The Golden Leaf

"You never mentioned it?"

"Hey, look over there."

"Whoa, no way. Don't tell me—"

Seeing the people around them whispering after recognizing the siblings, Jay assumed they must be famous. He wondered if it was simply because the pair were strikingly good-looking—it hadn't occurred to him they might be celebrities. These days, plenty of students made a name for themselves through social media or streaming, after all.

"Since this is family business... please feel free to go on ahead, Manager."

"Ah, of course."

The man called the manager withdrew, though not without flashing a gleaming, speculative look at Jay. The siblings, who had been hovering awkwardly at the edge of things, hurried into their seats.

"And who might this be?"

"You've heard Father talk about him, haven't you? Your half—well, the owner of that box."

"Seriously?"

Their faces held pure surprise, but no trace of shock or horror. Their father must have spoken of Jay's existence often enough that it was old news.

"Hello, um... big brother. I'm Yoon Do-jun."

"I'm Yoon Do-hwa."

"...Just call me Jay."

I've got a decent way with people myself—is being likable hereditary? Jay gave a small nod and returned their greetings.

My family tree really is a curious thing.

A white ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠American family with whom he shared not a single drop of blood, a mother who had appeared out of nowhere, and now half-siblings on top of it all. Reading his strained smile as bewilderment, Park Hyun-ah rushed to explain.

"These two are twins, eighteen this year. Um... surprised?"

"A little. My contact with Father ended after Mother passed away."

"Ah... so she passed."

Sensing the air turning solemn, Jay redirected the conversation by asking what the box was.

"He said they were your things. He wouldn't let so much as a finger of ours touch it."

"Is that so?"

Jay picked up the box Do-jun had brought and peeled back the tape. It had a fair weight to it—old clothes, maybe, or a photo album, he thought.

"Ah."

The contents were spare. A single photo album, and a velvet case holding several trophies. From among them, Jay lifted the one that stood out above all the rest.

"...So he kept this all these years."

"That's—"

The golden leaf. A trophy no one in the industry could fail to recognize. As the meaning of it registered, Park Hyun-ah and the twins went wide-eyed. They had assumed he was simply a man who happened to share the name—and yet.

"You were...?"

Jay only looked back at Park Hyun-ah, faintly bemused.

"Did Father never tell you?"

The names posted at the incense altar felt strange in his mouth. He had written his father's surname again, reasoning that a foreign name would only invite tiresome questions.

He never told his new wife or her children either, so few people know me—still.

The memorial wreaths arriving one by one at the funeral hall were almost all connected to the entertainment industry. Which was precisely why he was all the more reluctant to let the world learn he had once been Yoon Jae-hee.

"Son, want to try this one too?"

"Yes!"

His early childhood had been reasonably happy. His father's business was solid, and his parents got along well.

Yoon Jae-hee had talent. Whatever he turned his hand to, he soaked up like a sponge, and he had the concentration to back that absorption up.

It wasn't mere precociousness—for all the world, it seemed like a genuine superpower.

"Honey, isn't our Jae-hee a genius?"

"Why?"

"He's good at everything I give him!"

His father, Yoon Su-heon, who worked in the film business, recognized his son's ability and began casting about for a way to put it to use. That answer was acting.

"Do you know Director Lee Young-chang?"

"The one with the strong track record."

"He's making a new film right now, and—"

"But honestly, do you think this could work?"

"If only there were a kid who could really act—"

"Do you think a kid like that exists? Even if he does, the lead is a child. Would investors actually come through?"

The moment Yoon Su-heon heard that news, conviction bloomed in him: his own son could do it.

"The boy in this book is different from me, isn't he?"

"That's right. Do you think you can?"

"...I want to see a child like this."

Yoon Jae-hee possessed yet another gift. The ability to imitate anything perfectly after seeing it once—as if he had swallowed the other person's entire life.

Having met children who actually lived with cerebral palsy, Yoon Jae-hee delivered a flawless performance at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the audition.

"At last! This is the child I've been searching for!"

Director Lee Young-chang rose to his feet in a standing ovation at the sight of Jae-hee's acting, and so The Child sailed through production without a hitch.

Then the film swept the domestic festivals beyond anyone's prediction—and went on to become a runaway hit at festivals abroad.

"Yoon Jae-hee, how does it feel to be the first ever winner of the Best Actor award at Cannes?"

"What kind of projects would you like to take on in the future?"

"Is it true you've been cast in the drama Violin?"

The fame he seized the moment he debuted made him prey for people obsessed with firsts and youngest-evers. They tracked down his home and his school, hounding Jae-hee and his family without mercy.

"I heard the kid's disabled?"

"They say that's all a lie, though. Unlike those people you see on TV—"

"No, apparently he really is disabled. That's how he could win the award."

Inevitably came the envy and jealousy of his schoolmates. Even the well-meaning remarks that echoed along with it felt like needles driven into his skin.

Wherever he went, people's eyes followed. Even alone in his own house, in his own room, he could not shake the sensation that someone was watching him.

"Hhk—hhah—"

"Jae-hee? Jae-hee!"

It was his mother who stepped up as his manager in place of a father consumed by his own business. Watching her son hyperventilate in front of the camera, Jeong Yeon-jae realized how dire things had become.

"Mom. I'm scared of the camera."

He became the youngest ever to win awards at the most storied festivals at home and abroad.

The press hymned him as a genius, and public expectation snowballed in its wake. Jealousy bred anti-fan communities online. To a child, every last bit of it settled on his heart like a stone.

"What, that's it? And they called him a genius."

"Was his childhood run all a fluke?"

"Let's not put too much pressure on him. He's still a child."

"Honestly, we don't have time—try contacting another kid."

Jae-hee had been dragged into the schedule his father's ambition had built, and had to walk away from every single project. And watching the boy's retreating back, people whispered whatever they pleased.

"The kid's terrified of a camera and you're telling him to get on set?!"

"I'm telling you, our son can overcome it!"

"Don't use Jae-hee to live out your dreams! Do you have any idea how much he's suffering?!"

When the child finally crumbled, his parents rushed headlong into divorce. Young Yoon Jae-hee had believed it was all his fault. If only he had lived an ordinary life. If only he had thrown a tantrum and refused to act.

"Could it be... Jae-hee?"

Yoon Jae-hee—now Yoon Jay—shook off the reverie and returned to the present. The elders on his father's side had recognized him.

"Hello."

"Good heavens. Look how you've grown."

"Have you been well?"

Park Hyun-ah studied Yoon Jay with eyes full of wonder.

Having lived in America so long, he couldn't possibly know Korean funeral customs—yet Jay had paid a condolence call at the funeral hall next door, adapted perfectly, and was now receiving guests like a natural.

"To think Managing Director Yoon had a son this grown—"

"Mother. Could you come over here for a moment?"

What was more, whenever someone cornered her with an awkward question, Jay appeared at precisely the right moment and extracted her from the conversation.

"What a well-mannered young man."

"Isn't he just."

Even her own relatives, who had shown visible discomfort at the sight of him, settled down.

He's grown into a fine man.

Park Hyun-ah was a television screenwriter, after all—she had long been familiar with the name Yoon Jae-hee.

His performance in The Child had been in a league of its own, and he had swept the domestic and international festivals as the youngest winner in history. Had she seen the news that year, it would have been impossible not to know those three syllables.

Even now, plenty of people still wondered whatever had become of him.

"Look at this. He's listed as one of the earliest members of the Do You Know Club."

"Oh, he's got a wiki page and everything?"

The twins, thrilled to discover how glamorous their half-brother's past had been, were busily searching away.

Yoon Jay regarded them with an odd expression. Is it just because they're young? Eighteen isn't exactly young... though I enlisted at that age myself.

"Some strange man shows up out of nowhere calling himself your big brother, and it doesn't bother you at all?"

"Dad already told us about him, so we knew."

"And he doesn't look like a weird middle-aged guy at all. Not strange in the slightest."

If anything, they had heard so much about him that they'd been dying to meet him. Besides, with Jay handling all the tiresome business, the twins had been able to sit back in peace.

"Honestly, I like it. He doesn't feel like an older brother, you know. All because he was born five minutes earlier, this one—"

"Well, I'm not too fond of a sister like you either."

"So, oppa. Are you going back to the States after the funeral?"

"Can't you just stay here?"

Even at their father's funeral, the twins seemed bright.

They pressed him to stay in Korea. To their eyes, Yoon Jay had the air of a drifter—the kind of man who would vanish without a backward glance the moment his business was finished.

Just then, a commotion broke out at the entrance.

"Oh, my members are here."

"Your group members?"

That morning it had been Do-hwa's groupmates and her agency staff sweeping through in a whirlwind; now it was Do-jun's turn, apparently. A handful of meticulously groomed young men and a cluster of staff filed into the funeral hall.

They did say both of them were idols.

The twins' competitive streak seemed to be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in a class of its own. When Do-jun entered an agency as a trainee first, Do-hwa—who hated to lose—followed him into the trainee ranks, and the two debuted at nearly the same time.

Both groups were said to be reasonably famous, but Jay's attention was fixed elsewhere—on the people thrusting camera lenses toward the funeral hall's entrance.

Paparazzi?

He rose to his feet at once. He'd worked near Hollywood long enough to know that breed all too well.

"Excuse me."

"Yes?"

"Photography isn't permitted here."

My siblings must be even more famous than I thought. The reporters had already come and gone in a frenzy, and now the paparazzi were circling. He lowered his voice on purpose and let an oppressive air roll off him.

"This is a private funeral. How exactly did you find your way here?"

"......"

"Leave. Now."

"Y-yes, sir......"

The men stared blankly at Yoon Jay for a moment, then hurriedly gathered their cameras and slunk away. Watching their souls ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠visibly depart their bodies, Jay tilted his head. Was I too frightening?

"Whoa, isn't that him? PeachMango."

"The notorious shutterbug? And he's backing off just like that?"

"What else could it be? That face, obviously."

The agency staff who had been watching the whole scene from inside turned as Jay re-entered, their eyes locking onto his face. The manager who had already seen him at the café asked, as casually as he could manage:

"Do-jun. So who is that man?"

"My brother."

"You never said you had a brother."

"Half-brother."

The section chief, who had been eavesdropping, cut in urgently.

"Wh-what does he do, exactly?"

"He says he's quit working and is resting these days."

"Is that so?"

He could feel the agency staff's eyes flashing alight. Their company managed actors as well. Where had such an uncut gem been hiding all this time, only to surface now? Everyone was dying to know.

"Did your twin's agency people come and pay their respects too?"

"They already came and went."

"Hmm... too late, then?"

Even entering the trainee system had been a competition between the twins. After dozens upon dozens of auditions, they had each landed at a major agency and debuted.

"You're already far too late, if you ask me? Never mind Ms. Park—the deceased himself was about as well-connected in this industry as they come."

"Ah, right... Should we at least sound him out?"

Beyond that, a steady stream of industry figures had already pressed business cards into Yoon Jay's hands, courtesy of his father's and mother's connections.

Yoon Do-jun looked on with studied indifference as the agency staff gingerly edged toward his brother.

He doesn't seem to like it much.

The way he had vanished from the acting world without a word. The way the mourning register listed Yoon Jae-i, not Yoon Jae-hee. Do-jun had plenty he wanted to say—but he kept his mouth firmly shut.

So few people know that I'm Yoon Jae-hee.

Looked at objectively, his father had been an ambitious, vain man. Jay had fully expected him to trumpet it to the whole world—yet the only people who recognized him were his father's side of the family.

A relief.

He had already searched everything there was to find about "Yoon Jae-hee." To think so many people still remembered him... he loathed nothing more than a hassle, so the fewer people who knew his face, the better.

Late that night, when the funeral hall had finally quieted, a middle-aged man stepped inside. Yoon Jay recognized him at once and went to receive him personally.

"My deepest condolences for your loss."

"Thank you for coming."

Jay ladled out a bowl of yukgaejang himself, carried it over, and took the seat across from him.

"Please, eat."

"Thank you."

Apart from the lines carved into his face and the white in his hair, the man was exactly as he lived in memory. He took a spoonful of the spicy beef soup, then looked straight at Yoon Jay.

"It's been a long time."

"Yes, Director."

"Call me Uncle. Like you used to."

Since The Child, Lee Young-chang had birthed masterpiece after masterpiece, cementing his place as one of the most respected masters in Korean cinema. In his expression, Jay could see longing, and gladness, and quiet joy.

"You've grown so much."

"It has been twenty years, after all."