Following Kim Beom-shin, there's Hadas.
Yeonwoo, a monstrous rookie composer who released only three songs—all of which topped music streaming charts.
Casual listeners might not know him, but those serious about music couldn’t ignore his name.
Especially industry insiders.
The hottest discussions bloomed in communities of aspiring composers dreaming of debut.
-Wait, is Fly High really made with money chords? ;;;
-How’d he create this with chords everyone uses?
-I tried swapping instruments, tweaking tempo, doing every crazy thing—turns out it’s got jazz vibes.
-Jazz? Bullshit LOLOL
-Where’s the jazz here? A music illiterate’s lurking in this community.
-Deadass;;; Do what I say: slow the tempo, change instruments… [truncated]
-;;;Just tried what that guy said—it’s legit jazz;;;;;
-What, how;;;;
-The bass is jazz? Never imagined that.
-You clowns missed it? LOL Change Rising’s instruments + speed it up = pure trot LOLOL The beat’s textbook trot LOLOL
-Didn’t even tweak it but sensed trot vibes LOL Subtle trot undertones LOL.
-Wait, blending jazz and trot?
-Yeonwoo is a legit genius.
-Not sure about genius, but his songs are insanely addictive.
They placed Yoo In somewhere near genius territory.
While aspiring composers hailed him as fresh inspiration for the stagnant industry, professionals scrambled to secure his tracks.
Who wouldn’t want songs from the composer who made both has-beens and rookies chart-toppers?
Top agencies pursued him—even singers directly contacted Ji-young.
For Ji-young, it was exhausting yet advantageous.
Perception shifted from “Ji-young’s just Yoo In’s agent” to “Shin Ji-young—the producer behind Daydream’s mega hit!”
This industry remained flooded with debut-seeking idols.
For idols, rookie producers might be a red ocean—but Shin Ji-young? A blue ocean golden ticket.
No one would ignore an established composer-producer like her.
As news spread of Ji-young’s U.S. return (thanks to Yoo In), offers poured in.
Some slyly approached her for idol projects while eyeing Yoo In’s tracks.
But it didn’t matter.
Ji-young already had the song she wanted from Yeon-woo—one so inspiring it made creativity erupt.
She browsed agencies like a luxury shopper, inspecting trainees and plotting idol productions.
Full-scale projects would likely launch soon.
Meanwhile, winter arrived unnoticed.
What had Yeon-woo been doing?
“Teacher, goodbye!!”
“Take care.”
He’d been diligently studying at daycare.
Lately, Yeon-woo left daycare around 2-3 p.m.
“Fun today?”
“Yeah, but Ha-eun and Si-yeon kept bugging me.”
“Both girls? How?”
“They kept demanding I play only with them.”
Ji-young—who fetched him daily—smirked. Her nephew already charmed girls.
“Annoying?”
“Nah. If they bother me, I play piano and they stop.”
“I see.”
After a two-minute chat during their walk... they entered a building—not home.
This was Heo Ok’s building... housing the studio Heo Ok, Ji-hoon, and Ji-young meticulously built for Yeon-woo.
(Well, not just his—Ji-young shared it.)
By now, Ji-young had formalized their partnership.
Since Yeon-woo was a minor, Ji-hoon joined as co-owner. The business was dubbed SSHIN—Konglish blending “Shin” with double S’s for the two Shins running it.
Their third-floor studio sprawled across three rooms, plus a lounge/kitchen and shower-equipped bathroom.
One room each for Yeon-woo and Ji-young, the third a recording booth.
Inside the sleek studio, Ji-young prepared Yeon-woo’s snack—two palm-sized sweet-salty cookies and milk.
Yeon-woo devoured them while chattering, then stood up.
“Auntie, see you later!”
“Come to my room if bored. Or call me. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
Now, their separate hours began.
Yeonwoo enters his room.
He loved this room.
This was the first room that belonged entirely to him.
The space was filled with a computer, speakers, several MIDI keyboards, and other music equipment for his creative work, alongside a guitar, an upright piano, and a tablet PC.
A desk had also been set up in one corner for whenever Yeonwoo needed to do homework or read.
Scattered in the gaps between furniture were car and dinosaur figurines he adored.
Yeonwoo pulled a new dinosaur figure from his bag—a gift from his father—and placed it among the others (or more accurately, among the fairies perched on the dinosaurs).
“Say hello, everyone. This is a Kentrosaurus. It lived during the Mesozoic era and belongs to the stegosaur family. See how the spikes on its back look like actual swords?”
The fairies’ eyes followed Yeonwoo’s gaze, locking onto the figure in his hand.
But their interest was fleeting.
The music-obsessed fairies soon abandoned the dinosaurs to cluster around the computer, piano, and guitar.
Their synchronized stares seemed to shout, Hurry up and make music already!
“Fine, fine. Time to get to work.”
Yeonwoo’s cheerful grin vanished as he settled into focus, sliding into his chair in front of the computer.
He’d written 15 songs a few months prior but hadn’t composed much since. Recently, though, he’d started again.
Yet not a single new piece had been finished.
He’d been trapped in a cycle of writing, deleting, and revising one song over and over.
This track was different—the first he’d poured his heart into from the very beginning, unlike his earlier rush-to-finish pieces.
And today, it would finally be complete.
After swapping out one instrument following endless deliberation, Yeonwoo hit play.
The song was jazz.
As the subdued melody began, a satisfied smile flickered across his face before fading into loneliness, then deepening into sorrow.
But he didn’t cry.
He swallowed the tears, wiped his eyes before they could fall, and saved the file.
“Done.”
It was perfect.
He could declare without doubt: this was the greatest song of his life.
After sending the file to his phone, he checked the time.
“Ah.”
It was already time to leave.
Knock knock.
Right on cue, Jiyeong peeked in. “Yeonwoo, let’s go.”
“Okay, Aunt.”
He tidied his desk and left with her.
“We’re home!”
The moment they stepped inside, the smell of cooking enveloped them.
“Mmm, galbi? Mom!! Pork or beef?”
Jiyeong bolted to the kitchen. At 37, she still acted half her age.
“We have a child here—why are you causing a scene? Set the table!”
“Can’t I sneak a bite? I’m starving!”
“It’s almost ready! Can’t you wait? Who’s the kid here—you or Yeonwoo?”
Undeterred, Jiyeong snatched a rib and popped it into her mouth.
“Hot!!”
Naturally, the sizzling meat burned. She gulped it down anyway.
“Yeonwoo, want some? Beef galbi’s amazing.”
“I’ll eat when it’s served.”
“Look how mature he is! Unlike someone here.”
Heo-ok watched her grandson fondly. Jiyeong pouted at the pair.
“Ugh, am I the outcast? Fine, I’ll sulk!”
“Ew!”
Yeonwoo fake-gagged as Jiyeong stuck out her tongue.
“Seriously?!” she gasped. “Your aunt’s traumatized!”
“I’m traumatized. Aunty, you’re too old for this.”
“Who said that?!”
“Seoyun. She says only pretty girls like her can act cute, not old ladies.”
“…Is she pretty?”
“Nope. Total princess complex.”
“Where’d you learn that term?”
“Friends.”
Jiyeong shot Heo-ok a look. “Mom, he’s picking up weird stuff at daycare. Shouldn’t he be in gifted school?”
“…I’ve had the same thought about him.”
“Wow. How can you say that to the daughter you birthed in agony? Are you even my mom?!”
Jiyeong’s tantrum died as Heo-ok placed the galbi on the table. She promptly switched to setting dishes.
Near the end of the meal, Yeonwoo turned to Heo-ok, cheeks pink.
“Grandma, I made a jazz song.”
“Jazz? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“No, it’s been a while since I made any new song.”
“Yeah, I was so focused on making this one that I couldn’t write other new songs.”
Ji-young was surprised.
“What? You, who used to churn out new songs like they were nothing, spent over two months on just one? How good is it?”
Yeon-woo answered, “It’s the best song I’ve ever written!”
“Whoa, really?”
“Your best song is jazz? This jazz-loving grandma couldn’t be happier!”
Seeing her grandma’s delight, Yeon-woo felt a flicker of pride.
Ji-young eyed her and casually asked, “Can I hear it?”
“I’ll play it for Grandma later!”
“Hey! Let your aunt listen too!”
“No! It’s embarrassing!”
“Why all of a sudden?”
When Yeon-woo blushed, Ji-young looked baffled.
Heo-ok spoke up this time.
“If you’re shy, play it later—but this grandma wants to hear it now. Will you share it?”
After hesitating, Yeon-woo fetched her smartphone and connected it to the newly bought Bluetooth speaker.
The moment the song began.
Heo-ok and Ji-young set down their utensils, absorbed instantly.
It was nothing like Yeon-woo’s previous work.
Every element—the beat, melody, instrumentation—pulsed with raw ache.
A song so steeped in sorrow it felt impossible for a child to compose.
Like a blade slicing through their chests, leaving hearts bruised.
Unconsciously, Ji-young and Heo-ok’s eyes reddened.
It was that kind of song.
Yeon-woo stopped the music, sensing they’d cry through dinner otherwise.
“Um… I’ll stop here.”
Despite the song’s grief, she offered only a shy smile.
Heo-ok steadied herself. “Have you named it?”
“…Mom.”
“Huh?”
“The title is ‘Mom.’”
“Mom…?”
A song by a child who’d lost her mother too soon.
That’s why it clawed at their hearts.
“It’s almost the anniversary of her passing. I heard about tribute songs and… tried making one.”
“It is a tribute, but… it’s too sad, Yeon-woo.”
As Ji-young wiped tears, Yeon-woo smiled.
“Don’t swallow sadness. Cry. Otherwise, it festers.”
She’d learned this after years of forced silence under oppression.
Ji-young wordlessly stroked her hair. Heo-ok nodded.
Grief, released, would harden into strength.
By Heo-ok’s measure, Yeon-woo was healing right.
Yet she marveled.
Separating the song from its story, the music alone chilled her.
Yeon-woo’s talent—once trailing Heo-ok’s piano-driven jazz legacy—now surpassed it.
In under a year.
Heo-ok hadn’t imagined even a genius could soar so fast. She’d run out of lessons.
Only time could grant the depth he lacked.
So what could she offer now?
A broader horizon. New worlds.
Impulsive but resolute, Heo-ok decided.
“Yeon-woo.”
“Yes?”
“How about visiting Japan with this grandma?”
To show her the world.
