A Sandcastle Promise

"No, I'm telling you, I got beaten by my guardian. I nearly died. Can't you see this?"

The first time I ever went to the local police substation near our house, I was eleven. I'd been told that if you got hit, you went to the police, so I went.

That day was the eve of my birthday. He'd told me to stay in my room all day because he didn't like me drawing attention on happy occasions like Christmas, so I stayed cooped up in there from morning to night. While somewhere out there, people the whole world over were celebrating.

Come to think of it, my emotions were probably still soft and malleable back then, compared to now. The fact that I cried in that room proves it.

Strangely enough, though, I didn't feel sad about it at all anymore. It was as if I'd acquired an emotional deficiency somewhere along the way.

In any case, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it was my birthday, and it was Christmas, and I wanted out of that room. The truth was, I desperately wanted to watch a Christmas movie. So I snuck out and watched TV under the tree. That was when my cousin Lee Sunggyu, up at dawn, found me. All told, it ranked among the worst beatings of my life—this one and the last one.

I'd been beaten by my big uncle and gone to the police station, and they had called him. No—I'm telling you, it was my guardian who hit me. They called him anyway.

Even before I learned he was a police officer, my big uncle had been lukewarm about the whole thing, and the moment the word "police" came up, he lost all interest in me entirely.

"What can you do? So do you want to go to a group home? Even that's better than nothing—a house with some warmth in it. Understand? Your situation isn't exactly good right now. In life, you have to accept certain things."

I understood nothing. The one thing I did understand was that I had never needed to go to that police station at all.

After The Garden of Manyusa became a hit, my big uncle—and police officer—Lee Kyunghoon had started contacting me frequently. None of it was ever pleasant, of course. He asked where I was living now, and I didn't answer.

But apparently, being a cop, he'd had no trouble at all tracking down where I lived.

Do Jaeyeon came running over in such a hurry that she was still catching her breath. She was always making me that bizarre Dang-saeng-cho health drink, but even that was something she did after thinking everything through.

"You're not the CEO, are you? That's a decision for the CEO to make."

While my big uncle was talking, Gam Seongbeom came outside too. Then he turned to me.

"Go inside."

"Why? This is my problem."

"It's not your problem, so go inside."

"How is this not my problem? Anyone can see it's my problem."

I was still a minor. Whatever I did, I needed my guardian's consent. That went for signing contracts, naturally—and if my guardian decided to take me away, there was nothing the company or a film set could do to stop him.

For a moment I'd wondered why he'd shown up out of nowhere without trying to drag me off—but no. It seemed he was planning to push his own son in instead.

Maybe it was because it had been so long since I'd seen him, but the moment I tried to step forward, my body locked up and I quietly backed away. Even though I was now nearly as tall as my big uncle.

Gam Seongbeom spoke to me.

"Ah, come on. I said go inside. Soo-han, take Heeyoon and Jaeyeon in."

"Right."

Vice President Gam Soohan nudged Do Jaeyeon—whose fury had reached the very tips of her hair—along with me, who had been standing silently at her side, and ushered us into Wooheonjeong.

Then he said to her, calmly:

"Jaeyeon. Just take three deep breaths."

"I will. No, but that little—!"

"Take three deep breaths, and I'll hear you out on everything."

At Gam Soohan's words, Do Jaeyeon took three deep breaths. Then she started grumbling at me anyway.

"Hey. What does management do? It's the people who step in and handle disputes on your behalf. So this is company business, not yours."

…….

I always found myself thinking the same thing.

These people were like this before my regression, too. Which meant that, before and after, in my past life and this one, they were the same people—shell and substance alike.

Truthfully, I probably hadn't changed much either. The human called Lee Heeyoon was, in the end, Lee Heeyoon. I watched my words a little more carefully now, but at my core I was still that same person from back then.

Thinking about it stirred up mixed feelings. The fear that no matter what I did, my life might flow along its predetermined course—and, on the other hand, that small, small flicker of gratitude: so even if I'd done nothing at all, my fake family would have cherished me anyway.

I understood what Do Jaeyeon meant, but I was worried about how I was going to resolve this situation. Before my regression, this had never happened. Back then, around this point in my life, I was scraping by on whatever work came my way, with no particular standout project to my name. In other words, I didn't have the recognition to be worth leveraging in a deal.

This time, however, The Garden of Manyusa had been a smash hit from the very start, and apparently my big uncle had concluded that I was finally worth milking.

Right now, aside from my living expenses—which the company skimmed off under the label of "training costs"—every won I earned was flowing into my big uncle's account. Since my guardian wouldn't let me open my own account, there was apparently nothing to be done about it either.

I thought it through.

If I wanted to be different from the me before regression, I had to make a fundamentally different choice.

Holy. Crap.

"I'm going to file to have him removed as my guardian."

I'd been planning to just endure it until I turned twenty. After that, he'd be a stranger anyway, so I figured I could wait until then.

Absurd as it sounds, somewhere inside me lived the ingrained belief that I didn't want to fight my big uncle. The police were never on my side. But that agonizing relationship would automatically dissolve the moment I came of age, wouldn't it? I had wanted to grit my teeth and wait.

Before my regression, my uncle's family had gradually started treating me well as I approached adulthood. They'd said they were the only family I had, and around that time, the adoption talk had begun.

It was laughable now, but back then, like someone with a textbook case of Stockholm syndrome, I'd fallen for it.

I must have longed for a family to last a lifetime. I was genuinely an idiot.

Fortunately, in this life I'd actually attended school to some extent, and I'd learned a fair amount about how the world worked. Even just visiting Woo Woongbae's home was enough to make it clear. That was family. What I hadn't been able to let go of before my regression wasn't family at all.

At my declaration, Vice President Gam Soohan asked carefully,

"Do you have any other relatives? If it's difficult, I can start making calls."

"There's my maternal grandfather, but he's an alcoholic, so I doubt the family court would approve him."

"Hmm, then…"

"Right after my parents died, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I was in a group home, and it was nice there. I just couldn't adjust—I was too wary of strangers. That facility could probably serve as a guardian, actually. An institution is better than someone you can't trust. Since my face is known now, it could get a bit noisy if it came to that, but that's something management can handle. Um…"

I kept talking, because I had a pretty good idea what was about to happen.

Exactly as predicted, my big uncle Lee Kyunghoon stormed into Wooheonjeong with the police in tow.

"Making a minor work like this—isn't that abuse? That's what I'm saying."

Lee Kyunghoon waved the word "abuse" around like a weapon and tried to take me back to his house.

In a situation like this, the police apparently had to defer to the guardian's wishes. I could see them holding back Do ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jaeyeon as she tried to stop them from taking me.

Well, then. There was only one thing I could do now.

"Lee Heeyoon!"

I started running. To get away from that situation, first and foremost. Because at the very least, I would rather die than go back to my big uncle's house.

Once I bolted, the police didn't bother chasing me. They had come to collect me from a wicked agency that worked a child to the bone—not to drag me anywhere against my will.

I ran like a madman. Ran for my life.

Even I hadn't known I hated the idea of returning to my big uncle's house this much.

After running far enough that the police could never have found me, I called someone. The call connected almost instantly.

It was Park Seonyoung—the wife of the actor Gam Ihyun, and the current owner of Wooheonjeong.

"Grandma, can I come to you?"

She didn't even ask why I was coming. She just said she'd figured as much, so come. So I boarded the bus Park Seonyoung had told me to take.

Despite what she'd said, it wasn't quick at all. After about two hours, I arrived at Park Seonyoung's family home.

Even though it was late at night, she was waiting for me at the bus stop. The Pungsan dog they kept at Wooheonjeong was with her. Even after all this time apart, the beast recognized me at once and slammed his head into my legs. I took it to mean he'd missed me.

Park Seonyoung said in her usual way,

"Look at you, all grown up. Not cute anymore, kid."

"I was never cute to begin with."

At that, Park Seonyoung laughed, still every bit the girl she'd always been. And still laughing, I came to a stop in front of her family home.

I'd wondered what kind of house it would be—a "family estate" and all—but it turned out to be a magnificent building designed by the same architect as Wooheonjeong. I was more than a little stunned. I'd heard that Park Seonyoung came from money, but I hadn't known it was anything like this.

Well, I supposed that explained how Gam Seongbeom could sink production financing twice on that massive a scale and still be planning another production. Aside from the geniuses, the size of most people's dreams in the arts is decided by their parents' wealth.

I stepped inside a building that looked like it belonged as a special feature in an architecture magazine. It was a masterfully made structure, as expected. Yet for all its obvious expense, the moment I crossed into the interior, I felt a sense of ease.

Park Seonyoung and I settled into plush chairs in the living room and each had a cup of tea. She was drinking something made from what looked like tree roots, and curious, I asked for the same. It tasted like dirt.

It was as if she understood that I didn't want to talk about anything at all. While I was still adjusting to the earthy taste, she turned on the TV and put on an old drama. Black and White—a drama the actor Gam Ihyun had filmed in his early twenties.

Black and White.

It was the story of the light and shadow of a South Korea on the rise in the years after the 1988 Seoul Olympics, tracing the love and betrayal, the triumphs and failures, of young people whose paths kept crossing and diverging.

Cheon Hoyoung was one of the four protagonists of the drama.

There was Cheon Hoyoung, a poor student working his way through school, bearing on his shoulders the weight of lifting up not just his own family but an entire village; his friend, who grew up in exactly the same circumstances but, unable to get into a prestigious university like Cheon Hoyoung, grew up fast instead, working and saving money; the one woman both Cheon Hoyoung and that friend fell for at the same time; and finally, a girl from their school who loved Cheon Hoyoung, the daughter of a chaebol family—four leads in all.

The glittering youth these four lived through—and at the same time, the bleakest, most hopeless of youths—sent shockwaves through their era.

Cheon Hoyoung's desperate declaration of war, delivered as a metaphor for those childhood days in a seaside village where the two of them had built sandcastles together—I loved it. I'd watched it once, and I'd memorized nearly all of it.

Before I knew it, I had forgotten why I'd come here in the first place and was lost in the drama, thinking that I wanted to try a period piece someday. The fact that the very first thing I felt was the urge to act told me something: as long as I could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠act, I could shake off any gloom, any sorrow, no matter how deep it ran.