Star Beyond the River
"Aren't you coming in?"
"Ah… sorry?"
Startled, Han Hae-un fumbled for a reply.
"Come in. You're the one from that day, aren't you? The one who collapsed."
"Ah… yes, that's right. I wanted to treat you to a meal as a way of saying thank you…"
"And you're feeling better?"
"Much better, thanks to you."
Jeong Hae-min gestured him inside the Pilates academy.
"Come on in for now."
Looking distinctly awkward, Han Hae-un scratched his cheek and followed her into the academy.
"There's a CCTV at the front desk that covers the entrance. At first I thought you were some kind of weirdo."
She had watched him pacing outside the academy on the monitor, initially wondering if he was a male student hesitating over whether to sign up for Pilates. Given that the clientele was overwhelmingly female, people did sometimes hover at the door, unsure of themselves. But when an hour passed and he was still there, she had started seriously considering whether to call the police — until she looked more carefully and realized the man on the screen looked somehow familiar.
"I'm not a weirdo, I promise."
Han Hae-un pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it over.
Jeong Hae-min read it.
"Han Hae-un, Prosecutor, Busan Western District Prosecutors' Office. You're a prosecutor?"
"Ah, yes. That's right."
Having introduced himself almost by accident, Han Hae-un scratched the back of his head. Standing here introducing himself to the woman who had been his wife in a previous life felt surreal.
"But if you're based in Busan, what brought you all the way to Incheon that day?"
"I was following up on an investigation — canvassing the area."
The subject of that investigation was, of course, the woman standing right in front of him: his wife from a past life, Jeong Hae-min.
"I see. Well, all I really did was make a phone call for you. You don't need to treat me to a meal."
"Even so, I'd really like to do something to repay you…"
After two years, he wanted any excuse to keep talking to the woman who had been his wife — and he wanted to see the daughter who must have grown quite a bit by now.
"It's really fine."
"Still, I won't feel right about it…"
Jeong Hae-min studied him for a moment, as if weighing something, then spoke.
"All right, forget the meal. Could you give me a ride somewhere instead? You have a car, right?"
"Yes, of course."
She locked up the academy, and the two of them headed down to the parking garage. Along the way, Jeong Hae-min pulled out her phone and made a call.
"Hey, Mom. Can you watch Ha-yun a little longer? I think I'll be late."
When she hung up, Han Hae-un asked, "Where are we going?"
"It's not far by car. I'll explain on the way. Thank you for driving me."
They got into the car in the parking garage, and Han Hae-un drove according to her directions. His expression hardened as he read the road signs.
Before long, they arrived.
"Thank you. I can just call a taxi for the way back."
Jeong Hae-min thanked him and stepped out of the car. Han Hae-un got out after her.
"Will you be… staying long?"
"No. About thirty minutes?"
At her answer, Han Hae-un opened the rear door, took out his jacket, and put it on.
"Since I'm already here, I'd like to pay my respects to the deceased and then see you home. You said all you did was make a phone call, but to me, you're the person who saved my life."
"…All right. Let's do that."
Han Hae-un fell in behind her as she led the way.
When they had first set out, it had never once crossed his mind that the place she wanted a ride to was the columbarium where his own remains were enshrined.
They walked down a corridor lit with bright fixtures that somehow still carried a chill, and then the rows of niches came into view — countless urns set into the walls. Jeong Hae-min stopped before Baek Yu-hyeon's niche, positioned at eye level in the brightest, most central spot.
Han Hae-un quietly followed and stood beside her, bowing his head in silence.
Several minutes passed before Jeong Hae-min spoke.
"My husband did dangerous work for the country."
A feeling he could not name settled over Han Hae-un. He said nothing, only listened.
"He used to say it like a habit — that if he died, I shouldn't hesitate to find someone good and remarry. Every time he said it, I wanted to sew his mouth shut."
Han Hae-un flinched at the frost in her voice and absently touched his own lips.
"He was that loyal to the nation, and all that came back was money. I didn't need a bereavement payment. I just wanted them to give me his body."
"His body…?"
Han Hae-un glanced at the urn inside the niche as he asked.
Her voice was desolate when she answered.
"They refused to release anything — his body, even the date of his death — saying it was all classified. So I don't even know when he died. I come on his birthday instead of an anniversary."
"…"
He thought about it. The twenty-third. The month was different, but today was his birthday. After he died, she must have come here on the twenty-third of every month — a woman who couldn't drive, taking taxis or buses all the way out.
What good was that so-called conviction, if it left the people around him in this much pain?
Seeing the woman who had been his wife grieve for his death right in front of him, Han Hae-un's eyes suddenly overflowed like a broken faucet, tears streaming down his face.
"…Are you crying?"
She wasn't even crying herself, and yet this large man had suddenly started weeping. Jeong Hae-min looked flustered.
"Ah — I'm sorry. I'm a bit of a soft touch."
"…Thank you. For shedding tears for him."
Watching someone else cry made something catch in her own chest, and her eyes welled up too.
They stood in mourning for a long while before Jeong Hae-min finally spoke.
"We should head back. Thank you so much for today."
"No — not at all."
She asked to be taken back to the building that housed the Pilates academy, and Han Hae-un drove in that direction. Then something occurred to him, and he glanced at her in the back seat.
"So is the urn empty, then?"
"…No. My daughter and I put paper cranes we folded in there, along with a notebook he always carried. The writing inside is completely illegible, but it was something he never went anywhere without."
The moment he heard that, Han Hae-un knew he had to see that notebook.
Does opening your own urn count as grave-robbing?
After the pension trip ended and he was back resting at his officetel in Seoul, Yeon-woo's phone rang.
"Yes, Team Leader Jeong."
"Ah, Yeon-woo. This has gotten a bit… awkward."
Team Leader Jeong Hyeok's voice was uncomfortable. The only thing he would be calling Yeon-woo about was the historical drama they were considering as his next project.
"Did they turn me down?"
"No, of course not. When I first called, they welcomed the idea with open arms. But it seems another actor approached them at the same time, wanting the same role."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"So if neither side is willing to walk away, they're leaning toward holding an audition…"
"If that's the issue, I'm fine with it. Both my first and second projects came through auditions."
Ryu Yeon-woo was still a newcomer, but his debut had set JNBC's all-time ratings record, and he had already finished shooting a lead role in a Park Chan-hong film. Once that movie opened, he would be a first-choice casting target by default. The network people knew it, and so did Yeon-woo himself.
Unlike overseas markets, the domestic entertainment industry had never fully embraced audition culture among established actors, so Team Leader Jeong had been cautious — worried Yeon-woo might take offense at being asked to audition. But Yeon-woo felt nothing of the kind. If there was one role and more than one person who wanted it, competing for it was only natural.
"There aren't any other shoots going on right now, and thinking about which actor would be weighing the same decision as you… I'd say it's probably Jin Yu-han."
"I see."
Yeon-woo had been hearing the name of his same-age peer Jin Yu-han quite a lot lately.
"All right. I'll proceed on that understanding."
"Thank you for handling it."
Team Leader Jeong had half-expected the other actor's side to refuse the audition, but the schedule was coordinated surprisingly quickly, and identical audition scripts were delivered to both agencies.
Yeon-woo received his copy through his manager, Min-su.
The audition script contained two performance pieces. The first was a scene in which Seo Hui, for the first time, rejected his father's will when the family moved to arrange a political marriage. Yeon-woo gave the first set of lines a light read-through.
"If a political marriage is truly necessary, would that not be proof that our house holds no real power in this land of Goryeo? Father. We are a family of founding meritorious subjects — I do not believe we need resort to such measures. Let my free choice of marriage become the occasion by which the Seo family's prestige is made plain."
It was a scene in which Seo Hui shrewdly framed what he wanted — permission to marry freely — as a matter of family honor, arguing that allowing him to choose his own match would itself demonstrate the strength of the Seo house. In the story, he had not even fully settled his feelings for the female lead, Hong Wol-yeon, yet the moment a political marriage was proposed, he used dialogue to take exactly what he wanted — a comic beat that showcased a diplomat's instincts.
Well, this isn't a grand historical epic — it's a faction historical with romance in it.
Despite the solemn tone of the written text, the scene would play better with a touch of comedy, delivered with the persuasive cadence of a marketplace haggler. Working on Park Chan-hong's film had taught Yeon-woo the habit of always layering a subjective reading on top of whatever the stage directions said. He carefully analyzed the network planners' and the writer's intentions, jotting down the feeling he wanted beside the text.
"The problem is this one."
The second piece. Where the first had been explained in considerable detail, the second consisted of a single line of dialogue and nothing else.
"Why is there no background description for the second piece?"
Had the writer been rushing the script and simply not gotten to it? Or was interpreting the line itself part of the audition?
Yeon-woo gave the line a light read.
"How can you be so spineless, so powerless? Will you yield yet another step? Yield one step, and in the end you will be forced to yield ten thousand."
Which scene was this from? Which moment? There was no narration, no explanation — just the bare line. At a glance, it looked like a confrontation between Seo Hui and court officials advocating surrender. So what feeling should the performance carry?
"Hmm. This…"
Yeon-woo sank into thought for a long while. He flipped back and forth between the brief treatment summarizing the project and the audition sides, then suddenly let out a short laugh of realization.
"I don't know whose idea this was, but it's a little wicked."
He began filling the margins beside the stage directions with a dense scrawl of everything that had just come to him.