The 8-Year-Old Pianist Who Defies Common Sense

I was briefly startled by the view count sitting well north of two million, but the surprise settled almost as quickly as it had come.

Well. These things happen.

YouTube had its algorithm, after all. If I told myself the video I appeared in had simply been picked up by it this time, two million views was a perfectly reasonable number.

There was that video titled "An Ordinary Day in the Life of a High Schooler" that pulled nearly twenty-five million views, after all.

Two million was well within the realm of possibility.

And even if the views got this high, nothing much was going to change anyway.

It was still 2014. YouTube hadn't really taken off in Korea yet. Just as I'd expected, nobody said a word about it — not at home, not at school.

My face wasn't even properly visible, so there was no way anyone would know it was me.

If videos kept coming out, maybe. But becoming a household name off a single clip was next to impossible.

For an entire country to know you from one video, you'd need at least twenty million views from Koreans alone.

Which was, of course, a near-impossible number. Korea's YouTube user base probably hadn't even cracked twenty million yet.

Or had it?

I wasn't sure. I'd never actually looked up the exact figures.

Just as I was starting to forget that my video had blown up on YouTube, someone reached out by email.

A fairly long message, but boiled down to a single line, that was the gist of it.

"Yena, what do you think? Want to do the interview? You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I'll do it."

Doing one interview wasn't going to cause any real trouble, so I decided to try it for fun. Besides, piano was a minor genre. Hardly anyone would even pay attention to an article about it.

And as slim as the odds were, there were definitely people out there who'd write a nasty article just because you turned them down.

I wanted to eliminate even that slim possibility. There was always a chance Mom and Dad might stumble across something about me online and get hurt.

A weekend afternoon, two weeks after the concours. Mom and I were having coffee at a café near the house.

Well — I was stopped.

"Yena can have coffee when she's a little older."

"Yes..."

The injustice of it. A mental age of thirty-eight, and I wasn't allowed to drink coffee.

I took a long sip of peach iced tea instead, killing time, when the reporter who'd contacted us arrived.

"Hello, ma'am. I'm the reporter who reached out to you."

"Ah, yes, hello. I'm Yena's mother."

While Mom talked, I watched the reporter carefully.

Doesn't seem like the type with a superiority complex.

There were people like that out there. Lunatics who'd announce they were YouTubers and declare they were eating for free. Naturally, journalists had their share of those types too. There were definitely reporters in this world who operated under the bizarre assumption that you should be grateful they were even interviewing you, and who acted arrogant because of it — but the one we'd met today seemed a long way from that.

Looks like she just came to do a genuine interview.

That impression only solidified with what she said next.

"I won't be asking any strange questions, so please don't worry. You'll be sitting right here anyway, so if anything I ask seems off, feel free to jump in."

"That's very reassuring to hear. Well then, we'll be in your care."

The way she spoke, she clearly respected Mom.

Maybe most journalists are actually decent people?

The longer I listened, the more that charitable thought grew — until I remembered the spectacular headlines I'd seen in my previous life, and I had no choice but to conclude ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that this reporter was a special case.

That had been one of the gems from my past life. There had been plenty of other equally dazzling headlines, so the idea that most journalists were good people was quickly discarded.

There's a reason people coined the word "press trash."

Thinking about it, there was a pretty significant structural problem too. Write a proper article and the engagement is weak, so the views don't come. Mix in a little falsehood or write something inflammatory and the clicks pour in — so of course you ended up with more junk journalists than good ones.

Not that dwelling on it would change anything. Humans were simply wired to be drawn to the sensational.

While I was thinking, the interview was set up, and the first question came.

"When did you start playing piano?"

"I started when I was seven."

"So you've only been playing for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a year?"

"Yes."

It pricked my conscience a little, but there was nothing I could do. In this life, I really had started piano at seven.

Incredible.

Lee Su-ryeong, reporter for the Hwayeong Ilbo, felt her eyes light up at Lee Yena's answer.

She won the Grand Prize at the Seoul Concours after only a year?

Granted, it was the elementary division, so the prize might not carry that much weight. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But the Seoul Concours wasn't some pushover competition that a child who'd only been playing for a year could just waltz into and take the overall Grand Prize.

"How many hours a day do you practice?"

Lee Su-ryeong waited, hoping for an answer that would blow her mind.

Eight hours, at least, right? Even for a genius, you'd need that kind of practice to beat kids five years older than you in just one year.

That was, without question, a reasonable assumption. The problem was that an EX-rank was extraordinary enough to shatter that kind of common sense.

"Usually about two hours."

Lee Su-ryeong doubted her own ears. Two hours was just... too little, wasn't it? This was a child who'd taken the overall Grand Prize at the Seoul Concours, where the most dedicated elementary school pianists in the country competed. That she was overflowing with talent was a given — but even talent had its limits.

"Ma'am, is that really...?"

Lee Su-ryeong turned to Ju Seo-hui, Lee Yena's mother, sitting beside her.

Right. Kids lie sometimes.

It was entirely possible. Young children often made things up to get attention. But not this time. Ju Seo-hui nodded calmly.

"Yes, that's right. She usually practices about two hours. Don't other children do the same? It would be hard for a child to sit at the piano all day..."

No! Ma'am! Children who compete at the Seoul Concours normally practice far more than that!

She didn't say it out loud. In this family, two hours of daily practice apparently counted as common sense.

I feel like a two-eyed person who just landed in a country of one-eyed people...

"Oh, of course, we do practice more when a concours is coming up."

"How much?!"

So she's a deadline fighter? Barely practices normally, then turns into a practice monster when the competition gets close!

Lee Su-ryeong waited, hoping for something mind-blowing — ten hours, maybe.

"About five hours! Right, Yena?"

"Mhm."

Watching the mother and daughter toss answers back and forth so casually, Lee Su-ryeong felt a question mark bloom across her face.

"Mom, I want a waffle."

"Then let's order one of those too."

"Hold on a second... so! You're saying five hours, not fifteen?"

"Yes, that's right...? But are there people who practice fifteen hours a day? That would mean putting every waking moment into the piano except sleeping and eating."

"There are, actually."

Lee Su-ryeong trembled at an answer that defied all imagination.

Five hours...?

"Practicing more than five hours a day isn't really feasible anyway. If I play piano after seven, the downstairs neighbors come up."

Watching Lee Yena say this so matter-of-factly, Lee Su-ryeong's eyes sparkled. It wasn't the answer she'd been hoping for at all — but it was mind-blowing in its own right.

I can run with the lazy-genius angle!

Come to think of it, she'd never met a pianist who wasn't a practice addict. Even the ones called geniuses poured unimaginable amounts of time into the piano as a baseline.

"The Lazy Genius Who Appeared in Korea's Piano World" — that would make a perfect headline.

Mulling over the title, Lee Su-ryeong asked a new question.

"Don't you get nervous when you go on stage?"

"There's something I've realized over the course of my life so far."

Hasn't she only been alive for eight years?

"If I practice halfheartedly, I get nervous. On the other hand, if I've practiced so much that I have nothing left to regret, I don't really get nervous on stage."

"Oh. That's a really wonderful mindset."

Lee Su-ryeong turned to look at Ju Seo-hui. She couldn't believe Lee Yena had come up with that answer on her own.

Did her mom tell her to say that?

But the moment she saw Ju Seo-hui's face, she had no choice but to understand. That answer had been entirely Lee Yena's own. Ju Seo-hui's eyes were wide, startled by her daughter's reply.

Ah.

Lee Su-ryeong simply gave up on understanding the person known as Lee Yena.

If I just write the article exactly the way the interview went, the views will take care of themselves.

She surrendered.

And so, the next day, an article went up on Four-Leaf Clover, the website Koreans visited more than any other.

Everyone who read the article reacted the same way.