Heo Ok, realizing the child was no ordinary genius, fell into deep contemplation.
This child’s talent far surpassed something as basic as “perfect pitch.”
If nurtured properly, he could lead not just one field of music but perhaps the entire industry—a true once-in-a-generation prodigy.
Though thrilled as a musician, she refused to rush into anything.
She had seen firsthand how impatience and pressure could crush talent.
Instead of forcing progress, she resolved to cultivate an environment.
By immersing the child in music, she hoped he would learn organically and grow to love it.
She even resisted imposing her own passion for jazz on him.
Her only wish was for him to play the music he wanted to play.
But to achieve that, he needed exposure to a vast array of music...
She decided to start with what she could do right away.
Sitting her grandson Yeon-woo beside her, she prepared to play something other than jazz.
“This time, I’ll play something different.”
What should she choose?
The answer was obvious.
It was the foundation of nearly all music genres—a universal starting point.
“This is Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, specifically Summer.”
Classical music.
Her own piano journey had begun with classical, and years of rearranging classical pieces into jazz made playing it effortless.
The first movement, Allegro non molto.
As the music swelled with a solemn grandeur, fairies began to materialize.
These were not the jazz fairies she knew.
Clad in Baroque wigs and ornate attire, they exuded pride, yet their summer-born forms seemed strangely weary—as if drained by the heat.
Their presence was fascinating, but compared to the lively swing-dancing jazz fairies, they lacked warmth.
While she observed them, the music shifted to the second movement, the mood growing heavier.
Then came the third movement, Presto—a thunderous crescendo of storms and lightning.
The fairies, swept up in her fervent playing, seemed to pour their souls into the performance.
Startled by their frenzied flight, Yeon-woo slapped his hands onto the piano keys, jolting Heo Ok from her immersion.
She stopped playing and stared at him.
“What’s wrong…?”
Her eyes widened at Yeon-woo’s alarmed expression.
She’d lost herself in the music, playing too intensely for a child who adored swing and even invented his own nursery-rhyme-inspired melodies.
“Hmm… perhaps something gentler?”
She switched to Mozart’s Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.
But to a child already crafting original swing tunes, it was mundanity itself.
Seeing his bored stare, Heo Ok sank into thought.
How could she broaden his musical horizons?
Her repertoire was limited to jazz and a handful of classical pieces.
Other instruments?
She could barely manage a C chord on the guitar.
Should she call acquaintances?
But most were overseas—legacies of her career in Japan and America.
After agonizing, she reached out for advice.
“Mom? Why are you calling so late?”
Her daughter, Ji-young—a composer four years younger than Ji-hoon—had moved to the U.S. years ago to study music.
“It’s about your nephew.”
“Oh! I already booked a flight to visit! My brother sent photos—is he really a boy? He’s adorable! I can’t wait to meet him!”
As Ji-young rambled, Heo Ok cut in.
“Your nephew—”
“Yeon-woo, right? Wait, didn’t he stop talking? Is he seeing doctors often?”
“Ji-young.”
“Sorry, Mom! Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Just listen.”
Finally seizing the chance, Heo Ok explained the situation.
“A genius? Wow… I’m more shocked you admitted it than the fact itself!”
Heo Ok stayed silent.
Praise didn’t come easily to her.
Even among so-called jazz prodigies, only a handful met her exacting standards.
In her eyes, the current music world had no true geniuses.
If I had to admit, maybe just one person?
So why? Can't you teach him yourself, Mom?
"No... I can't teach this child."
You? Then who else could?
"...No one. Yeonwoo is the type who needs to learn on his own. But I do want to show him different kinds of music and instruments. I just don’t know how."
Jiyeong scoffed at her mother’s words.
Seriously… You’re overcomplicating things.
"Huh?"
Just show him YouTube.
"...YouTube?"
Don’t tell me you don’t know what YouTube is?
"I’m not that clueless."
She’d used it during the pandemic to review her students’ assignments. Back then, she’d been startled by the platform’s endless variety—even getting sucked into short videos before swearing it off entirely. Yet here she was, living an analog life, oblivious to the simplest solutions. Is this what aging does?
She dug out an old tablet from the bedroom. She’d bought it years ago for reading news, composing, and performing, but its cold glass couldn’t replace the texture of paper, the ritual of the 8 PM broadcast, or the scratch of a pen on sheet music. Now it sat forgotten in a corner, kept alive only by its charger.
Powering it on, she opened YouTube.
“Yeonwoo?”
The boy scampered into the room at her call. She patted the space beside her, and he plopped down eagerly.
“This is a tablet.”
Nod, nod.
As he bobbed his head, Heo-ok pulled up YouTube. “You can watch anything here. Like TV, but better.”
Yeonwoo’s eyes widened at the wordless “TV” forming on his lips.
She queued his favorite first: swing. Art Tatum’s Tea for Two filled the room. On the grainy screen, a stout Black man with curly hair played with dizzying speed, his rough hands flowing like water.
“One of the fastest pianists alive. Even I can’t match him.”
Yeonwoo stared, entranced, as if fairies had materialized to dance around them. When the clip ended too soon, Heo-ok switched to another video.
A different Black musician appeared, cradling an unfamiliar instrument.
“This is a guitar. Meet Wes Montgomery—the ‘Thumb Wizard.’ He revolutionized jazz with just this.” She mimed a plucking motion.
Yeonwoo leaned closer, mesmerized by the rich sounds from such a compact tool. Next, a white drummer exploded onto the screen, sticks blurring.
“Drums. They’re the heartbeat of music.”
Each thunderous beat pulsed in Yeonwoo’s chest. Even the imagined fairies clenched their fists, spellbound.
“Buddy Rich. They call him the world’s greatest drummer.”
Heo-ok kept talking, but Yeonwoo had already tuned out, his mind weaving guitar riffs and drum solos into something new.
“Want to see more?” she asked when he pointed at the tablet.
Nod, nod.
He then mimed playing guitar and drums, eyes pleading.
“You’re asking if I can play those?”
Nod, nod.
“I only know piano. Finding a teacher isn’t easy, either.”
Yeonwoo’s face fell but he nodded—no tantrums, just quiet acceptance. Like his uncles and aunts, Heo-ok thought. Then it hit her.
“There’s something called a MIDI keyboard. It mimics other instruments. And I know someone who’s mastered it.”
She’d drag her daughter Jiyeong here if needed, first-class ticket be damned.
Her grandson—precious, brilliant, hers—was worth every penny.
