At first, I thought he was just mimicking my swing.
In fact, that alone would have been impressive, but upon closer listening, it was completely different from what I had taught him.
He was following the swing in a textbook manner, yet there was undeniably something fresh about it.
Not that it was groundbreaking.
As I said, it was textbook—frankly clichéd—and the composition itself was simple.
But as the child continued to play, the melody grew richer.
He was rearranging the music on his own as he played the piano.
Could a mere six-year-old really do this?
It wasn’t impossible.
Though rare, children like this—labeled as geniuses—do appear from time to time.
So, my grandson is a genius.
Heo Ok, a jazz pianist and former professor in the Department of Practical Music at a prestigious Japanese university, felt a fire ignite in her heart.
It was a flame of desire, the kind that burns in a teacher who has found a promising student.
Was this how Segoe Kensaku felt when he faced Cho Hoon-hyun?
Was this how Chuckie Sullivan felt upon meeting Will Hunting in Good Will Hunting?
Heo Ok, struggling to contain her rising fervor, asked her grandson, “Are you having fun?”
At those words, Yeon-woo flinched and turned around.
She found him hunched over, his face etched with fear—a reaction shaped by his past, though Heo Ok didn’t notice it then.
Without a word, she sat beside him and played exactly what he had been playing.
Yeon-woo’s eyes widened as he stared up at her.
“When playing the piano, sit straight and curve your fingers as if holding an egg…”
Hypnotized by habit, Heo Ok began reciting the basics, but a memory surfaced:
‘Hold it like an egg. Now play. No, not like that—again!’
Her own sharp voice.
A boy slumped at the piano, defeated.
That boy was her son, Ji-hoon.
As young Ji-hoon’s image overlapped with Yeon-woo’s, Heo Ok swallowed her words.
She recalled her son’s tear-streaked face, his sobbed confession that he hated the piano—all under her harsh tutelage.
Her son had been born with perfect pitch, the rare, innate kind that detects even the subtlest tonal shifts, not the half-learned version from casual practice.
Yet she’d transformed that raw gem into a lifeless lump of coal.
Remembering this, Heo Ok rested her hand on Yeon-woo’s head.
He was startled but soon met her gaze calmly.
“You should play freely. No need for my permission—even now.”
“…….”
Yeon-woo looked at the keys, eyes gleaming.
After a moment’s pause, he placed his fingers on them and began playing the swing again.
Though still unpolished, his rhythm flowed naturally.
Yes, this is enough.
Heo Ok quieted her mind.
Greed, after all, breeds misery.
Several mornings later:
“I’m off.”
As usual, Ji-hoon left early for work after bidding Yeon-woo goodbye.
After watching his father’s car vanish from the balcony, Yeon-woo opened the nearly empty fridge.
He pulled out bread, jam, and butter—staples magically replenished just before they ran out.
“…?”
Something unfamiliar caught his eye.
What’s this?
He grabbed it.
Ah…!
Ham.
He’d forgotten—Grandma had promised to buy ham for sandwiches.
Yeon-woo’s eyes sparkled.
At his uncle’s house, he’d only ever stared at such treats. There, he’d been allowed only their leftovers.
Giddy, he toasted the bread, spread jam and butter thinly, then stacked two slices of ham before biting in.
His eyes flew wide.
So delicious.
He devoured the toast, made another for his grandmother, washed his hands meticulously, and sat at the piano.
Since that first swing melody, his days had transformed.
He now managed meals alone and gravitated to the piano.
As his fingers touched middle C, the music fairies themselves seemed to welcome him. At the center sat the fairy grandmother, their leader, with crossed legs and a dignified expression.
"What... today?"
When Yeon-woo silently asked, the fairy grandmother rose and pointed to the keys. The fairies blankly followed her gesture, staring at the piano. She was instructing him to replay exactly what she'd taught.
Yeon-woo nodded knowingly and began playing. Gradually, the phrases expanded into a minute-long swing piece. What had once been simple now sounded vibrant and rich—yet a minute felt painfully brief.
Having perfected the piece, Yeon-woo finished flawlessly and glanced at the fairy grandmother with longing.
"Can’t you teach me more?"
His pleading eyes met her firm headshake. Her resolve was clear: no further lessons.
"Just a little more... please?"
The fairy grandmother shook her head again, first pointing to the keys, then at Yeon-woo himself.
"Play it again?"
When she shook her head once more, he ventured, "Do you want me to create my own?"
Only then did she nod. Her one-minute lesson had been a blueprint for him to build upon.
Yeon-woo studied the keys, recalling her performances. Truthfully, even he found swing slightly old-fashioned—a relic from the 1930s, beloved more for the fairies' lively dances than its inherent charm. He craved something faster, more exhilarating.
As melodies formed in his mind, fairies surged onto the keys, their glow guiding his fingers. But realization struck: his small hands and rudimentary skills couldn’t translate his vision. Frustrated, he glared at the fairy grandmother.
With a resigned sigh, she gestured to the fairies. They leapt down, and suddenly, Yeon-woo heard his imagined music—a privilege only he shared. The fairies scrambled across the keys, materializing his notes. He refined sections as they played, and together, they crafted a swing piece that was faster, rhythmic, and free of outdated quirks.
Memorizing the two-minute composition, Yeon-woo faced a new dilemma: when could he truly perform it? The fairy-made illusion wasn’t enough—he needed real sound.
His thoughts halted as his actual grandmother emerged, disheveled and squinting. "I wondered why it was so quiet," she said. Yeon-woo’s eyes lit up.
To him, Grandma Heo-ok was the world’s greatest pianist. He dragged her to the bench.
"What’s this? Want me to play?"
Yeon-woo demonstrated his piece painstakingly slowly. "You composed this?" she asked. He nodded.
When she played it back, he shook his head and tapped the keys insistently. Recognizing his desired tempo, Heo-ok adjusted. Satisfied, Yeon-woo taught her the remainder.
"Using me as an instrument, are you?" she chuckled. Most students would cower at her teasing, but Yeon-woo simply watched as she fetched paper and scribbled sheet music.
"This is notation—musical letters. No need to memorize."
Though illiterate, Yeon-woo understood. As Heo-ok transcribed, her expression grew solemn.
"Finished?"
At his nod, she spread the sheets and began playing—a swing piece unlike any before: brisk, modern, with a playful chill, as if a nursery rhyme had been reinvented. Complex yet weighty, it defied casual performance.
Heo-ok stared at him, spellbound, after the two-minute rendition. Yeon-woo, listening intently, pressed a key to highlight a phrase, then reworked it. She revised the score, and the once-flat passage gained vibrant texture. Even now, the music has evolved.
This child...
Not merely a prodigy, but a once-in-a-century genius—the kind past masters would hail. A shiver raced down Heo-ok’s spine.
