I Was Michelangelo in My Past Life

* * * *

"Teacher. When Mr. Jeong Byeong-gwon told Seok to give up on art school... sure, maybe talent was part of it, but I think the biggest reason was Seok's family situation. It was during the second semester of our second year. You probably didn't notice, but Seok's family was really struggling back then."

Late in the evening. Listening to the sound of a pencil scratching on paper, Go Du-han closed his eyes. In his studio, the voice of his former student Lim Woo-hyun layered over the sound of the moving pencil.

"There were no signs of improvement in his skills, but it was obvious his home life was collapsing... Mr. Jeong had a really hard time with it. He went through hell himself back in the day because of his own family circumstances."

As Lim Woo-hyun spoke, he drank a 300-won cheap coffee. It must have been too sweet, because he winced with one eye. That lingering, cloying taste colored his voice as it crossed into Go Du-han's memory.

"That's probably why he did it. And anyway, what does graduating from art school even get you these days? If you're going to make art, you'll make it eventually."

Though, in truth, both Woo-hyun, Jeong Byeong-gwon, and Go Du-han were all art school graduates themselves.

"He must've agonized over it all semester. And even after saying it, it must've weighed on him. He started smoking again that day—even though he had quit. I bet he's still smoking."

Woo-hyun's words spilled out like a confession.

"Sir, can you imagine how hard it must be to tell someone to give up on their dream? And not just anyone—your own student, one you cared about. And it had to be Seok. Sure, his grades weren't great, but he was earnest. Mature. Full of passion. How could you not love a kid like that? I'm sure all the teachers adored him. As for Mr. Jeong—he was basically like the older brother Seok never had."

Lim Woo-hyun bit into the rim of his paper coffee cup as he spoke, crushing it between his teeth.

"So imagine how hard it must've been to tell him to give up on the art school exam. That's probably why Mr. Jeong locked himself in the studio all winter break like some ghost, just making artwork. The guilt of having crushed his student's dream must've eaten him alive."

He kept defending Mr. Jeong for a while, then admitted he himself could never tell anyone to quit art again, citing Seok's case as the reason. Still, he pleaded with Go Du-han not to hate Mr. Jeong for it.

Go Du-han listened for a long time before quietly asking the question that had been on his mind since the start of the conversation.

"How do you know so much about Jeong, anyway?"

Lim Woo-hyun blinked wide-eyed and replied with surprise.

"Huh? Didn't you know? Mr. Jeong and I are close. We were in the same college class—and roommates in the dorm."

Go Du-han opened his eyes, recalling the conversation from a few days ago. That was why he had insisted Jeong Byeong-gwon come to the exhibition today.

Jeong's wavering eyes had drifted through memory. In them, Go Du-han saw a reflection of his younger self.

Even if their circumstances were different, even if the paths they'd taken weren't the same—seeing Jeong made him remember how he had failed to hold on to Seol Yeo-jin properly.

What should he have done back then? Go Du-han let himself sink back into the question that still had no answer.

Should he have forced his student, who wanted to snap their pencil out of despair, to stay at their desk? Was it right to just sit still and let Yeo-jin break her pencil and walk out of the studio?

He still didn't know.

But maybe it's better to clash, even if it goes wrong, than to let things fall apart like with Yeo-jin and himself. In his mind, he kept seeing the image of Jeong and Seok facing each other.

Go Du-han slowly lowered his gaze. In his hands was an old drawing. A few months had passed, and the once-white paper had yellowed like the crust of a cream bun.

"I found this while cleaning the sketch room at school today. It's a drawing Seok did in the first semester of his second year. He wasn't very good, was he?"

Lim Woo-hyun's voice played again in his head. After staring at the drawing for a long time, Go Du-han finally muttered:

"...Yeah. He really wasn't good."

A bitter laugh hung at the edge of his words.

* * * *

"That thing is seriously no joke!"

— …Really?

A suspicious voice drifted from the speaker of the phone. At the doubt in his wife Choi Mi-jung's tone, Professor Lee Min-hyuk nodded even more vigorously—even though she couldn't see him.

"It's true!"

If only she had seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn't be questioning him now. Min-hyuk looked down at the photo he had gotten back from Kang Seok, his excitement barely contained.

The sculpture in the photo had seemingly leapt out of the image and come to life. It was hard to believe he had gotten such a vibrant sculpture for just five million won—even if it was just a deposit.

Yes, five million won was a lot of money. But after seeing that sculpture, he could only think of it as a bargain.

Min-hyuk recalled the day he was supposed to pick up the "Red Sunlit Vine Owl" sculpture. There was so much preparation needed to ensure it wasn't damaged, and that was the only regret—that he couldn't take it home right away.

He had to show it to his wife!

He'd taken some photos, sure, but they weren't satisfying. It was a three-dimensional sculpture, not just a flat image, and the photos didn't do it justice.

He wanted to see the look on her face when she saw the real thing. That was what he was determined to do.

— If you like it, then that's what matters. But... how much more did you pay?

His wife's gentle voice came from the other end of the line.

"Huh?"

— You originally paid five million as a deposit, right? So how much more did you pay?

How much more...?

Just before getting into his car, Min-hyuk turned around. In the distance, he saw Seok's furniture shop.

Seeing the shop triggered memories—his conversation with Kang Seok in the workshop began replaying in his mind.

"Thank you. Really, thank you. Thanks to you, I've gotten such an amazing sculpture."

"I just did the work I was paid for."

"Please don't say that. Sir. There's no way this Vine Owl sculpture is worth just five million won. Even I know that. My father was an ornithologist—I learned a lot about birds growing up. This level of detail is unreal."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. It's so lifelike, I'd believe you if you told me it was the same owl I saw back then... Oh, that reminds me—the five million was just the deposit. I need to pay the rest now. How much should I pay? It feels wrong to put a price on a sculpture like this…"

Kang Seok had made a curious face at that. Then, as if Min-hyuk had forgotten something obvious, he shook his head.

"We agreed that your father would decide the final amount when he saw it."

Right. The value would be determined based on his father's reaction. Min-hyuk wasn't so sure that was a good idea. Especially knowing how skeptical his father could be.

"Then maybe we should at least set a minimum price for the piece?"

Though their lives had diverged—Min-hyuk stuck at a desk, translating Dante's Divine Comedy, while Kang Seok worked with his hands—they were both people who respected art. And Min-hyuk believed good work should be properly valued.

But Kang Seok didn't budge. He still insisted that the final price would be based on Min-hyuk's father's reaction.

It was clear—Kang Seok wasn't as interested in what the buyer thought as he was in the reaction of the recipient, Lee Yeong-hyuk.

Why? Why let the father determine the artwork's value? Why must it be him?

Only then did Min-hyuk arrive at a realization.

Kang Seok had something he wanted to say to Min-hyuk's father—something he wanted to express through this sculpture. And that message had to be delivered for the Vine Owl sculpture to be complete.

What was the message? What did he want to say?

Min-hyuk couldn't suppress his curiosity. But how to ask without sounding intrusive?

Ah.

"By any chance... does this Vine Owl sculpture have a title?"

If there was a message, there had to be a title. Titles often captured the essence of what a work was trying to convey.

And then, in response to his question, Kang Seok's mouth opened.

"The title of this Vine Owl sculpture is..."

— Honey? I can't hear you. Should I call back later?

Min-hyuk blinked back to the present. From the speaker, Choi Mi-jung's voice was calling him again.

— Honey?

Min-hyuk opened the car door and bent forward into the seat. His thoughts had already flown far away.

It was time to answer the person waiting on the other end.

"No, so what happened is this…"

...

A long streak of color stretched across the night sky, like the navy feathers on a swallow's back.

Seongbuk-dong. A single-family house. On the first floor, in the cozy main bedroom, Lee Yeong-hyeok—father of Lee Min-hyeok—lay on the bed like a bird in its nest, gazing out the window, blinking slowly.

It was a large mansion.

Far too large, really, for someone like Yeong-hyeok, who had spent his life as an ornithologist chasing after birds' tail feathers. And yet, in addition to this home, he owned three more properties.

'Why am I clinging so desperately to all this when I can't even take it with me when I die?'

It wasn't even all money he had earned himself. This mansion stood atop the wealth his father had accumulated from his days as a hunter.

His unfocused eyes, dulled with age, held only deep regret and exhaustion. Slowly, he brought closer the photo he'd been holding near his chest with his rough, wrinkled hand.

It showed an Eagle Owl dozing off, half-closed eyes peeking out from its hiding place between trees and underbrush. Though it should've been sleeping in the bright daylight, it looked annoyed at someone's presence and had cracked open one eye in irritation.

Given how temperamental Eagle Owls are, even managing to take that photo had been something of a feat.

Remembering the days of his youth, when he wandered with just a camera to capture images like this, an emotion too complex to name surged in his chest. Perhaps his only true lingering attachment in life.

If only I could see the Eagle Owl one more time before winter ends. The thought lingered. But it was unlikely. His body was now too heavy and worn to chase after a winter migratory bird.

Was this how he would go—simply resting, in an aged and spent body?

Just as Yeong-hyeok ran his hand over the photo with a tinge of regret, a murmur floated in through the slightly open door.

— "Originally, we paid five million won as an advance, right? How much more did you end up paying?"

It was his daughter-in-law, Choi Mi-jung's voice. Five million won as an advance, she said. He felt a flicker of curiosity—only for it to instantly vanish.

A few years ago, he might have perked up and listened carefully, but not anymore. Yeong-hyeok was too old, too weary to bother with such things.

— "…depending on their response… said they'd accept it? …that's seriously… gutsy… huh? …really that much?"

With his curiosity gone, the conversation became little more than noise, the words only half-heard.

Not that it mattered. Yeong-hyeok, bored by the slow passage of time, lifted the photo again. The napping Eagle Owl stared back at him, deep in the heart of winter.

February 14th.

A dim, overcast sky offered no hint of light. A gray sky, and beneath it, office workers in black suits. Kim Yoon-seo, assistant director of the Jak-yak Gallery, let out a long sigh.

Ko Do-han's solo exhibition was just around the corner.

After today and tomorrow, the opening would be the day after.

The gallery buzzed with activity. As Yoon-seo sighed, three more artworks that needed to be displayed were brought in beside her.

Wait—a moment. Three pieces?

Yoon-seo's expression soured instantly, like someone crushed in a rush-hour subway. She immediately turned to a passing staff member and asked,

"Why are there only three? We're short two pieces."

They had cleared space for five canvases—size 20 each—expecting a quintet series. But only three had arrived.

Things had seemed to be progressing smoothly during earlier check-ins. So why only three?

Her eyes turned toward the paintings.

"Well… we were told to bring just these three for now."

"What? That's—no, never mind. They're heavy—go ahead and bring them in. Sorry to stop you."

It wasn't something to push onto the staff. Even in her dazed frustration, Yoon-seo reminded herself of her working principles: obey from above, don't misplace blame below. That was her golden rule.

"It's fine," the staff said.

But still—this was a problem. Another one.

It was a common issue when dealing with new artists: ambition that couldn't keep pace with their skill or time. This was precisely why the gallery got so hectic during Ko Do-han's solo exhibit season.

Sighing again, Yoon-seo took out her phone. She needed answers, now. The artist's busy schedule moving artworks around was a secondary concern.

Leaning against a white wall, she scrolled through her messages with a thumb. A white wall.

Oh. Still white.

But her expression no longer carried annoyance or fatigue.

"When's your expected deadline?"

"…It'll be tight, but do you think you can finish within a week?"

A week.

Not just "tight"—outright impossible, really. Ever since she heard the artist planned to make glass peonies for a 3D piece, Yoon-seo knew a week wouldn't be enough.

She recalled the supply costs from their records. The sheer amount had made her gasp. Not because the artist was greedy, but because the scale of the intended work was enormous.

From managing gallery finances, she could estimate how large a piece would be just from the supply budget.

And the budget suggested Kang-seok's 3D mural would fill the entire wall behind her.

In one week? Nonsense.

She had even once made a glass flower herself, at the suggestion of Gallery Director Seol Yeo-jin, who'd hoped to collaborate with a glasscraft influencer. Even with the help of an instructor, it had taken almost an entire afternoon.

Even assuming you got faster with practice, each bloom still took at least 3–4 hours.

Kang-seok likely had no previous glasswork experience. And this wasn't just any piece—it had to be exhibition-quality.

Even if he made one flower in two hours, being generous, he'd need hundreds to fill the wall.

Even if he kept it sparse—100 flowers, minimum. That alone was 200 hours of work. More than 8 days straight, doing nothing else.

But a person can't work nonstop. They need to eat, rest, stretch, sleep. So realistically, even more time.

In short, one week was nowhere near enough.

'Well… it's not like we publicly announced that the mural would be installed before the opening... So it's fine, isn't it?'

It might disappoint Seol Yeo-jin, but it wasn't mandatory. And since it was an unreasonable request to begin with, no one could blame the artist if he couldn't deliver.

I'll have to remind the director not to pressure artists like this in the future, Yoon-seo thought.

As she made that resolution, a familiar—but somehow out-of-place—voice reached her.

"Master, drink this up. They say it's great for growing taller."

"This won't make me taller. I'm just… in a late growth phase, okay? I will grow."

"How would you know that, Master? Come on, drink it. A student from my class brought this from a big-name oriental medicine clinic in Gangnam just for you. I brought it so you'd grow tall, so chug—yes! One more time! Chug-chug!"

Yoon-seo turned toward the voice, her face twisting with confusion.

What is he doing here?

Walking toward the entrance was Jo Dong-beom—the owner of the glass studio where she had once crafted a flower herself. The same man who had flatly refused when she and Seol Yeo-jin suggested opening a class in partnership with the gallery.

And yet here he was, strolling into the gallery, beaming.

Even more surprising: the person trailing right behind him was none other than Kang-seok.

Why is Kang-seok here? And what's with the "Master" business?

Still dazed, Yoon-seo moved toward the entrance.

Only then did she notice the massive shadow behind them.

Now what? She tilted her head up, the shadow at least twice the height of Jo Dong-beom.

Kang-seok saw her and walked over.

"It's been a while, Director Kim."

"Yes… artist-nim. It has."

It had been exactly six days since they'd last seen each other.

"Is it okay if we install this now?"

Looking at the enormous object wrapped in heavy black vinyl, Yoon-seo couldn't mask her strange expression.

No way. No way. No way… she thought, eyes darting to Kang-seok.

"Don't tell me… is this the 3D mural you mentioned?"

"Yes."

"…Excuse me?"

"It is."

"…Pardon?"

"Yes?"

…Eh?