Shattered to Pieces

The wind that met them outside brushed softly against the tip of Yeon-jae's nose. She started toward the empty playground, then stopped. The moment she halted, the footsteps of the man behind her stopped as well.

"What do you think you're doing?"

When she turned, it wasn't Je-heon that filled her vision, but an envelope. Her gaze lingered on the brown document folder, then slid upward. Instead of answering, he held the papers out to her.

A dry laugh caught at the corner of her mouth. When she made no move to take it, he pushed the documents closer, as if to hurry her along.

"President Gu Je-heon, what exactly are you..."

"You can see what it is."

The voice that came after a long silence was even, unhurried — as composed as the eyes that had settled into stillness. Nothing like Yeon-jae, who was steadily working herself up.

"I'm trying to have a conversation with you."

"Ha... a conversation?"

She dragged a hand down her face, a hollow laugh catching there.

"Don't ever come looking for me again. I have absolutely no intention of getting involved with you."

The image of him throwing her out of the residence five years ago was still vivid. The man who had dismissed everything she said as nonsense. The cruel words that had treated her as a woman trying to climb the social ladder by exploiting an amnesiac Je-heon — they flooded her mind in an instant. He had driven her away so mercilessly. So why now?

"You told me never to come looking for you again. You said you didn't want to be tangled up with me."

The voice that split her lips was thick, muffled.

The moment she had seen Je-heon with Ji-woo, her heart had plummeted. What if he had found out about Ji-woo — what if he was here to take the child away? Myeong-hee's vicious, cutting face flashed before her, and a sudden wave of dread surged back to life.

She had made a decision when she left the Foundation. She would leave behind not even the smallest lingering attachment to Je-heon. She would not be foolish enough to hope again. Because that foolish hope might, in the end, shatter the quiet life she and Ji-woo had built. She had barely managed to hold herself together and keep going. So why was he showing up like this, as if it were nothing, and shaking everything apart?

Yeon-jae swallowed the emotion that surged up her throat.

"You already know, President. I'm extremely uncomfortable around you, and I don't want to talk."

At her bristling, hedgehog-sharp reply, a flicker of thought passed through his eyes.

"You've changed a lot."

Je-heon's lips, which had been holding their silence, stirred and opened.

"But I came here today for Jeong Ji-woo, so it can't be helped."

Whatever emotion had shown in his eyes lasted only a moment. As if it had never been there, they settled back into calm.

"I didn't know you'd be Ji-woo's mother, either. Coincidence really is something, isn't it."

At that shameless follow-up, the feelings she had been holding back surged up all at once.

"...I know that's not true."

It couldn't be. Not Gu Je-heon — he would never have come without knowing. Perhaps he had stepped in precisely because he knew Yeon-jae was Ji-woo's guardian.

"You came here knowing it was me."

Because Jeong Yeon-jae had always fallen over herself at Gu Je-heon's every word. She had chased after him so fervently she would have played dead if he'd told her to die. In Je-heon's memory, she would still be stuck in those days of unrequited love. Perhaps he had assumed that if he showed up and shoved a contract at her, she wouldn't be able to refuse.

"Your instincts are as sharp as ever. That's right. I came knowing it was you, Jeong Yeon-jae."

Je-heon, who had been standing a few paces away, moved. One step, then another. As he closed the distance, Yeon-jae swallowed hard.

"I called you."

The word called sent her eyes trembling, helpless. And before she could even ask, the answer came.

"Five years ago."

The day she had been thrown out of Je-heon's residence and received Myeong-hee's warning. Yeon-jae had left her resignation letter in the studio apartment and changed her phone number immediately. She had wanted to sever every last tie with Gu-il — a connection that, without exaggeration, had been her entire life.

The last face she had seen, Myeong-hee's, was still vivid in her memory. A woman whose obsession with her grandson had been fanatical, relentless. Once she had decided to have Ji-woo, Yeon-jae hadn't wanted to leave even the smallest risk behind. So she had erased her contacts and changed her number, without the faintest expectation that Je-heon would ever reach out.

She had always believed that if their relationship ever came to an end, he would be the one to close it. Because she had been the one who loved more. Je-heon, with that blade-sharp nature of his — she had been certain he would leave without looking back.

And yet he'd called? You?

There was so much she wanted to ask, but the questions only circled inside her mouth and vanished. What would change, even if she asked now?

"Though I didn't expect you'd change your number and disappear in the meantime."

"..."

"Of course, I'm not here to dredge up some stale old story."

The man who had drawn up to her feet stopped. The eyes looking down at her were transparent, without a single impurity. Which was why the coldness in them came through unfiltered.

"The Foundation wants Ji-woo."

He held the envelope out to her once more.

"A place to live in Seoul, private lessons, university tuition, study-abroad funding — every expense through a pianist's debut. We'll cover all of it."

"..."

"If you want, I'm willing to support your return to a pianist's career as well. You used to love the piano."

At those last words, Yeon-jae's shoulders flinched. Piano. The word painted a scene before her eyes, vivid as a picture — memories of the two of them at the piano in his residence. Je-heon, who had always hated music, had loved her playing. The breath of the man who would lean against her waist and bury his face there as she played, his warmth — every one of those moments was as clear as yesterday. They were among the few truly happy memories of her life. She bit down on her lip.

"Ji-woo is going to reach the top. The Gu-il Foundation will make sure of it."

She stared blankly at Je-heon as he went on saying things that no longer even reached her ears. When her unblinking gaze made his eyes shift, as if he found it strange — Yeon-jae let out the question she had been swallowing down without meaning to. It was beyond her control.

A leaden silence settled between them. Je-heon's brow furrowed slightly as he looked at her. Meeting his gaze, feeling the silence stretch, Yeon-jae swallowed a dry laugh. She hadn't even heard an answer, and yet it felt as though she already had.

She clenched her fist tight. Her nails dug into her palm until the knuckles went white.

"Then why are you making this offer?"

His smooth brow twitched, as if to ask whether she was really asking because she didn't know.

"I assume you're not asking about my circumstances. And if you're asking about Ji-woo — does there need to be a reason?"

"..."

"We're offering to give a genius the wings he deserves."

Yeon-jae's sealed lips showed no sign of opening. The man stepped closer to her frozen figure and kindly pressed the document envelope into her hand.

"Looks like you're raising the kid on your own. Don't struggle — just take it. It's better for you, too."

The gaze that had swept over her receded. As if his business was done, Je-heon turned away. Then, walking toward the sedan parked against the wall outside the kindergarten, the man stopped.

"Ah. And one more thing."

He turned back, as if he'd forgotten something.

"This time, pick up the phone."

He walked on. Watching him go, Yeon-jae's vision blurred.

Yeon-jae drew a deep breath, let it out, and opened the door. Through the opening counseling-room door, Ji-woo came into view, sitting in a chair. The child's head, which had been turned toward the teacher as if in conversation, whipped around. The moment he spotted Yeon-jae, Ji-woo sprang to his feet.

"Mom!"

He ran to her in a single burst and burrowed into her arms. Nuzzling against her, the child lifted his head. Then his eyes darted around, scanning the space.

"Did Ahjussi leave?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

A flicker of disappointment crossed Ji-woo's face. But he recovered just as quickly, and this time he looked up at Yeon-jae. He stared at her in silence for a moment, then asked carefully.

"Did you cry, Mom? Your eyes are red."

"No. I didn't cry. Some dust got in my eyes, that's all."

Yeon-jae wiped at the tip of her nose for no reason. She had dried every last tear before coming in, and yet the child had still seen it. He didn't have to take after anyone in being so perceptive. She pulled the corners of her mouth up as far as they would go and beamed.

"Let's go home, Ji-woo. We'll have a nice dinner."

"Pizza?"

"You want pizza?"

Ji-woo nodded over and over and held out his hand to her.

"Then we'll pick up a pizza on the way."

"Yeah! I wike it!"

After saying goodbye to the teacher, they left the kindergarten together. The buildings around them had already taken on a dark, reddish tinge. Walking out of the alley with Ji-woo, Yeon-jae headed toward the parked car. Ji-woo, who had been holding her hand tightly, slowly came to a stop.

"Mom. But... why didn't you tell me?"

At the small voice, Yeon-jae bent her knees to meet Ji-woo's eyes. Before she could even ask what he meant —

"Being a pianist is so cool."

This time the words came through clearly, and Yeon-jae's heart began to tighten.

"I wanted to say my mom is cool, too."

Only then did she understand what Ji-woo was trying to say.

"Mom, what's your job?"

"My job?"

"Yeah. Teacher said I gotta ask! We're presenting tomorrow."

It had been hard, before, to answer when the child asked what her job was. These past five years. Living off whatever part-time work she could find, Yeon-jae hadn't had a profession to speak of. If it paid, she did it — restaurant work or anything else. Things had improved a little once she could play the piano again, but only just. The title of pianist was too much for her.

"Ji-woo. Mom isn't a pianist anymore."

"Why?"

Ji-woo's eyes blinked as he tried to make sense of it. Just then, a breeze swept through where they stood. Jet-black hair drifted lightly in the wind. Through those strands, ink-dark eyes held Yeon-jae.

"Because you don't like the piano?"

The child asked. With eyes that were the spitting image of that man's.