My past life was disappointing in many ways.
Lacking good parents was one thing, but I didn’t even have a proper mentor.
What if I had someone to guide me?
What if I had felt a little more attachment to Joseon?
Maybe I wouldn’t have gone to Japan.
Maybe I wouldn’t have died so young.
So when I met Professor Jo Inchang in this life…
I felt an unusual sense of affection and respect for him.
Even I could recognize it myself.
Despite my arrogance compared to others…
I trusted and followed Professor Jo Inchang completely.
I suppose it was because of the loneliness of my past life.
Because he was the first mentor ever to extend a hand to me.
That’s why I wanted to give Hayoung a mentor too.
The sense of stability and warmth that comes with having a teacher—
That was what could soothe Hayoung’s loneliness and rebellious nature.
Just as it had done for me in this life.
I resumed writing The Cane.
At this point, I had already surpassed 30 chapters.
I wasn’t sure how many chapters this one would become.
Whenever I wrote freely, the chapter count always ballooned.
So far, Hayoung has endured a stormy period of growth.
A solitary life, unable to trust his parents or his country.
As a scholar of the humanities, Hayoung wrote novels.
Not because he had some grand dream of becoming a writer… but because it was the only way to release the anger and frustration inside him.
A perceptive professor recognized his talent.
The professor who once called him "the hope of Joseon literature."
But Hayoung disliked that professor.
He hated anyone who tried to define him.
Hayoung made his literary debut through a prestigious newspaper.
On the day he was selected as a winner, he was invited by the judges to a takju house.
At the takju house, the judges praised him.
More talk about being “the hope of Joseon literature.”
It was suffocating.
Just as he stepped outside in frustration—
Someone followed him and spoke.
― You wrote your piece in a fit of rage.
A face lined with playful wrinkles.
He was one of the key judges, yet he had never spoken to Hayoung until now.
Hayoung flinched.
The anger he had hidden within his novel—
No one had ever pointed it out before.
How old was this man? Middle-aged, perhaps?
His constant smile made it hard to guess.
He introduced himself as a novelist.
A rather well-known one, judging by his name.
Then he mentioned a café in Jongno.
― I run a café there as my main livelihood. If you ever get bored, stop by. I’ll treat you to a free cup of coffee. Let’s chat.
That was how their connection began.
Of course, Hayoung didn’t take an immediate liking to him.
Since he was far ahead of his peers, Hayoung often found himself “bored.”
One day, on a whim, he decided to visit the café.
Honestly, he expected both the café and its owner to be nothing special.
Writers claiming to have literary talent were a dime a dozen.
So what made this man any different?
Besides, he wasn’t a professor or a scholar—just a café owner.
But in no time, the man won over Hayoung.
Because no matter what Hayoung wrote, he could see through to the anger and loneliness beneath it.
That was when Hayoung realized something.
Just as there are those who write well—
There are those who read well.
One day, after reading Hayoung’s novel, the man spoke.
― Still full of anger, aren’t you? The piece is good, but do you really think pouring your emotions into your work will bring you peace?
A remark like a fortune teller’s.
An irritatingly calm tone.
― Of course. Writing is my only way of communicating. Honestly…
Hayoung suddenly wanted to provoke him.
To see this easygoing old man flustered.
― I even wrote a piece praising Japanese rule once. Though I burned it immediately.
He expected the man to be shocked.
It was something he could rightfully be cast out for.
It was something that could never be tolerated by the ethical consciousness of an intellectual.
However, the response came without a moment’s hesitation.
That response surprised Hayoung even more.
— You must’ve been incredibly bored, how pitiful.
That was as far as I had written.
Even this alone would be enough to fill several chapters.
It hadn’t been long since I had crossed paths with Professor Jo Inchang.
Maybe that was why.
I couldn’t easily shake off the lingering impression of Cane.
The character, Hayoung.
Right now, he was facing an important opportunity.
A chance to soothe his wounded heart, even if just a little.
In other words, an opportunity for growth.
I stood up.
Sitting for such a long time had made my back stiff.
“Ugh—haa.”
As I stretched and looked around—
“…!”
The cover draft suddenly caught my eye.
“…Hmm.”
I stared at the draft in silence.
A sketch reminiscent of Munch’s The Scream.
The uncolored drawing had only notes scribbled on it—blue, gray, and so on.
In truth, I hadn’t set up another meeting with the designer.
He had insisted on meeting again, but I told him to stay by his mother’s side.
It went without saying that he felt incredibly sorry.
But honestly, this alone was sufficient as a draft.
Shilla Literature would surely craft a fantastic cover based on this.
And yet… I didn’t want to send it just yet.
The image of Hayoung I had in my mind.
And the turmoil in Hayoung’s emotions.
I wanted to express that even more.
I wanted to soothe the lingering emotions that swirled inside me.
…Should I just complete it myself?
With the canvas I used to love, using the oil paints I cherished?
“….”
After a moment of hesitation, I grabbed my coat.
There was no point in wavering—the answer was already decided.
I no longer wanted to give up or let go of the things I loved, the things I wanted to do.
I drove to a place near Sungnyemun.
To be precise, it was the art supply street in front of Sungnyemun.
I had only heard that such a street existed.
Without much information, I started wandering the area.
Art supply shops lined both sides of the alley.
It was surprising that these old stores still existed.
In my past life, art supplies were quite a luxury.
That hadn’t changed much now, but it felt like the status of art supply shops had shifted a bit.
Back then, there was an air of bourgeois extravagance around them…
But now, they just exuded a vintage charm.
I chose the oldest-looking store among them.
I wasn’t sure why.
Maybe I wanted to find a place that somewhat resembled my own years of experience.
Before even stepping inside, I stopped in my tracks.
Various sizes of canvases were stacked in front of the shop.
As I stood there, mesmerized by the canvases—
Clang—
A brass bell chimed, and the store’s door opened.
A middle-aged woman, who seemed to be the owner, spoke to me.
“Looking to buy a canvas?”
“Yes.”
“What size?”
She actively began selling.
Her long, graying hair gave her the look of someone from the art world.
But the size…
No matter what I painted on, the book’s cover dimensions were already set.
“…I’m not sure.”
“What are you planning to paint?”
“Hmm… myself.”
“You?”
“Yes. My face.”
She stared at me intently.
I wondered if she recognized me… but that didn’t seem to be the case.
Maybe she was just trying to figure out how to deal with this self-absorbed young customer.
“Then you should buy the size you think fits you. Bring them over once you've decided.”
With that, she left.
The size I think fits me.
What does that mean?
The size of my potential? Or the capacity of my mind?
The important thing is, after hearing those words, choosing a small canvas became impossible.
A merchant’s sales tactic, perhaps.
But I found myself mulling over her words again and again.
A painting that would resemble me, one that would capture Hayoung.
A book that would hold that painting.
Considering that, her words weren’t entirely wrong.
And in the end, I made my choice.
Clang—
The brass bell rang, and the shopkeeper looked at me.
Then she glanced at the canvas I had brought and laughed cheerfully.
“You picked a big one.”
“This much seems necessary.”
The canvas I chose was the second largest among the ones on display.
The biggest one was meant for landscapes—it was too large to even consider carrying home.
Of the ones I could carry, this was the biggest.
Humming a tune, she wrapped the canvas.
Usually, she’d use newspaper, but given its size, the process was taking longer than usual.
Next, I needed paint.
“Where’s the oil paint?”
“Turn around, left side.”
“What about a drying medium to speed it up?”
“It’s there too. These days, the products are good—they dry fast.”
I turned around as instructed and looked to the left.
Rows upon rows of oil paints in various colors were neatly displayed.
The store was small and old, but it had everything necessary.
I carefully selected my paints.
I didn’t need many.
Just the three primary colors—yellow, red, and blue.
Plus black and white. That was all.
There was no room to be picky about brands.
Hyekyung was completely unfamiliar with painting and knew nothing about modern art supplies.
But there was nothing to hesitate over.
The golden rule of art supplies:
“The more expensive, the better.”
I also picked up oil medium, brushes, and other necessary supplies.
Just the essentials, in various sizes.
When I piled them onto the counter, the amount was considerable.
This was going to cost me.
Still, I was thoroughly enjoying this shopping spree.
In my past life, I had longed for high-quality paints but couldn’t afford them.
Whenever I got my hands on some, I would use them sparingly, almost fearfully.
But now, being able to buy them without hesitation… it felt oddly liberating.
As the shopkeeper packed the paints into a bag, she asked,
“Are you an artist?”
“Huh?”
For a moment, I thought she recognized me.
But when I didn’t respond, she clarified,
“No, I mean, are you a painter? The way you chose your materials wasn’t ordinary. You don’t seem like a beginner.”
Ah, she meant that kind of artist.
Not a writer.
I smiled faintly and replied,
“I once wanted to be. But not anymore.”
If I had this kind of opportunity in my past life, I would have painted to pursue success as an artist.
But now, that wasn’t my goal.
I was painting for my novel.
After loading the art supplies into my car, I headed home.
And when I finally carried everything inside, of course—
Jihoon’s eyes widened.
“…What’s all that?”
“What do you think?”
“…I heard that office workers relieve stress with coloring books these days, but… this seems like a much more intense version of that…?”
Jihoon looked slightly concerned.
Well, indulging in an elegant hobby like that wouldn’t be bad, but—
“I decided to draw the cover for The Staff myself.”
“…You're publishing The Staff as a physical book?”
Ah, come to think of it, I never told Jihoon.
He must have thought I would only publish the book after finishing the story.
"It's a Korea-exclusive release, though."
"Hmm… a Korea-exclusive, huh."
"Kind of like a special gift."
"Is that a canvas? Can I open it?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
Jihoon was completely clueless about painting, too.
He had never even touched a canvas before, so he excitedly tore off all the newspaper wrapping.
"Wow… it's huge."
"Yeah, it's big. If I want to fill the whole thing… I might run out of paint later."
"Have you decided what to paint?"
"Yeah. Hayoung's face. I'll mainly use shades of blue and gray—to bring out a sense of desolation, mystery, and maybe even a hint of hope."
"It's amazing how you have a talent for this, hyung. When are you planning to start?"
"For now, I'll focus on finishing my novel today. I'll start painting tomorrow. I’ll have to juggle both for a while."
I said as I set my art supplies down on the floor.
Now that I was home, I realized I had quite a lot.
A thought suddenly crossed my mind.
…Where should I paint?
I guess the studio is my only option.
Jihoon quietly observed the art supplies.
Then, he casually suggested,
"Hyung, the weather's been nice lately."
"Huh?"
"The rooftop and storage room in this villa are empty, right?"
"And?"
"How about setting up a small art studio there? I think it’d be better to keep it separate from your writing space."
“…Oh! You’d do that for me?"
"Well, if you want me to."
After that, I praised Jihoon endlessly.
Calling him the best manager in the world, saying I couldn’t be a writer without Song Jihoon.
He pretended not to care, but he smirked as he carried the supplies up to the rooftop.
The rooftop was completely untouched.
Maybe because the building had quiet residents, it looked like a little cleaning would be enough to make it usable.
"Should we check out the storage room? See if it could work as an art studio."
"Yeah. It needs good lighting and shouldn’t be too humid."
Jihoon and I stepped inside the storage room.
And… it was in way better condition than I expected.
A large glass window letting in direct sunlight.
A perfect temperature and humidity for drying paint.
There was a slightly musty smell, but compared to the scent of oil paint, it was nothing.
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah. It’s perfect."
And just like that, I was ready to pick up my brush again after a long time.