First Rehearsal
I arrived at the rehearsal venue for Flowers Fall. “Now it finally feels real that I got cast.”
I had worn my neatest going-out clothes. The same outfit I’d put on for every audition—my personal lucky suit. It didn’t show much on the surface, but the seat and knees were worn smooth and shiny. The traces of countless rotations. ‘I never thought they’d tell me to wear this.’
There had been advice from the Actor Gallery that this outfit would suit the role I was taking on today better than anything else.
The lead role of Min-woo had gone to Kim Chan-uk, as expected. Instead, I was cast as Sang-cheol, one of Min-woo’s few friends—a poor sculptor who laments his lack of talent. The part could be considered small, but it was by no means a bit role or background performer. It was a proper supporting role.
My chest swelled with emotion. This wasn’t some nameless passerby who delivered one or two lines and vanished, or neighborhood youth number four who simply walked far behind the protagonist.
This was a character with a name, a narrative, and an impact on the flow of the play—a true supporting role!
For the past twenty years, no matter how many dozens of hours I poured into analysis and practice, the time I was actually given in front of the camera had never exceeded two minutes at most. And even that was usually cut entirely during editing. ‘This is different. This is completely different!’
Though it wasn’t a drama, I had been given the chance to participate as a formal actor in a play directed by Lee Tae-ryun—the greatest director in Korea… or rather, the man who was going to become the greatest.
I had been so happy that I posted in the gallery and ended up becoming the laughingstock, but so what! I calmed my excitement and set down the bag I had brought.
“Looks like no one’s here yet.”
I looked around, but just like the empty seats, there was still no sign of life on the stage. ‘I came two whole hours early, after all.’
This was a habit I had built up even before my regression. Arriving early at a set gave me time to get used to the atmosphere and left a good impression on any staff I might run into.
“Though in the end it never meant anything.”
I claimed a spot on one side of the stage and pulled an old art-supply bag from my luggage. It was a prop I had prepared last night while wondering what kind of supplies Sang-cheol would have used.
Because I had only learned about the post button in the gallery this dawn, I hadn’t been able to ask the Actor Gallery about the prop I prepared. It wasn’t an official prop anyway, so it probably didn’t matter…
‘Still, maybe I should upload it once.’
Comments started pouring in the moment I posted.
As expected. The old-timers really are on another level. They had even noticed that it smelled a little because I had fished it out of a collection bin.
The comment section, which had been exploding, suddenly fell silent.
By now I knew this was the gallery’s version of WWE-style trolling.
Even though their language is cheap, they’re all good people at heart. As I was thinking that, one particular comment caught my eye.
A palette discarded by a poor student, huh. After reading Dracula’s comment and looking at the supplies again, many thoughts crossed my mind.
Had the owner thrown it away after finally seeing the light at the end of their effort? Or had they given up after hitting the wall of talent? Either way, Sang-cheol would definitely have used something like this.
When I left a short thank-you, replies flooded in. ‘Mari is a Princess and Dracula always get roasted…’ It was probably because their personalities were so strong that they stood out. Alright, time to return to reality.
I closed the Actor Gallery.
“Let’s do this.”
Standing on the stage, I opened the script and began checking Sang-cheol’s movements and lines once more. “His first appearance is probably from this side. He spots Min-woo and approaches—something like that.”
I slowly walked toward the center of the stage. It was the first rehearsal. Naturally, I had never received direction from the production team, so I didn’t know the exact blocking. ‘Still, I’ve picked up a few things by watching over people’s shoulders.’
No matter how minor the role, for twenty years I had always arrived early and helped the staff. That meant I could tell with my eyes closed how the set usually flowed and which movements felt natural.
On top of that, I had asked about rehearsal blocking while having the script reviewed in the gallery. It was almost certainly correct.
“About here, I think.”
Just from the stage directions and dialogue in the script, I could already picture the scene. I could vaguely predict what movements the director and production team would want.
I lifted an old brush from the art-supply bag.
Writer Yun Song-i grumbled at Director Lee Tae-ryun. “Wasn’t rehearsal supposed to start at nine? So why are you calling people in from seven?”
She seemed dissatisfied that she—a drama writer—had to show up at the rehearsal venue since dawn.
“You’ve got plenty of free time anyway, Writer Yun.”
“Well, that’s true, but…”
“This is all experience. It’ll make your debut work even richer, you know?”
“…Director, please stop with the weird rhymes.”
She grumbled, but just as Director Lee Tae-ryun said, a writer never knew where inspiration might strike. And it was true that adapting a play gave her far more time than the usual drama schedule, where she was constantly chased by deadlines and forced to write half-finished scripts.
“Still, I am curious. I want to see the actual chemistry between Lee Se-rin and Kim Chan-uk too.”
“I like that passion of yours, Writer Yun. Your eye for actors seems to be improving as well.”
“Right? Maybe I should become a director while I’m at it?”
“No, Writer Yun is meant to be a writer.”
“Why!”
Thinking that the actors cast for Ha-rang and Min-woo—the roles she had adapted—were perfect fits, Writer Yun Song-i didn’t feel entirely unrewarded.
“But why Doyun? Why did you cast him as Sang-cheol?”
The acting he had shown briefly at the audition might have been a lucky peak that happened by chance. That was why she could fully understand casting the safe box-office draw Kim Chan-uk as Min-woo. But if that was the case, why cast the unproven rookie Kim Doyun in the supporting role of Sang-cheol?
“You’re not thinking that it’s okay if a supporting actor can’t act, right? Sang-cheol is practically a lead role…”
“His face is perfect for it.”
“You think so? That face? He’s decent-looking, but compared to Kim Chan-uk…?”
Director Lee Tae-ryun smiled. “That’s exactly why it’s good. The realism comes from his face. A poor student preparing for the civil service exam should look like that.”
“Is that so…?”
Director Lee Tae-ryun closed his mouth. It wasn’t a lie. The face itself was close to the Sang-cheol he had imagined. The only reason he hadn’t even considered casting him was that the acting in the audition video had been so terrible. ‘I really don’t want to pay attention to him.’
From the day he decided to become a director, this was the first actor who had ever made him doubt his ‘eye that sees brilliance.’ He wanted to erase that doubt.
“Well, we’ll see when we watch.”
With those words, Director Lee Tae-ryun opened the door to the rehearsal stage.
“An empty stage is kind of eerie, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“More importantly, the staff aren’t even here yet… Director, are you listening to me?”
Writer Yun Song-i looked at Director Lee Tae-ryun, who had suddenly gone quiet. His gaze was fixed on the stage.
“What? There shouldn’t be anyone… Huh?”
In the center of the stage that should have been empty, someone was holding an old brush.
“Kim Doyun act—mmph!”
Writer Yun Song-i, who had been about to greet him, had her mouth covered by Lee Tae-ryun.
“Hey! What are you doing, mister?!”
“Stay quiet and watch.”
At Lee Tae-ryun’s serious expression, both of them silently observed the stage. Kim Doyun was performing quite naturally. It was clearly the section they were supposed to rehearse today.
Writer Yun Song-i watched for a long time before noticing something strange. “Wait, that? The prop team hasn’t arrived yet, right?”
“Of course not. It’s just us.”
“Did he prepare it himself to practice alone?”
Writer Yun Song-i narrowed her eyes as she watched, then spoke with a puzzled tone. “Huh… but that’s actually pretty…”
“You see it too?”
The art-supply bag and brush Kim Doyun was holding looked far more realistic than what the prop team had prepared. Writer Yun Song-i seemed to realize the difference; she opened the script she had written and scanned it.
“Ah! You’re right. Definitely. That would suit Sang-cheol much better.”
A poor student preparing for the civil service exam. There was no way Sang-cheol, who struggled even to pay his tuition, would use a brand-new, pristine brush.
A broken one clumsily taped back together, a palette caked with dried paint, an old brush missing bristles in several places. It perfectly captured the image of Sang-cheol—impoverished yet hardworking.
Yun Song-i felt a sting of guilt without realizing it. ‘I didn’t pay much attention because it was only a supporting role.’
She hadn’t even considered the props for the people around the protagonist Min-woo, let alone the lead himself. To think an unknown rookie actor would point it out to her.
“Just like you said, Director, even a writer can learn a lot on set.”
Director Lee Tae-ryun answered with a somewhat displeased expression. “I don’t know. I need to see more.”
“What? You’re still like this?”
Unlike last time, the acting that had made Lee Tae-ryun doubt his own eyes wasn’t visible now. ‘Is it because it’s practice? Or maybe…’
It was natural acting, but clearly different from before. As he was thinking that, Lee Tae-ryun reached out to Writer Yun Song-i with a strange look on his face.
“Writer Yun, let me see the script.”
“Ah, yes.”
Lee Tae-ryun scanned the script she handed him. “This……”
Just as Director Lee Tae-ryun was about to speak, several members of the directing team entered.
“Hello, sir.”
“Yeah.”
Director Lee Tae-ryun gave a short reply and was about to look back at the stage when one of the staff members clicked his tongue and said,
“Ah, there are always a few overly eager rookies like that.”
“Exactly. We’re the ones who decide all the blocking and movement anyway. Practicing alone is just a waste of time.”
It was the attitude of someone who had seen this kind of excessive passion from rookie actors more than once or twice. Writer Yun Song-i jumped into the conversation.
“Well, what’s wrong with that? It’s good to be diligent.”
“Aigoo, Writer Yun, you just don’t know. If he remembers some unnecessary movement, we’re the ones who’ll suffer later.”
At that moment, the practice room door opened again. Lee Se-rin entered with a haughty expression. She too seemed to spot Kim Doyun on stage and paused, her gaze fixed on him for a moment. A look of puzzlement.
“He’s not just moving randomly, is he?”
“What? Who is that actor… Huh? Actress Lee Se-rin!”
The directing staff recognized her belatedly and stammered. Though she was young, she was already a mid-tier actress with more than ten years of experience since her child-actor days. Her discerning eye was on a completely different level from theirs, who had only been in the industry for two years.
“I-is that so?”
The staff member’s face showed clear discomfort. Director Lee Tae-ryun sat with his arms crossed, not moving an inch. Then he shook his head at the staff.
“Tsk. You call yourselves the directing team and you can’t even tell after watching?”
Director Lee Tae-ryun spoke with a deeply displeased expression. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to work? Go and adjust the blocking to match that.”
“Pardon?”
When the staff member asked back in confusion, Director Lee Tae-ryun raised his voice. “Didn’t you hear me? That’s the correct movement, so revise it. Or do I have to do it myself?”
“N-no, sir!”
Director Lee Tae-ryun kept his eyes fixed on Kim Doyun, who was on the stage the staff had run toward, and muttered as if he couldn’t figure him out.
“Just what kind of guy is he?”