“I don’t want to! Grandma, I’m going to live with you.”
“Johnny… don’t do this. The promised time is almost here.”
Onstage, Han Siwoo, playing the grandson Jonathan, looks as if tears might spill any moment.
Clutching Bella’s (No Yeong‑hui’s) hands in both of his, he continues in a trembling voice.
“Grandma… am I that much trouble for you? Is that why you’re trying to send me away so quickly?”
“Johnny, you know that when people grow old their bodies ache here and there. You mustn’t keep burdening an old woman.”
“Grandma…”
Bella squeezes her eyes shut and forces out harsh words.
A short while ago Nixon called: the out‑of‑town gig had ended safely and she could send his son back home.
“That’s enough. No more talk. Go pack your things. Your dad said he’ll pick you up the day after tomorrow.”
“Grandma…!”
“Hurry.”
Bella pulls her hands free, as if her grandson’s desperate gaze is too heavy, and retreats into her room.
After the call from her son, Bella agonized: was it right to send away this lovable grandchild?
She wrestled with it night and day, kneading cookie dough so hard she couldn’t hear Johnny speaking, and finally decided: better the boy live with his father than with her, who hasn’t many years left.
“When I lost you, getting through it once made a second time easier.”
Staring at the framed photograph of her late husband, Bella murmurs.
“It’ll be easy. Losing someone isn’t new to me, right, dear? This old woman won’t live long—making that little child taste loss for my own comfort would be too cruel.”
The pain of losing a loved one: when Bella was thrust into it, she shut herself inside the house filled with her husband’s traces.
She could not impose such pain on Johnny.
“Johnny will be fine. He’s lived with a stiff‑necked old woman like me not even a month. He’ll shake it off and find new precious ones.”
Bella’s sad soliloquy cannot continue.
A sharp shout rings from outside.
The set shows a cross‑section of Bella’s house: Johnny, behind the partition, pounds on Bella’s door so the audience sees everything.
“Grandma! I don’t want to leave you. I want to live with you forever. But—but… you don’t feel the same, do you? I’m only a nuisance, right?”
…
Bella bites her lip, unable to answer the tear‑choked plea—if she opens her mouth she’ll blurt that it isn’t true.
“Fine, Grandma, I’ll do what you want. But then I’ll never look at your face again. Even if Dad brings me here later, I’ll never, ever look at you! Never…!”
Betrayed by the grandmother he trusted, the child wails.
Inside her room Bella too begins to sob quietly.
“I’m… I’m leaving! I’ll never see Grandma’s face again…!”
With that last line, choked by tears, the boy flings the door open and runs offstage.
The child‑unlike projection and acting held the entire audience in a fearful grip.
After the boy disappears, sniffles scatter through the house.
Only Bella remains.
The stage lights dim, then black out completely.
In that darkness, playwright Han Yuju exults inwardly.
Found him— I finally found him!
Surrounded by people dabbing their eyes, she alone wants to burst out laughing for joy.
The tearful performance just given by the show’s lead, Han Siwoo, was genuine.
One glance told her: that wasn’t a director ordering a kid to cry.
And even if it were direction, any child actor who could obey that perfectly was priceless.
Didn’t I say I’d find one, senior?
While everyone else lingers in the afterglow, Han Yuju smiles triumphantly to herself.
“Phew.”
“Did you eat well?”
“Yes—my tummy’s bursting.”
I was visiting Moon Heesung’s house for the first time in a while.
He’d been busy shooting a drama; I’d been tied up performing RUN.
Once the drama wrapped successfully, Heesung invited me over on my day off.
Feeling sorry he’d missed my birthday, he had a whole table laid with dishes.
Not that he cooked them—he called in a chef from his regular restaurant, he said.
So many foods I’d never seen before!
Sampling them out of curiosity I ate far too much. With this small belly, a little excess turns it into a balloon.
“Shall we cut the cake now?”
“Hic.”
Another bite and a hiccup slipped out before I knew it—bad manners in someone else’s home.
Startled at my own sound, I glanced up at Heesung; fortunately he only smiled, finding it cute.
At times like this, a child’s body is handy.
“Ha‑ha. We’ll just cut it now and eat it later as a snack.”
“Mm‑hmm, okay.”
We lit the candles, I blew them out and made a wish.
Just when I thought it was done and sprawled on the sofa, Heesung disappeared and came back holding something.
“And this is my birthday present.”
“Wow, thank you.”
I accepted it at once, but… what was it?
A small box wrapped in luxurious paper.
Just what had he brought?
“May I open it?”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
Undoing the ribbon, removing the wrapping, I clicked open an equally fine case.
“Wow, a fountain pen?”
“Right. I figured you’ll be signing lots soon—autographs for fans, contracts too.”
Heesung smiled broadly, asking if I liked it.
It certainly looked expensive: delicate engraving along the barrel, surprisingly light, with a soft golden nib under the cap.
“Wow, it’s pretty.”
“I’m glad. See, your name’s engraved on it. Custom order—it took time, then my schedule delayed the pickup.”
“Ooh.”
Sure enough, ‘Han Siwoo’ was elegantly inscribed.
I’ve used nibs like this before: locked in the tower I poured scripts from my head onto paper day after day until my fingers warped to fit the pen.
“Can I try it?”
“Want to? Here, write on this.”
He handed me a blank sheet.
I wrote my crooked Hangul: Han Siwoo… and then Moon Heesung.
Trying someone else’s name just made my already poor handwriting worse.
“Mmph.”
I pouted, dissatisfied.
“Ha‑ha, you’re still little. Practice and it’ll get better.”
“Mm.”
Feeling vexed, I thought a moment, then wrote in stylish cursive: Happy New Year.
Good—the skill hadn’t rusted.
While I nodded in silent pride, a trembling voice spoke.
“Did… did you practice cursive, Siwoo?”
Oops, old habit.
I hurriedly claimed I’d copied that line from TV.
We sat side by side on the sofa, and Hee‑sung started the film he’d prepared.
Doo‑doong, doo‑goo‑doong—the powerful sound pleased me.
His living room held not only a huge TV but impressive audio, explained to me after I kept poking around it.
Today’s movie was a period piece about the friendship of two men—boyhood friends parted by accident who reunite through an incident.
Reaffirming unbroken friendship, they share their hearts over drinks.
“Siwoo, a bond like theirs is called mak‑yeok‑ji‑u—friends so close nothing comes between them, willing to share life and death.”
“M‑hmm, got it.”
Lately I’ve been learning four‑character idioms from Heesung.
It started when I asked about odd four‑syllable words I saw in a drama script; now he teaches me one by one.
“That’s similar.”
“Eh?”
“That one from before: Guan Zhong and Bao Shuya—what you called gwan‑po‑ji‑gyo. Like you and me, uncle.”
Recalling guan‑bao‑zhi‑jiao he’d mentioned days ago, I spoke.
His eyes widened, then he patted my hair—the gentlest head‑pat of any adult around me, besides Dad’s soft taps.
“Ha‑ha, right, same meaning. You never forget when I teach you, huh?”
“Sure don’t.”
“Remarkable, really.”
“Stuff like this is fun—what old Korea was like, how neighboring countries were.”
“I never cared for that when I was little.”
“Why not? It’s so interesting.”
Muttering ruefully, he sighed; I answered lightly.
Dropped from 17th‑century England into modern Asia, how could I not be curious?
Knowing these things would aid future acting, just as etiquette lessons had helped with noble roles.
“Siwoo, do you know that line?”
He paused the film and pointed at a character’s speech.
“ ‘Seongeun‑i manggeuk‑ha‑omnida—?’ ”
“Yeah. What’s it mean?”
Expecting I wouldn’t know, he waited. I lifted one corner of my mouth.
“I actually know.”
…But how to phrase it escaped me.
“Forgot, huh? I’ll explain.”
No way! I can’t be pegged as a kid who only pretends.
“The word seongeun means the king’s grace bestowed on officials, so…”
In the end, his explanation began.
Somehow it vexed me.
In English, I could phrase it fine.
Hangul had seemed easy at first; the deeper I learned the more profound its structure.
Some sentences keep the same meaning even if you jumble the word order; in others, a tiny change flips the sense completely.
And every year, countless “new coinages” appear.
“Now you understand, right?”
“Yes…”
I answered small, feeling oddly wronged.
“Then let’s do something fun with that line.”
At the next words my eyes sparkled despite myself.
This roller‑coaster of feelings—well, a child’s body is like that, really.
“Something fun?”
“Yeah—something fun.”
And what can I do?
Whenever Heesung says “something fun,” it always is fun.
“Yes! Let’s do it!”
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