Even though I couldn’t understand the language, one thing was certain:
Those people inside that box were definitely actors.
Which meant this household must be pretty well-off.
“What do we do now? The due date has already passed.”
“So that’s how you want to play this? After all I’ve done for you!”
“Hey, are you going to let personal feelings interfere with business? Like an amateur?”
In 1572, Queen Elizabeth recognized English actors as legitimate professionals under the Elizabethan decree. Before that, actors were treated like vagrants on the streets, but that moment marked the start of noble families offering them patronage, gradually acknowledging their worth.
Afterward, sponsoring theater troupes became something of a tradition among high-ranking noble households. And my mother—the Duchess of Battenberg, always a trendsetter—was no exception.
That’s why Battenberg Castle was always filled with actors, coming and going to perform the latest plays. Of course, I couldn’t always watch them, but still.
“Can you really invite so many people every day?”
Honestly, it made no sense compared to how cramped and run-down this house looked. Still, if I assumed the local culture had a unique approach to housing, I supposed it wasn’t impossible.
But where in the world are those actors performing? They look too small to be right in front of us. Maybe they’re doing something clever with mirrors or something else, but that’s not the point.
Actors exist, and a play exists. That alone sets my heart aflutter.
“Make your choice: either bring the payment right now or… fork something else over, don’t you think?”
“You—I’ve had enough of this!”
Another surprising fact: I wasn’t sure exactly what year or culture this was, but there were a lot of female actors on screen.
“Yes! That’s how it should be!”
Without realizing it, I balled my tiny hand into a fist in excitement. In my time with the Oscar Troupe, women weren’t allowed on stage at all. Most female roles went to young boys who hadn’t yet reached puberty.
But here, actual women played the female roles!
“Wherever this place is, they’ve got their heads on straight!”
Nodding vigorously, I concentrated on the actors’ performances inside the little box again.
Slap!
“How dare you lay a hand on me!”
Yes!
I felt a swell of satisfaction. Even though I couldn’t understand the lines, I could still feel the excitement. Think of it as a silent film.
“Kyaoo! Oo!”
“Siwoo, can you really understand what they’re saying?”
My father, who was eating fruit beside me, asked in surprise.
Of course I couldn’t actually understand it.
“Ua?”
“Heh… right, that wouldn’t make sense.”
Muttering under his breath, my father took another bite of fruit. Happy that he quieted down, I went back to enjoying the next performance.
“Momma, remote control!”
“Huh? Siwoo, you want to watch TV again?”
“You said after I finish my meal, I can watch more.”
With that, I pointed at the small box—this device called a television. My mother laughed and handed me the remote.
My new name is Han Siwoo. I’ve just turned two years old, and I’m finally able to understand a decent amount of Korean, my parents’ native language.
That explains it. No wonder I couldn’t figure it out, no matter how hard I tried to recall. I was living in an Eastern country. It’s somewhere beyond the sea—someplace I’d never really paid much attention to, but it turns out it’s not half bad.
And above all else…
“How could you do this to me?!”
“Don’t do this, Chohee. You shouldn’t be treating me like this. Understand?”
“Why? Why can’t I?!”
“…Because I’m your father.”
“What…? You… You terrible man!”
An absolutely shocking twist.
“Ap-peu nom! (Bad guy!)”
I almost threw the precious remote in a flash of anger. Whew, calm down. A former Battenberg noble shouldn’t let his emotions run wild over trivial things.
Anyway, these Korean TV dramas often have shocking developments. You can’t predict what might happen next—twists upon twists that fool everyone. Even Shakespeare would have watched such a drama with eyes lit up in fascination.
“Siwoo, you’re drooling again. Is it really that fun?”
“No!”
“Huh? It’s not fun?”
That’s not what I meant, Mother! There’s no way this show isn’t fun. But she wasn’t getting my meaning, so I shook my head firmly.
“Ttim! Ani-ya!”
“Oh, you didn’t drool?”
“Mm!”
Yes, exactly! No matter how young my body may be, I’ve had too much proper etiquette training to disgrace myself like that!
“Got it. My goodness, our little Siwoo is so grown-up now, huh?”
“Mmm!”
Placing both hands on my hips, I gave a big, confident nod.
Now that I can stand on my own two feet, there’s nothing else I need from Mother, right?
Click.
Just then—
“Mama!”
“But Siwoo, you’re so cute. Let me send this to Dad, who’s at work.”
“Siiii…”
That’s a phone. It’s a word I memorized not long ago. These days, my mother keeps taking pictures of me with it, and it’s been giving me grief. She calls them photos, I believe, which is a newfound hobby she’s thoroughly immersed in.
Oh well, I can’t avoid it. I tapped her shoulder as she busied herself, pressing various buttons with a bright smile.
“Muh, let me see.”
“You want to see it too, Siwoo?”
On the phone’s screen was a picture of me standing tall in the middle of the living room—excuse me, they call it a “living room” here, not a “drawing room.”
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” after all. I remembered the term just as soon as my mother mentioned it.
As for the photo… It’s acceptable enough.
“Not bad.”
“You like it?”
“No.”
It’s tolerable, not exactly satisfying. Photos or whatever—I find it rather bothersome. Considering my original, outstandingly good looks, this is only scratching the surface.
“Mama.”
“Mm?”
“Like this?”
I thought I might as well pose properly until I was pleased with the result.
“Oh, does our Siwoo want to send Daddy a cuter picture? Alright, look over here. One, two…”
Click.
“Where should we put this?”
“And these boxes?”
“Just stack them all in that small room.”
A bright morning. I’m five years old now, and I jumped out of bed.
Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I plopped down on the sofa in the living room. Before I could even grab the remote, I got shooed off to wash my face. I understood—it was only proper to wash up before watching the actors’ performances.
By now, I know the television doesn’t literally contain any actors. Once, I was so moved by a certain brilliant performance that I ran up to the TV, calling out for the actor after the show ended. But he never reappeared, no matter how loudly I yelled.
“Waaaah!”
Imagine ignoring the words of a Battenberg noble! I was livid and concluded that people in this country called Korea were unreasonably ignorant. I was so upset I pounded on the little box, sobbing, until Mother rushed in.
That’s when I learned the shocking truth: there aren’t actual, live actors inside the TV. I don’t know the mechanics of it, but apparently, it’s just a device that lets you watch shows that were already recorded.
(Absolutely not because they couldn’t understand me babbling about signals and whatnot.)
They say it’s 2006 now. Four hundred years have passed since I died, so nothing should surprise me.
“Huff, huff!”
Even if I’m back in a child’s body, I can’t neglect proper hygiene. After washing my face, Mother was helping me change out of my soaked pajamas when:
Ding-dong—
A visitor?
I’ve learned by now that that particular sound means strangers might be coming. Yes, I, Han Siwoo, have become quite familiar with this culture.
“Is this Ji Dongwook’s place?”
“Oh, yes. You’re early. It’s this house.”
“May I ask your relation…?”
“I’m his older sister. Dongwook will be here soon.”
“Ah, understood. Then we’ll bring in the moving boxes.”
I didn’t understand the conversation between Mother and the strange man, but what followed was practically a war zone.
“Hey, be careful with that!”
“Hurry up, so we can move on to the next place!”
They hollered at each other at the top of their lungs, and in this tiny house, I couldn’t escape their racket no matter where I went. Sensing my displeasure, Mother carefully sat beside me.
“Siwoo, just hang in there a little longer. They’ll leave soon, okay?”
“So noisy.”
“I know. We can’t even hear the TV. Tell you what—tomorrow, you can watch TV all day long.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Have I ever lied to you?”
Never, Mother. You’re always true to your word. Thrilled, I nodded eagerly. Lately I’d been spending so much time in front of the TV, Mother often snatched away the remote. But letting me watch all day?
I was so excited for tomorrow that I managed to sit there quietly, despite the chaos.
“Wow, Siwoo? You’ve grown so much!”
Who on earth is this?
“You only saw him a few times when he was a newborn. Of course he’s bigger now.”
“Really? Kids do grow fast. Siwoo! I’m your uncle—on your mom’s side. Do you remember me from when you were tiny?”
As if I could. The only one I remembered sticking their head over my crib a few times, bearing gifts, was Aunt Seong-hee—my mother’s best friend or so she says. Someone who showed up empty-handed? No chance I’d remember.
“Hmph.”
I snorted, and my mother’s youngest brother, Ji Dongwook, just smiled like he found it adorable. He opened his arms wide to embrace me.
“Come here, nephew! Let Uncle hold you.”
“I don’t wanna.”
No, thanks. I turned my head sharply away.
“…What?”
“Looks like our Siwoo really doesn’t like being held by strangers. Sorry.”
“But… why…?”
Thankfully, Mother explained with a sweet smile,
“Siwoo hates noise, so he’s pretty stressed that you hauled a bunch of stuff in here today.”
“Oh…”
It’s true—my annoyance had been appeased when Mother promised me a full day of TV tomorrow. But I still felt a slight grudge.
“So hurry up, get your things settled, and head out?”
“I will. I’ll be quick.”
“Quick? Did you land another gig?”
“…Sure did.”
“You sound less than confident. Fliers again? Or mopping floors?”
“That’s just how it goes in my line of work, Sis.”
He shrugged theatrically, and Mother wrinkled her brow at his nonchalance. Before he could bother her any further, I tugged on her pant leg.
“Mom, I want chamomile.”
“Oh, is it time for your tea, Siwoo?”
“T–tea…?”
Mother checked the clock, then got to her feet.
Four in the afternoon. The perfect time for afternoon tea.
A while back, I’d been mesmerized by a program on TV that introduced eighteenth-century English culture. They said British nobles drank tea multiple times a day.
So that’s a custom that appeared long after I died… As a former noble, I couldn’t just ignore it. So I asked Mother politely if we could do the same. Thankfully, caffeine-free teas were allowed, so now I always ask for chamomile.
“Yeah, Siwoo insists on having tea three times a day. He watched some documentary or something—says it calms his mind.”
“…Isn’t he five?”
“Indeed he is.”
Mother answered cheerfully and headed to the kitchen. I ignored Uncle’s puzzled look and walked into the little room.
With my hands behind my back, I surveyed the small space at a leisurely pace. It was still dusty, serving as our makeshift storage room, and now there was even more clutter. Spotting a thin mattress in the middle, I gave it a little bounce and then flopped down on it.
“This guy… is going to live here now?”
I sighed at the very thought.
Still, Mother must have her reasons. Telling myself not to complain, I rolled onto my side—and then I saw a book clearly within view.
“What is… this?”
I grabbed it. This wasn’t something we had in the house before. It must have come from Uncle’s boxes.
“William…?”
A name that instantly filled me with longing.
“William Shakespeare!”
I cried out, nearly sobbing as I uttered that beloved name.
Uncle rushed in from the living room when he heard me shouting.
“Huh? Si… Siwoo, did you just say…?”
I couldn’t hear a thing he said. My mind was focused solely on the old English text in front of me.
“This really is his writing…”
“Nuna! Nuna, come quick—did you hear how Siwoo pronounced that?!”
I heard my uncle scamper away in a panic behind me. But I paid no attention. I was too absorbed in the precious words of someone I’d missed for so very long.
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