brows.

"Why, you ask."

A dry voice scattered from between his parted lips. The distance between them was less than a handspan. The air between the two of them froze, cold and still.

"You don't like that?"

Of course I don't. Yeon-jae swallowed the words she couldn't quite spit out. While she was still choosing how to answer, the closed door opened.

"Teacher, please have something to drink while you work. Oh my — Ji-woo's mother is here?"

"Mom!"

Seo-ha, who'd been at Ji-woo's side, ran toward the woman just coming in. It was Hye-gyeong.

"It's their first time playing together, but they're doing so well, you know. Of course, our Seo-ha is doing a lot of the adjusting, but still."

"..."

"Oh, right. This is your first time meeting him, isn't it, Ji-woo's mom? This is..."

The woman who'd approached with her child was about to introduce Je-heon in his place.

"I know who he is."

That was the problem — she knew him all too well.

"Is that so?"

Leaving Hye-gyeong tilting her head in puzzlement, Yeon-jae unclenched the fists she'd been holding tight. Don't do this here — her last remaining thread of reason had urged her. She was about to tell Je-heon they should talk outside when he moved first.

Je-heon walked past her, then stopped and pushed the large door open. He tipped his head toward Yeon-jae, speaking the words she'd been about to say in her place.

"Keep practicing. We have something we need to discuss."

Yeon-jae, who'd left the hall first, crossed the lobby. When she stepped outside the building, a sky that had already grown dark filled her vision. She passed, one after another, the lights that illuminated this stretch of night sky.

Wherever Yeon-jae moved, the click of her heels followed close behind. Upon reaching the descending stairs, she whirled around. Je-heon, who'd been following her, came to a stop.

The two gazes that met slowly tangled, growing deeper. The time they spent looking at each other stretched on, and Yeon-jae simply stared. Her lips trembled, forming words she didn't speak.

"What is it you want to talk about? I doubt you're here to say you'll sign a contract with the Foundation."

"..."

"You acted like we'd never see each other again."

In that instant, something surged up in Yeon-jae.

"Do you not know why I'm like this?"

A muffled voice leaked from between her parted lips.

The kindergarten Ji-woo attended wasn't a small place, but neither was it famous enough to receive support from the city of Daejeon. A concert that hadn't existed had materialized. There'd been no practice room, so a practice space had appeared — and not just any space, but a professional practice hall at the Arts Center.

Yeon-jae thought back to the hall where the children had been practicing. It was by no means a small place — a hall large enough for a modest recital or an ensemble performance. And at its center sat a grand piano. A Bösendorfer, a luxury instrument handcrafted by Austrian artisans.

Children, renting out not a practice room but an entire practice hall? No matter how much support Daejeon City and the municipal symphony orchestra might provide, it simply wasn't possible. The special treatment that had descended on her child like a stroke of luck — she knew it wasn't luck. And she knew that Je-heon was the kind of man who could manufacture fortune that had never existed.

Yeon-jae chewed on her lip.

"There's no way you don't know. Ha. Since you say you don't, I'll ask. Just what did you..."

What did you do to a child who's only five years old — that was what Yeon-jae had been about to ask.

"I'd like to ask you the same thing. What exactly did I do?"

Cutting her words short, Je-heon's brow twitched and lifted. The way he asked it back, feigning ignorance, was so composed that Yeon-jae's insides boiled.

"The practice hall the kids are using, the symphony orchestra's support, even their participation in the fall concert — you arranged all of that, didn't you, Director?"

"That's right."

To her blunt question, he conceded without a single wasted word.

"Who else but me could make something like this happen? In a backwater like this."

Just as Yeon-jae had thought. Once the fact was confirmed, her thoughts flowed naturally toward Ji-woo.

"Then the reason Ji-woo is here right now is because of you as well."

"If I had to put it that way, then yes."

"Then you were the one who put Ji-woo up to it, too?"

At Yeon-jae's sharply edged question, Je-heon's brow furrowed deeply.