“They said an original piece is fine.”
“Yes!”
After making a phone call somewhere, Moon Hee-seong returned to confirm that my self-created piece was acceptable. Busy scribbling things down on a sheet of paper, I answered without even lifting my head.
I hadn’t seen enough local works in this culture to come up with a scene perfectly fitting the grandson character in RUN. So, there was only one choice: dig up a script I’d written in my previous life.
“Wow… Siwoo, what in the world is all this?”
“Busy. Shh.”
I was sorry to brush him off, but if he distracted me now, I wouldn’t be able to recall precisely the lines I’d written back then. I was working from memory of a play I wrote not long after I was locked in that tower room in Battenberg. Counting both the ten years of my previous life and the five-plus in this new life, that was well over fifteen years ago. But it didn’t matter— it still felt as vivid as if I’d written it yesterday.
I could remember all my old scripts word for word, but this one was especially etched into my mind. It was from a time I still clung to hopes about my father, the Duke—that he wasn’t truly coldhearted. It was full of lines brimming with foolish longing, from when I still believed that surely he wouldn’t abandon his youngest son. Of course, that faith was crushed in the end.
“Huff.”
At last, it seemed good enough, so I set my pencil aside.
“May I… read it?”
Next to me, Hee-seong—his eyes wide in astonishment—spoke in a trembling voice.
“Yes, go ahead.”
I cheerfully handed him the stack of papers, then gulped down the water he’d brought for me. I’d been so focused on recalling the script that my throat was parched.
“…Wow. Siwoo, you really wrote this yourself?”
“Mm-hm. Didn’t I say so?”
Sprawled on the sofa to catch my breath, I watched him flip through the four pages, occasionally letting out startled chuckles.
“This is not just the acting part… goodness.”
I couldn’t make out the rest of his muttering. Meanwhile, I repeatedly opened and closed my right hand—like the “jam-jam” gesture—since I’d written so much so quickly that my hand had gone a bit numb. Being a small child still made my handwriting big, so I ended up using more pages than an adult might. But hey, at least my Hangul was getting better. All those daily practice sessions with Mom’s notebooks were paying off.
“Ha… haha. Siwoo, you… just what—”
He was so taken aback he couldn’t finish his sentence, so I gently tapped his shoulder.
“Let’s film it now!”
Looking bewildered, he nodded.
Click. Thud.
In a dark corner of a conference room, a giant screen was lowered, covering nearly the entire wall. Over the speakers installed around the room, the spirited sound of someone’s dialogue was blasting out:
—“No! That’s not what I wanted… That’s… not it!”
Notably, the voice pouring out from the speakers was youthful—clearly a child’s.
This was a meeting room in the Gwanghwamun Cultural Center.
Jessica Brown and a group of American and Korean staff members sat watching the screen with serious faces. Today was the first screening day for the preliminary (first-round) auditions to cast the grandson role in the play RUN. One by one, kids ten and under were appearing on the screen to deliver their “free acting.”
They varied in age:
—“Hi, I’m Kang… Min-woo, I’m six years old.”
From age six…
—“Hello! I’m Choi Seong-moon, 2nd grade, Class 2, at Baekak Elementary! The piece I’ve prepared is…”
…to nine or ten. Each child looked tense, staring into the camera and performing what they’d rehearsed.
After more than twenty such videos, Jessica looked bored. The staff’s expressions weren’t much different—Korean staff quietly murmured that maybe this was indeed too big a challenge, their faces growing darker. Meanwhile, the Rainbow Pictures staff clearly weren’t pleased either, many of them presumably re-thinking the feasibility of that strict age limit.
Video after uninspiring video played. Finally, Jessica suggested taking a break and reached to pause it.
But her hand halted in midair.
Contestant No. 36.
A simple slide with that number flashed, and the clip began.
—“No way… He wouldn’t abandon me like this. Right?”
A lonely voice filled the conference room. Unlike the others, there was no introduction, no greeting—even the child’s name was not mentioned. But the participant looked quite young, with clearer diction than any elementary-school kid so far. Intrigued, Jessica leaned forward, resting her arms on the table.
—“We had happy times too, remember? When I first wrote a poem, you smiled so brightly and patted my head.”
On screen, the child gazed upward as if recalling something beautiful, eyes drifting shut in wonder. But it lasted only a moment. His face turned desolate again, staring at nothing in particular as he continued:
—“Ah… once we had that, so how did it come to this? You used to be so happy no matter what I did.”
—“Maybe, just maybe, we can go back to those days…”
His face lit with a tiny smile of positive expectation, carrying that same glimmer in his voice:
—“Maybe you’ll open that tightly locked door and say you missed me, then hold me in your arms.”
—“Maybe you’ll even love every word I say. Actually… no, I guess not.”
No sooner had that hopeful look appeared than he hung his head, sighing. He shook his head multiple times, clearly disappointed, then paced slowly from side to side, muttering. Suddenly, he stopped in the middle of the screen.
—“If only that could happen… I could write a poem for Father.”
It was a voice laced with both affection and deep sadness. Throughout, the child hardly looked directly at the camera. Yet not once was his face obscured, and the angle stayed perfect so everyone in the conference room could study his fluid expressions. At the same time, he seemed not to be performing “for the camera,” almost like a pro who’d mastered ignoring it.
“Yes. This is it,” Jessica murmured quietly as she watched.
Hearing her speak, the man seated next to her turned to look at her in surprise. He seemed about to say something, but she held up her hand.
“Let’s take a break.”
“Huh?”
With her authority as overall director, the video was paused. Contestant No. 36’s performance had just finished. People were expecting her to offer some evaluation, so the sudden call for a break made everyone blink in confusion.
Under their puzzled stares, Jessica mulled something over, then said,
“Lunch! Let’s break for lunch.”
And with that, she stood and headed for the conference room door.
“Lee Soo! Bring that last video with you.”
She barked the order as she left. The man next to her—Cho I-soo—leaped up to follow. He was the Korean assistant director working directly under Jessica. Having distinguished himself on Broadway, he was scouted by Rainbow Pictures and now aided her. Because he also spoke Korean well, he held an important post for this production.
He hurried out of the conference room, catching up to Jessica, who was already striding down the hallway.
“Jessica, it’s only eleven. Why are you telling everyone to have lunch now?”
“Hmm? I needed an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“Lee Soo, you saw No. 36’s remarkable audition just now.”
“…Yes. It was noticeably different from all the others.”
Every staff member who saw that video had been left gaping— Cho I-soo included.
“Right, so how could we possibly watch more entries after that? We need a refresh. If we moved straight on, no one would be satisfied with anything. We wouldn’t remain objective.”
“And that means lunch…?”
“Mm, exactly. Also, I’m hungry.”
He wanted to protest that “What do you mean ‘also’?,” but as a good assistant, he kept his mouth shut. Arguing with Jessica when she was like this wouldn’t help.
“Anyway, you brought the clip, right?”
“Yes, here it is.”
“Great. Let’s order two sandwiches and rewatch it in my office.”
Jessica walked into her office, instructing him to fetch the sandwiches from their usual place.
“It’s that No. 36 audition—”
Could he be from some classic-theater background? Jessica wondered, chewing a bite of her sandwich. She was rewatching Contestant No. 36’s video, which stood out so strangely from the others. Why?
He displayed qualities that typical child actors—often pushed by parents with big TV ambitions—just didn’t have. There was a certain freedom, yet the fundamentals (like projection) were solidly in place. The boy was adorable and good-looking, but he didn’t come across as trying too hard to steal the spotlight. He simply delivered a natural performance, focused on clarity.
“Lee Soo, we have to bring this kid onboard. He definitely has more stage experience than the other kids.”
“Can you tell all that from just a short video?”
They had agreed to wait until the end of all videos before reviewing any profiles, in the interest of fairness. Cho I-soo worried she might be jumping the gun based on a short clip of a child who looked no more than five or six.
Jessica shook her head firmly.
“We’ll see for ourselves in person, right? Let’s schedule the final audition as soon as possible. I plan to give him the main spot. Then we can find someone else for a double-cast if necessary—someone who can stand alongside him.”
“Yes, understood.”
I felt confident that my performance, based on my interpretation of the script, was solid. I didn’t expect them to reach out quite so fast, though.
“You can do it, right, Siwoo?”
“Hoo, h-honey, Siwoo, should I get you some calming medicine?”
“Is it okay to give that to a kid?”
I’d received an enthusiastic call that I’d passed the first round of auditions. Now, here I was at the Gwanghwamun Cultural Center with Mom and Uncle to attend the second round.
“Si-Siwoo, drink this first.”
While I gawked at this huge building, excited, my mom and uncle were so nervous they kept hovering over me. Especially my uncle—why was he so rattled if I was the one auditioning? He was trembling so much I wondered how he ever managed to get onstage himself. He also kept trying to get me to drink something.
“Ew, no. Uncle, you have it.”
Ugh, that bitter smell. I shoved it back at him.
“Wow, Siwoo. Aren’t you nervous?”
“Mm, I’m fine.”
I was more curious to meet the director of this big show. I also wanted to see how huge the stage inside this building might be.
“Ah! Time’s up—let’s go!”
My uncle led me by the hand down the corridor toward the audition room.
“Number 36, please come in.”
Tap, tap, tap.
Following the staff’s instruction, I stepped inside. Sure enough, it looked different from the Bi-Sang-Cheol-tto theater: it was wide, clean, and clearly made for a large-scale production. At a long table in front sat five judges, two foreigners and three Koreans, all arranged around a blonde woman in the center.
Oh, is that the American? She really does look like a European.
I scanned the panel: three Asian judges and two Americans.
“Hello.”
I gave a deep “navel bow.” The woman in the middle—Jessica—was first to speak.
“Vank-auer-you. I am Jessica Brown. Ahn-nyun-ha-she-yo? See-oo goon, please set here?”
Hmm, her Korean was still pretty rough. I recognized the awkwardness in her pronunciation, so I replied again,
“Hello, lady.”
In polite, distinctly British-style English.
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