Pen and Paper Translations

“They say he is picky about people.”

“He is fine when he is with me. He is doing well at the clinic too.”

“Do you think we can raise him properly?”

“I will take care of him.”

While worries and questions were being exchanged, Father returned from work. During dinner, Jeong-sun cautiously asked his opinion.

“What do you think?”

“Hm.”

Won Seung-gwon took a refreshing swig of beer, then stretched out his hand and asked Myeong-woo for the photos he had taken at the animal clinic.

He had snapped shots of Beongae receiving treatment.

“The poor thing is skin and bones.”

“It seems so.”

“Was he very sick?”

“He is healthy now.”

“He has a good face. How did he end up living on the streets?”

“Some heartless person must have abandoned him. It upsets me.”

Even as he spooned soup, Seung-gwon’s eyes stayed on the pictures.

“He grows on you.”

When something tugs at his heart, Won Seung-gwon never just walks away. Ever since childhood, whenever they went out together, there were many times he stopped alone: to push an elder’s cart, to help a small child cross the street, to pick up a green glass bottle someone had dropped. His son often had to wait.

Myeong-woo had grown up watching that broad back.

Father asked,

“Do you have confidence to take responsibility?”

Myeong-woo answered firmly.

“Yes, I do.”

“You must care for him to the end.”

“I understand.”

After meeting his son’s eyes for a moment, Father nodded.

“Let’s bring him home.”

Jeong-sun did not object. Instead, she reminded her son.

“You cannot get lazy, you promised Mom.”

“I will take care of him properly.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Let me see the photo, too. He looks so bright-eyed.”

A small lump formed in Myeong-woo’s throat. He wondered if this same warmth had filled the air when they adopted him.

“Then I will tell the clinic.”

“Next time Mom will go with you. I need to learn about vaccinations and such.”

“Yes.”

He texted the animal hospital on his phone.

— Great news, thank you. Beongae seems to understand and is very happy.

Thinking of bringing Beongae home put Myeong-woo in high spirits for the rest of the day.

BBS producer Lee Ju-young.

She often appears in the weekend animal variety show “All the Animals in the World,” shortened to “Ani-World.” From fierce dogs to cuddly cats, every creature is forever busy biting her socks.

“Our pet never does this, how strange,” is the standard line from owners.

So her nickname in the show was “Sock PD.”

That same PD raised her voice during one phone call.

“Beongae has been rescued?!”

She had been planning a massive rescue operation with animal groups, firefighters, even a behavior expert. For her, this result felt almost anticlimactic.

“I can’t believe it!”

This is her eighth year in charge of “Ani-World,” and Beongae had shown stronger wariness than any subject she had ever faced. Experts who saw the footage clicked their tongues at his intelligence and patience.

“Wow, he notices even that? His IQ must be about two hundred in human terms.”

“Catching him will be extremely difficult.”

“I have never seen a case like this.”

And now, what was she hearing?

“H-how? Who? Did he get caught in a trap?”

Then came an even more shocking truth.

— A male student carried him in his arms.

Even after she cleaned out her ears and asked again, the answer was the same.

— He even acts affectionate. He is eating well at our clinic right now.

A growl she used to hear from two hundred li away rang in her ears.

“Where is that student now?”

— We have his contact information, but…

“Good. Stay right there. I am coming to film! And…”

Filled with long-dormant reporter’s zeal, she sprang from her seat. She had to meet him right away.

“Just tell me one thing first: what is that student’s name?”

Who was the hero who arrived clutching thunder and lightning like a flash of light?

Screech!

Half admiring his mother’s astonishing driving skills, Myeong-woo said,

“Mom and Beongae are alike in one way. You both enjoy speed.”

“What are you talking about? I drove safely.”

Because it was his first day back at the academy in a while, they came by car.

ZC Academy, where he studied acting, was a place he had started attending about three months before his previous-life memories returned. Aside from him, all students were enrolled in performing-arts high schools, possessed solid basics and clear goals, and were preparing for college acting auditions.

As the only regular high-school student, he had felt this difference sharply—until a few days ago.

“Are you really going today? You could rest longer. If you heal well, you can remove the bandage when the new term begins.”

“I want to practice as soon as possible.”

“Honestly. I told the director already. If you feel dizzy or unwell, come back immediately, okay?”

“Yes.”

He could generally keep up with the training, but he had shown nothing surprising, and because acting is built on collaboration, his weakness in real performance was fatal.

“That may have been true until now.”

Tap.

He put the book he had been reading back into his bag, and his mother remarked,

“You have been reading that book diligently.”

His sudden interest in reading, once distant from him, seemed curious to her.

“I have gotten into it lately.”

“That is great. I may nag you about studying, but I always nag you more to read. Reading helps throughout life, no matter what the text.”

He agreed with her principle.

“It seems helpful for acting too.”

“Of course. A script is literature itself.”

Seeing the cover, she said happily,

“Shakespeare, nice choice. When I was young, I read many plays.”

Theater and literature are inseparable: memorization, comprehension, vocabulary, all things an actor must cultivate. The first ability he tapped after awakening to his past life was the memory of the genius writer William, which says it all.

As he was about to get out, Mother slipped some allowance into his hand.

“Here, just because. A prize for my son who reads.”

Treating him like a child made him laugh before he knew it.

“I still have money left.”

“Take it, don’t act coy. You could grab something to eat with friends.”

He easily sensed her intention.

‘She does not want me to feel the sting of having no money.’

Around the academy were many snack shops whose smells tempted students. She worried he might be the only one unable to buy something when friends did.

He had not understood such small kindness before.

“I’ll be back.”

He hopped out energetically.

“Hey, you are here?”

Inside the academy, Deputy Director Yoo Deok-jeong at the reception desk waved. Her permed curls were the first thing to catch the eye.

She and the head director were a married couple, both over forty and former troupe actors, mainly teaching the evening hobby classes for office workers.

“Hello.”

“How is your head?”

“Back from the brink.”

“You are lively enough to joke.”

“Work me hard, please.”

“Look at you, acting all smooth.”

After checking the wound and sighing in relief that his face was untouched, she walked with him toward the practice room.

The group lesson studio was at the far end. They passed private booths ZC Academy rented out for solo practice, often used when preparing for auditions in soundproof rooms.

As they went by, Myeong-woo asked,

“May I reserve a booth too?”

“Hm? Of course. What’s up with you?”

Her eyes showed surprise.

He knew why she reacted so.

Lacking confidence, he had practiced on side streets, where no one watched, alone.

“There was no need for that.”

“Just coming today is impressive. I thought you would skip. All right, from now on let’s work hard.”

Her words revealed how his behavior had been perceived: a student without drive who skipped practice. Though understandable, he still tasted bitter amusement.

Even if it is self-improvement, when no one recognizes it, motivation fades; it means the effort has borne no results.

“But effort is never useless.”

Just because it is unseen does not mean it does not exist. The habit of doing one’s best still lives inside his body.

Click.

“Everyone, Myeong-woo is here.”

In the group studio, two classmates were already stretching.

“Second year in the acting track is tougher, right? I don’t want to move up.”

“They say we should brace ourselves. Oh? You are here! It’s Won Myeong-woo.”

Yu Mi-gyeong and Gam Hye-jin.

Both attended Surim Arts High in the same class, and so were close at the academy. Mi-gyeong, with a neat bob cut to just below her ears and composed features, and Hye-jin, with waist-length curly hair and deep double eyelids, looked quite balanced side by side.

Mi-gyeong spoke first.

“I heard you were hurt. Are you okay now? You were learning boxing when it happened, right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. The injury was not from a punch, I twisted my foot on the stairs.”

“Pfft, clumsy. I heard you missed an audition too? If it were me, I would have gone with bandages on.”

Hye-jin cut in with a laugh. That might not be wise.

“Your body is your asset, pushing yourself only causes accidents.”

“You talk well, but you never seem motivated.”

“That is not true.”

“Humph.”

“Come on, Hye-jin, don’t be so harsh.”

Even as she stopped her friend, Mi-gyeong silently agreed. In her eyes, Myeong-woo was not one to step forward first. On stage, his movements were small; she had never seen him come to practice on days without lessons. An emotionless body, an insincere performance—she had often heard the director criticize him.

‘I thought he would quit soon. Not getting into an arts high school proved it, I figured.’

Yet somehow, today he looked different.

Unconsciously appraising him, Mi-gyeong asked,

“Did you warm up already?”

“Why?”

“No reason, you just look a bit lighter.”

He seemed like someone fully prepared, though that should not be possible.

That ease reached Hye-jin too; she narrowed her eyes and warned,

“You know you will lag behind us after skipping. Are you sure you can afford to relax?”

“I guess I will have to work hard.”

Work hard.

For some reason, that phrase lodged in Mi-gyeong’s heart.

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