The Burnt Iron Grill Chart
It was the day after I'd gotten royally chewed out by Seo-yeon, all thanks to that Sheep-year-born Han Myeong-hoe from the class of '15.
I opened the desk drawer to grab a pen. There lay a silk scroll inside. Last week's words from King Munjong flashed in my mind. Anpyeong drew this gaeeudeuk and presented it. It is fitting that Do-yoon receive it. Had it arrived safely in the mirror drawer? When I unrolled the silk, my heart nearly stopped at the sheer beauty before me.
Beyond misty mountains reminiscent of Dream Journey to the Peach Blossom Land, Gyeongbokgung Palace shimmered faintly in the distance. The dark crimson of the burnt iron grill blended with the blues and yellows of the silk threads, breathing life into the scene. The colors were vivid and fresh, as if painted just moments ago with freshly ground ink.
Atop the painting were inscriptions. Thankfully, Anpyeong hadn't used the phrase "gaeeudeuk." It read: Burnt Iron Grill Chart. The artwork of An Gyeon and the inscription of Prince Anpyeong.
From drawer to drawer... Only now did I realize that Joseon's King Munjong could send something to me in the modern world too. I had no idea how it worked. But here was the proof, right before my eyes. Even without an art history degree, I knew its value. The moment this painting went public, it would be designated a national treasure.
It doesn't exist in recorded history. What chaos would erupt if the world learned of it? The art history world would lose its mind. If they asked about provenance, what could I say? That I pulled it from a desk drawer? I'd go from internal medicine resident to psych ward patient in a heartbeat.
I can't keep this. I called my mother.
"Mom, it's Do-yoon."
"Oh, son. How've you been? What's up? No call on Parents' Day..."
I inwardly cringed. I'd forgotten Parents' Day amid the triple whammy of hospital shifts, Gatong, and my paper.
"Sorry... It's been a rough month."
"Just kidding around. What's going on?"
"Mom, could you donate a piece of artwork on my behalf?"
A brief silence.
"What artwork?"
"A painting by An Gyeon."
"An Gyeon? Who's that?"
"The guy who painted Dream Journey to the Peach Blossom Land."
Tension crackled over the line. You might not know An Gyeon, but everyone knows that masterpiece.
"Where'd you get it?"
"It's complicated. But it's authentic, I guarantee. Donating it myself would be tricky."
"So it's in your hands right now?"
Another silence. Mom didn't pry.
"Good call. I'll donate it in my name."
I wondered how.
"How'll you manage?"
Pride swelled in her voice.
"Leave it to me. Don't worry about it. I'll pick up the painting tomorrow."
"Thanks, Mom."
As I was about to hang up:
"Son, will you tell me someday?"
I wasn't sure, but I replied, "Of course."
An Gyeon painted it, Prince Anpyeong inscribed it, King Munjong received and forwarded it—and now my mom would donate it to a museum. This pristine artwork, untouched by 600 years of time, might spark another butterfly effect.
Your Highness, I finally checked the painting. Glad it arrived safely. It's the thoughtfulness of your third brother, Prince Anpyeong. I sense Your Highness's care for your sibling. My deepest thanks to Prince Anpyeong. This month has left me no spare time, so it might be best to test the size limit later.
I briefly toyed with the idea of asking Munjong to send a gold nugget as a test.
The next day, Mom came up to Seoul and took the painting. Belated Parents' Day gifts included some Joseon Certified Eosam ginseng. As we parted, she eyed me suspiciously.
A few days later, the day before the conference. Mom texted: The museum authenticated it—genuine.
The conference was the last Saturday of May, in a Seoul hotel conference hall. Corporate booths caught my eye first. Normally I'd snag some swag, but not today. I sat in the waiting area, palms slick with sweat. I'd memorized every detail and stat, but presenting to hundreds was another beast.
The professor approached. "Nervous?"
"Yeah, honestly."
"Have confidence. You know better than anyone—this research is crucial. I told you last time."
She offered encouragement and headed back. The event kicked off, and soon it was my turn.
"Analysis of early admission risk factors for predicting sepsis progression in severe community-acquired pneumonia patients: a single-center retrospective cohort study."
My mic hand shook, but once words flowed, tension eased. A month's data review guided me. The nomogram, built from nine variables—lactate, PTT, respiratory rate, heart rate, hemoglobin, etc.—had a C-index of 0.71. Solid. I wrapped with comparisons to existing scores.
The chair opened Q&A. First question, as expected: "Single-center limits generalizability. Multi-center validation plans?"
Recall prof's advice: Admit limits first. "Yes, that's the biggest drawback. We're prepping multi-center prospective validation with protocol standardization."
Second: "Sample size concerns, especially wide CIs in subgroups."
"Agreed—full cohort has power, but subgroups don't. We'll expand multi-center. For now, focus on overall predictive power."
After the third, I stepped down. Prof met me in the hall. "For a third-year, that was excellent."
One sentence repaid May's grind. I bowed gratefully over my coffee. Looking up, a graying stranger stood beside her.
"Professor, long time no see! Do-yoon, this is Professor Lee Dong-hee from Inse Hospital."
I bowed 90 degrees. "Hello. Osan Hospital resident Lee Do-yoon."
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Lee. I'm Lee Dong-hee, Jeonju Lee clan, Prince Anpyeong branch."
I blinked at the unexpected lineage.
"Do-yoon, your mom's all over the news. Word's out online your son's at our hospital. And you're the son of Cheonan Food's CEO—yet no Cheongjeongri Heuksansu?"
Prof pretended to flick my forehead.
"Thanks to Dr. Lee's mother, we beheld an ancestor's treasure. Grateful."
"No need."
Prof Lee continued: "Impressive paper. Practical approach using admission variables. Some refinements needed, but connect with our hospital sometime."
Another 90-degree bow. "Overly kind. Thank you."
An Gyeon's painting truly was gaeeudeuk.
Post-conference, prof treated to dinner at a Gangnam Korean spot: Misullang No. 2, a Michelin two-star.
"First time for most—I'll order the course."
Fifth dish: "Joseon court-style seafood scorched rice soup. Recipe handed down from Chef Han Seong-jae's ancestor, the royal chef Daeryeong Sugsu."
Ah, this is Han Seong-jae—the modern descendant of Han Seong-jae and Han Hee-sun's restaurant. Squid, shrimp, shiitake, bamboo shoots, scorched rice. The recipe I'd lazily Googled and sent Munjong had journeyed from Joseon's royal kitchens to this signature Michelin dish.
"Do-yoon worked hard prepping. Everyone, seize opportunities like him. May's ending—let's push next month." Toasts and dinner done.
On the way home, I searched news.
'An Gyeon's Burnt Iron Grill Chart Debuts, Slated for National Treasure Status'
'Jeon Mo-ssi, Direct Descendant of Divine Physician Jeon Sun-ui, Donates Unpublished Work by An Gyeon and Prince Anpyeong to National Museum'
'Jeon Mo-ssi, Jeon Sun-ui's Heir, Revealed as Cheonan Food CEO Famous for Cheongjeongri Heuksansu'
Sorry, Mom, but compared to the fallout if a third-year resident donated it, this went smoothly.
Gazing skyward on the way home, stars were scarce. Hanseong's night sky, where Munjong lived, must be star-filled. Across that vast temporal gulf, one painting had crossed to modern Korea.
How much more will happen? Dread mingled with anticipation. Building skills as a resident day by day, refining paper data steadily, sustaining Munjong's breath via Gatong. Unlike last year's aimless days, these six months' efforts were bearing fruit. Proof: Munjong alive at May's end.
I opened Gatong on my phone.
Your Highness, I've successfully wrapped up my personal ordeals. I'll contact you more often henceforth.
After a pause, I added:
A busy but happy month.
A while later:
And then Munjong added: