“Daddy! Don’t go! Daddy!”
“Siwoo? Y-you’re copying that scene from before?”
Hey, Noah! Put more emotion into it. Too scared of the Duke of Battenberg to really let it all out, are you?
It felt like I could hear Oscar’s booming voice echo in my ears. In England, the only ones who would so casually boss me around—the youngest son of the Duke of Battenberg—were Oscar and Shakespeare. Well, and the other actors, I suppose.
It’d been a while since I stood on a stage, and memories of the past flooded in more vividly than they had back at home.
I was reminiscing about old times, lost in the haze of nostalgia, when—
“What are you doing?”
A man’s low voice rang out.
“D-Director Gang…”
Huh?
Following my uncle’s panicked gaze toward the theater entrance, I saw that man—likely the same person in charge I’d seen in the rehearsal room, the director of Uncle’s play, Gang Yong-hwi.
“Hmph.”
“…”
What? So what if I stood on stage? It’s break time, and the theater’s not in use yet—how is it harming anyone?
I wasn’t entirely guilt-free, so I kept my mouth shut, waiting to see how things would go.
“Hey, Ji Dong-wook.”
“Y-yes!”
“You said he’s your nephew, right?”
“Yes. My sister’s son. S-sorry about this. I’ll get him down right away. He kept begging me to let him see the stage, so…”
When did I ever?! You’re the one who dragged me here to ‘show’ me!
He was enjoying himself plenty on stage just now, and I only indulged briefly in some old memories, but for him to blame me?
I glared, dumbfounded, at my uncle. Just then, Gang Yong-hwi spoke.
“Kiddo, what’s your name?”
“…Siwoo. Han Siwoo.”
“You should say, ‘My name is Han Siwoo, Director, sir.’”
“…”
Everything in Korea has these odd customs. You have to use formal speech with your elders? It’s not as if they have a special dialect for nobility, yet they demand it. After living decades in England, this formal tone doesn’t come naturally to me.
“Haha, guess he’s still finding it hard to speak politely,” Uncle said, trying to smooth things over.
Surely the director won’t kick Uncle out just for letting me stand on the stage, right?
“This kid isn’t ordinary. Especially in the looks department.”
He didn’t even glance at Uncle, but instead fixed his gaze on me.
“So your name’s Han Siwoo. That earlier bit—were you acting?”
“Umm?”
I turned away and pretended not to hear, worried it might cause problems. I’m just five—no one’s going to let a five-year-old on stage. Besides, if I admit I can act, it’ll be even harder to hide from my new parents. In my past life, I got myself into trouble plenty of times by blurting out things I shouldn’t have.
But then…
“You’ve got some real talent. Siwoo, would you like to stand on stage?”
What? The stage?
Is he serious? If there’s even the slightest chance, I’ll figure out a way to explain it to my parents somehow.
“Mm-hm!”
I immediately hopped down from the stage, dashed up to Gang Yong-hwi, and threw myself at his pant leg.
“Daddy! Don’t go! Daaaddyyyy! Please!”
More desperate than when I grabbed Uncle’s pants just moments ago, this line burst out of me. Let me be on stage! Let me go out there!
He’s a director? Then he’s in charge of this show, right? Surely he wouldn’t joke around so lightly. This is a chance—a golden opportunity!
“S-Siwoo?” my uncle stammered, flustered by my performance.
As for Gang Yong-hwi, with me clutching his pant leg, he just watched me with keen, interested eyes.
Gang Yong-hwi, lead director at “Bisangcheol-ddo 777,” stood watch over the rehearsal with half-lidded eyes. It felt like things just weren’t clicking today.
First, one of his bit-part actors had called earlier, saying he’d gotten into a car accident. It wasn’t serious, but he’d have to drop out of this show. So Gang Yong-hwi had called Ji Dong-wook, who usually did odd jobs for the troupe, hoping he’d fill in.
Thankfully, Dong-wook was available and hurried over—though he arrived with “baggage.”
But as Dong-wook promised, that “baggage” was just a quiet little kid. After verifying that the child would keep still, Gang Yong-hwi started rehearsal from the final section.
Ironically, it wasn’t that kid or Ji Dong-wook who ended up being a concern. Another actor, one he’d trusted to be reliable, unexpectedly tripped him up. Ji Dong-wook’s presence wasn’t an issue after all.
“Daddy! What if you go off and die?! Waaaah!”
This particular actor was actually pretty seasoned. He was good at naturalistic acting, too—enough to handle playing the caretaker in The Night I Dreamed of Spring, meaning he had some range. But because he didn’t spend much time on stage in this new play, they’d assigned him two roles—one being a small child.
It’s just not working, Gang Yong-hwi thought. He’d put faith in the guy’s abilities, but his depiction of a kid left him dissatisfied. He pressed his thumb against his temple, frowning.
He’s not unusable, but…
The audience would understand it’s an adult playing a kid’s part—no real child could be in a professional troupe. They might just accept it. But Gang Yong-hwi couldn’t bring himself to settle.
Not that he could complain to the troupe leader. He’d just get the usual response: “Oh, come on, Yong-hwi. I can’t accommodate your every whim. I’ve got my own problems!”
He’d only receive more grumbles in return. So every rehearsal, he tried to bear it silently, like he was training himself in zen.
But then—
Hm? That kid’s looking really serious.
He noticed the little boy wandering near the rehearsing actors. So quiet that Gang Yong-hwi had actually forgotten the kid was even in the studio. Hands behind his back, focused intently on the rehearsal—it was quite the sight. His childlike belly stuck out while he pursed his lips, as if judging the performance. The director found it amusing.
What a curious little guy, he thought.
That is, until he saw the child act.
The moment Gang Yong-hwi’s half-closed eyes widened was when the kid started shouting:
“Daddy! Don’t go! Daddy!”
“All right, let’s do it. With me.”
“Mhm!”
At that moment, the most dramatic casting in history took place. So the director does have a good eye! I nodded in satisfaction. We shook hands, grinning broadly, just as Uncle rushed over to butt in.
“W-wait a minute, Director. You’re seriously going to put my nephew onstage?”
“That’s right. You saw it yourself—that amazing performance.”
“I—I did see it, but… No, that’s not the point. Sir, Siwoo’s only five years old—”
“Sam-choon. I’m six.”
“You’re five, I said!”
Ugh, not working. He could’ve just gone with it. I tried to sneak in an extra year, but that failed—so I pouted. Well, I get it. My mom doesn’t approve of my uncle’s acting career already. If I go on stage, Uncle’s going to face her wrath even more.
“What’s going on here?”
“Something happen?”
Ugh. Noticing the commotion, the other actors swarmed into the theater. I was afraid my golden opportunity would slip away. Then Uncle darted to the corner, pulling out his phone.
“Sam-choon!”
“Oh, man. Why isn’t my sister answering?”
He was calling my mother—definitely trying to put a stop to this. No way!
“Don’t—!”
“Hey! Let go, Han Siwoo!”
I sprinted over and clung to Uncle’s waist. While he tried prying me off, the other actors crowded around Gang Yong-hwi.
“Director, what’d you do this time?”
“What do you mean ‘this time’? Don’t make me sound like some weirdo.”
“Everyone already knows you’re an eccentric in the theater world, Director.”
“I saw you lying down in the middle of the road in front of the troupe leader the other day.”
“Whoa, so that rumor was true?”
“I heard he grabbed onto his pant leg.”
“No, no, he literally lay down across the road, blocking traffic, saying if they wouldn’t stage the show he wanted, he wasn’t moving.”
Gang Yong-hwi listened to the actors’ chatter in silence, then shut them down with a single statement:
“I’ve decided to cast that kid.”
“What?”
“Come again?”
His finger was pointing straight at me, still clinging to my uncle’s back.
Gang Yong-hwi, head director of “Bisangcheol-ddo 777,” was known for his extraordinary knack for choosing hit scripts and his charismatic, sometimes eccentric approach. He’d made a name for himself at a young age by casting whomever he wanted based solely on his feel.
People couldn’t just ignore him either—he was too talented. With an experimental, risk-taking motto, this time he’d gone even further. The actors folded their arms, sitting in the seats, figuring they’d listen to this rant. Otherwise, who knew if he’d go lie on the stage again?
“Daddy, if you go, what happens to me? What if you die out there? Boohoo!”
A childish lisp, perhaps, yet the emotion in that voice was profoundly moving.
“Come on, Yeong-soo. Dad’s going to come back fine. Why would I die? I’ll be back tomorrow morning, so just sleep under the covers, all right?”
“Nooo! Don’t go! You’ll die! Daddy is gonna die, and then me—what about me, how do I live?!”
“Yeong-soo…”
“Sobbing, Daaaddy!”
A performance seemingly possessed by some spirit. Tears streamed down that small face—it was pitifully authentic. Was this really possible for a five-year-old? How did he memorize those lines? And he never broke focus once on stage. Above all, how does a child that age even understand and portray such emotion?
Even the actors—those who considered themselves hardened critics—had uncrossed their arms and were totally captivated by Han Siwoo’s performance. Despite the short scene, a few looked on the verge of tears.
“Bravo!”
The moment Han Siwoo finished, Gang Yong-hwi leaped to his feet, applauding.
“Is he actually possessed? How’d you come up with making that kid act?”
“Dong-wook, is he really your nephew? The kid’s got natural talent.”
“Must get his acting genes from your brother-in-law. …Wait, are you insulting me right now?”
“Haha, Siwoo’s really good at this, huh?”
Along with Uncle Ji Dong-wook, the other actors rose in a standing ovation.
“Thank you, thank you!”
Up onstage, Han Siwoo beamed as he bowed politely.
“Siwoo, why did you suddenly reenact that scene?” asked someone.
“Mm?”
“Have you studied acting at all?”
“Mm?”
Each time Gang Yong-hwi asked something, the five-year-old merely tilted his head, leaving the actors perplexed. Of course, no one expected a proper explanation from a child that young. But Gang Yong-hwi didn’t give up—he kept pressing for answers. If anyone would, it was him, a man whose thought process no one ever fully understood.
Meanwhile…
‘Studied acting, huh…’
Inside, Han Siwoo sighed heavily. No one else knew why he was feigning ignorance. In his previous life, he spent three years performing onstage behind a golden mask, after discarding his identity as the Duke’s youngest son, Noah Battenberg. In London, anyone who followed the theater scene knew the name “Golden Mask”—they even called him a genius. And he had plenty of teachers who’d helped him grow, though now he couldn’t mention any of them.
If he claimed he’d learned acting from Oscar Pitt of the Oscar Troupe 400 years ago, or that he used to debate acting techniques endlessly with Richard Burbage and stay up nights analyzing plays with William Shakespeare, they wouldn’t believe him. And it’d likely end all talk of casting him.
So there was only one thing Han Siwoo could say now:
“I want to do it! I want to act!”
All that remained was getting their permission.
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