Ji-woo's Universe

A cool autumn wind swept between the two of them as they stood facing each other. Short strands of hair scattered in the breeze, and the wind seemed to pass through even the deepest chambers of her heart, leaving a resonance in its wake.

"Just say the word. You're welcome to stay in Seoul anytime."

A gleam lit Je-heon's eyes as he gazed at Yeon-jae. An unreadable smile hung at the corner of his mouth, as if he were enjoying himself.

She knew he had tacked it on without any particular meaning, and yet it left her feeling strangely unsettled. Was it because the day had been so unusually long? So much had happened, and just as her thoughts were about to grow heavy—

"I don't... have any intention of that."

A small voice slipped through Yeon-jae's slightly parted lips, mixed with a sigh.

"Then you'd better hurry." Je-heon pointed toward the station with the tip of his tilted chin.

"You'll miss your train."

With that, he strode into the station without hesitation, one hand supporting Ji-woo's bottom, the other cradling the back of the child's neck.

Yeon-jae stepped onto the escalator one step above him and looked down at the two of them. He couldn't have ever held a child before. And yet Ji-woo looked utterly at ease in his arms — so much so that he remained deeply asleep even as they descended toward the platform below.

It was an unfamiliar sight. Ji-woo, asleep in someone else's arms like that. And for that someone to be Je-heon, of all people.

Ji-woo had grown so much lately. From the time he was a newborn, he had hated being separated from Yeon-jae's arms. Unless he was asleep, he wanted to be held — even when she ate, even when she went to the bathroom. But as he had grown, she could no longer carry him. She had always known a mother's limits would eventually arrive. Seeing Ji-woo nestled in Je-heon's arms, that limit felt real. The child who was heavy in her arms, Je-heon held as if he weighed nothing.

That's something I'll never be able to do for him.

Today, once again, Yeon-jae felt the absence of the child's father. She had felt it countless times over the past five years, but never had it struck her so viscerally. A strange emotion washed over her as she lowered the hand that had been resting near her chest.

When they had reunited at the recital, an awkward atmosphere had hung between them. But as time passed, that awkwardness seemed to gradually fade.

When they stepped off the escalator, the train waiting at the platform came into view. Less than five minutes remained until departure. After checking Yeon-jae's ticket, Je-heon boarded the train.

Past the automatic doors, seats stretched along both sides. The car was already full of seated passengers. Je-heon set Ji-woo down in the frontmost window seat. The child didn't wake even as he was placed there. He mumbled something in his sleep for a moment, then sank back into deep slumber.

"This Jeong Ji-woo doesn't wake up even once, does he."

Je-heon smoothed his rumpled dress shirt and straightened from his bent posture. Then, as if he were warm, he unfastened his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves up to his forearms.

"Ji-woo sleeps a lot. Once he's out, he doesn't wake easily."

"How nicely childlike."

At the announcement that the train was about to depart, Je-heon turned. Yeon-jae set down her bags in the seat beside Ji-woo and followed after him.

A crew member boarded. And just as Je-heon took a step toward the descending stairs—

"Gu Je-heon."

He stopped mid-descent and turned halfway around.

"Thank you. For getting the tickets, and... for carrying Ji-woo like this while he was asleep."

Yeon-jae's gaze locked with Je-heon's as he looked up at her. It was a gaze so direct it was almost overwhelming. In the beginning, she had loved that look — the way it held her completely. It was the only moment she could monopolize him. When he looked at her, she felt as if she were the entirety of his world. But after reuniting at the kindergarten, that gaze had become a burden. It felt as if he could see straight through her, making it hard to meet his eyes. So she had looked away. But now, it was all right. Whether because she had let her guard down, or simply because the long day had left her weary, she didn't know.

"Ji-woo had a wonderful time today. Thanks to you, he has a good memory now."

The day had been more ordinary than she had feared, and the child had smiled and been happy the whole time. It was a day Je-heon had created for them, and she wanted to thank him for it.

The man who had been watching her quietly opened his lips.

"And you?"

It wasn't a difficult question, and yet Yeon-jae found herself at a loss for words. Since Ji-woo's birth, she herself had never been a consideration. Had her own day ever mattered? Hers was a life lived with the child at its center. At that single, casually tossed question, everything that had happened today stacked itself neatly in her mind.

Seoul, after five years. She had gone to the department stores and cafés she used to visit when she lived here. And after so long, she had played the piano in front of people — together with Ji-woo. Watching the recital, she had briefly recalled her days as a pianist, and she had become a mother her child could be proud of. Even if there had been a crisis that wasn't quite a crisis at the restaurant—

"It wasn't bad, I suppose."

It hadn't been a bad day for Yeon-jae, either. Unlike how it had begun, weighed down by so many worries and concerns.

"So it was good, then."

Je-heon easily dismissed her layered impression of the day.

"That's not what I meant."

"It's the same thing."

A faint, powerless smile touched Yeon-jae's lips.

Je-heon, who had been watching her quietly, spoke again.

"Jeffkin said that if Ji-woo doesn't have a teacher, he'd like to introduce one."

"A teacher? Why?"

Yeon-jae's eyes widened at the unexpected news. A pianist as famous as Jeffkin had no reason to take an interest in Ji-woo.

"You said you didn't want Ji-woo learning from my mother, so I asked Jeffkin to find someone."

"........"

"There's no connection between my mother and Jeffkin, so you don't need to worry."

Yeon-jae fidgeted with her tightly clasped hands. Seeing Je-heon speak with such unwavering, earnest eyes, his sincerity came through. Perhaps that was why, strangely, she didn't feel the same resistance as before. Whether it was because Ji-woo wanted so badly to join the foundation, or because she had reached a stage of resignation after Je-heon's long campaign of persuasion, she couldn't tell.

"...I'm not sure. I know it's a good opportunity, but I'm still worried."

Just thinking of Myeong-hee was still enough to make her body shrink in fear. She couldn't be sure it would be all right even if they joined the foundation. The abuse had originated from Myeong-hee. If, as he said, there was no point of contact with her, perhaps it would be fine. She couldn't keep explaining her aversion to the foundation in vague, roundabout terms forever.

As if she had made up her mind, Yeon-jae's lips, which had been trembling for a long while, slowly parted.

"The truth is... I was scolded a lot by the Director. Very badly... I was humiliated, too, and I was hi—"

She couldn't bring herself to say she had been hit, and hurriedly closed her mouth.

At her silence, Je-heon's eyebrows twitched slightly, and he climbed back up the stairs he had been descending. Before she knew it, their eyes were level. As the distance closed, their gazes tangled even more deeply. She had expected him to be shocked, but Je-heon's eyes were calm.

"Jeong Yeon-jae. The foundation you were in and the foundation Ji-woo would belong to are different."

Countless people streamed past the train. Even amid the noisy clamor of arrivals and departures, Je-heon's voice reached her with startling clarity.

A voice as certain as his unwavering gaze resonated through Yeon-jae's chest.

Her lips trembled, unable to close. As the time they spent facing each other gradually stretched, the voice of a station attendant approaching from behind rang in her ears.

"Ma'am, our train needs to depart now."

Je-heon's gaze withdrew from Yeon-jae. Then, following the attendant's guidance, he stepped off the train. The doors closed, and soon the train began to pick up speed.

Yeon-jae looked out the window belatedly. Je-heon, whom she had thought would have already left, was still standing exactly where he had gotten off, watching the train.

Can I trust him?

He was distinctly different from the man of the past who had blindly despised her as a lowly sponsoree. The man she had reunited with, at the very least, did not push her away without reason. At times, he was even so kind that she wondered why he was doing this. Perhaps that was why hope kept trying to take root in the deepest part of her heart. If it was the foundation with Je-heon in it, perhaps it would be different.

Maybe...

Maybe that man could protect Ji-woo.

Back in her seat, the child was asleep, leaning against the window. Unlike Ji-woo, who had fallen deep into dreamland, Yeon-jae couldn't sleep even until they arrived in Daejeon. She looked at the sleeping Ji-woo, then stared blankly into space, and before she knew it, they had arrived.

"Ji-woo. We have to get off now. We're in Daejeon."

"Mhm? Daejeon?"

Ji-woo sat up, rubbing his eyes, and they went round at the sight of Daejeon Station spread beyond the window.

She gathered their belongings, took the child's hand, and stepped off the train. Then she ran into Hye-gyeong and Seo-ha getting off from the next car.

"Ji-woo's mom, we'll head off first! Today was fun."

"Seo-ha's daddy came to pick me up!"

"You should say goodbye first, Seo-ha."

"Bye-bye, Auntie! See you!"

Seo-ha and Hye-gyeong hurried off toward the escalator in short, quick steps. Once the chatty mother and daughter had disappeared, the surroundings fell quiet. At the mention of a father coming to pick someone up, Yeon-jae found herself glancing at Ji-woo for no particular reason, and she took the child's hand.

"It's amazing, isn't it, Ji-woo? You closed your eyes and when you opened them, it was Daejeon."

Ji-woo looked up at Yeon-jae steadily, then nodded.

"Yeah, it's amazing. Seoul was nice, though."

A hint of regret colored Ji-woo's face as he answered, almost murmuring. They had left for Seoul early in the morning and returned to Daejeon late at night, but it seemed it hadn't been enough.

"What did you like most about today, Ji-woo?"

At Yeon-jae's follow-up question, Ji-woo sank into deep thought — so much so that he even stopped walking. Looking at the child, Yeon-jae smiled softly.

"The Jeffkin concert, right?"

The idol of a five-year-old. He had loved it so much he couldn't take his eyes off the performance the entire time, so that was probably the answer. Ji-woo looked up at Yeon-jae and met her eyes. Then, slowly, he shook his head at her.

At the child's quietly following words, Yeon-jae's eyes flew wide open.

"That was Ji-woo's favorite. I wanna play again!"

The child smiled, his eyes folding prettily into crescents.

A pure heart without a single impurity — that was what came through, and Yeon-jae's chest tingled. Enough to make her nose sting. Was there anyone else who needed her so much, who loved her so much? The saying that a child's universe is their mother suddenly came to mind.

Ji-woo's universe was Yeon-jae.

Not the piano. Not Jeffkin.