After Being Told to Infuse Emotions, Yeonwoo’s Compositions Spiraled Out of Control.
“This song is called ‘Kindergarten.’ This one’s ‘Bed,’ this one’s ‘Tyrannosaurus,’ this one’s ‘Booger’! And this one’s ‘Poop’!”
Yeonwoo had mastered the pinnacle of childish humor—boogers and poop, topics no child could resist—but she showed no signs of stopping.
Himari observed it all and transcribed the music into sheet scores.
It was as if she were a royal scribe of the Joseon dynasty, devoted to documenting every note of Yeonwoo’s creations.
Of course, it hadn’t been this way from the start.
But the more she witnessed Yeonwoo composing piece after piece, the more unavoidable it became.
It was educational.
Truly.
One might assume someone of Himari’s caliber had nothing left to learn, yet here she was, genuinely studying.
Yeonwoo never repeated the same chord progression. She never recycled melodies or borrowed familiar motifs.
This defied all norms, even for someone just beginning to compose.
Just as painters have distinct styles, composers carry their own signatures.
Was this what it meant to be a genius—untethered by such constraints?
Himari, once hailed as a prodigy herself, now spent her days cringing at her own title.
People didn’t realize.
That the true musical genius was now this child alone.
Could another like her exist?
It had to be a divine joke.
No—perhaps this child herself was the joke.
A prank by the gods to upheave the stagnant music world?
“Our Yeonwoo never ceases to amaze.”
As time passed, Himari’s Korean had improved enough for her to offer praise.
“How do you do this?”
At her words, Yeonwoo—midway through a composition titled “Fart”—paused and looked up.
Sunlight caught the girl’s eyes, shifting their brown into molten gold. Himari’s heart stuttered.
Too beautiful.
This had to be divine mischief.
Not only talent, but visuals bestowed by the heavens?
“You taught me, Auntie.”
Damn, even her words were heart-piercing.
“Putting emotions in. Building around a theme—it’s so fun! The songs come easier now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! Auntie Himari’s awesome.”
Praise was welcome, but Himari could never extrude a masterpiece from flatulence.
Lately, Himari wrestled with a dilemma.
Yeonwoo’s emotion-driven compositions were too brilliant not to share. An album was essential.
Of course, securing permission from Heo-ok—no, Yeonwoo’s father—loomed as a hurdle. But first, a greater issue:
No label would accept tracks titled “Poop,” “Booger,” and “Fart,” no matter their quality.
Anyway.
“I’m not awesome. You’re the marvel here. This isn’t something just anyone can do.”
True—at least she couldn’t alchemize excrement into art.
“But you’ve done it too, Auntie.”
“Me?”
When have I ever composed about farts?
As Himari puzzled, Yeonwoo launched into “Fuyu no Umi”—“Winter Sea”—one of Himari’s own works.
A piece steeped in sorrow as deep as Yeonwoo’s mother’s grief.
When the last note faded, Yeonwoo lifted her hands from the keys and fixed Himari with a stare.
“Auntie.”
“Hmm?”
“Why do you only write sad things?”
During Himari’s hesitation, Yeonwoo segued into a medley of her compositions.
Each piece bled melancholy.
Not exclusively—some carried other dark emotions—but sorrow dominated.
“Ah… Well…”
Himari’s Korean failed her. She fumbled for her phone, switching to Japanese.
“There was… a great sadness. So vast I couldn’t escape it for years.”
“I see.”
Yeonwoo nodded solemnly. Young but perceptive, she’d learned early to avoid pressing where it hurt.
“Still?”
“Hm? Somewhat…”
“Is that why you don’t write new songs?”
“No.”
Creative drought plagued veteran artists too. New ideas didn’t come easily.
“Then just write!”
“It’s… not that simple.”
“Write about something you love!”
“Adults can’t just compose about ramen.”
“I get it. Grown-up stuff’s complicated.”
Relief flooded Himari. At least the six-year-old wasn’t advocating more poop symphonies.
“You must love something besides food.”
“Like what?”
“Grandma.”
“Ah… Sensei.” Heo-ok.
Yes. What Himari cherished beyond meals was her teacher.
Her affection might match Yeonwoo’s. Her reverence, perhaps exceed it.
Lightning struck.
Why had she never considered it?
After years of admiration—why no tribute to Sensei?
“Yeonwoo.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll try. While thinking of Sensei.”
“Okay!”
Himari ruffled Yeonwoo’s hair and stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To create.”
Unlike her protégé, she couldn’t conjure music on command. As Himari turned toward her studio, she froze.
"Ah... I can’t leave Yeonwoo alone."
"[Um...]"
"[Ah, Manager. I thought you’d left since it was so quiet.]"
"[Was I really that invisible?]"
"[Yeah, ah! Perfect. I’m heading to the recording studio to write a song. Could you watch Yeonwoo for me, Manager?]"
"[R-really? Songwriting? Go, go! Write while the inspiration lasts! I’ll take care of Yeonwoo.]"
The manager rarely showed Himari such a bright smile.
From his perspective—someone who’d been anxiously waiting for her to compose again—he couldn’t help but rejoice at her sudden burst of creativity.
After Himari entered the studio to solidify her灵感, the manager quietly observed Yeonwoo from behind.
Though he’d been solely responsible for Himari at first, his growing seniority had gradually expanded his roster of artists.
While Himari remained his primary focus, he now oversaw numerous singers and managers under their distribution agency.
Not all of them specialized in jazz.
He’d witnessed singers across genres perform and compose.
This experience let him recognize Yeonwoo was no ordinary child.
Years in this industry made it impossible not to distinguish the extraordinary from the mundane.
The same applied to songs.
That boy crafted masterpieces every time.
Though Heo Ok’s intimidating presence—even more formidable than Himari’s—kept him from speaking freely, he couldn’t deny his fascination.
What if their agency handled Yeonwoo’s music?
The entire world might embrace him as passionately as they had Himari.
A pipe dream, of course.
He lacked the confidence to manage both Himari’s theatrics and Heo Ok’s aura.
"Huh?"
His smartphone blared abruptly.
Startled, he fumbled for his phone while glancing at Yeonwoo.
The boy paused his playing to stare at him. Flustered, the manager stammered:
"G-gomen nasai! Ah, s-sorry, I mean... apologies!!"
"It’s fine."
As Yeonwoo resumed playing, the manager desperately tried to silence the call.
But he couldn’t.
‘The president?’
A call from the company’s head—unthinkable for a mere manager to ignore.
He answered with trembling hands.
"[Matsuda speaking! How can I assist?]"
-[Hey, runt. How’s Himari these days?]
"[Uesugi is currently—]"
-Wait.
"[Yes?]"
-[I hear piano. Is she composing?]
"[Ah, well...]"
-[That’s not Himari’s bratty playing. Where have I heard this style?]
"[It’s...]"
The manager froze as the president cut him off.
-[...Jade. It’s Heo Ok, isn’t it?]
Hearing Heo Ok’s essence in Yeonwoo’s performance left him speechless.
"[That’s—]"
-[I’m coming over.]
The line went dead.
The manager stared at his phone, wiping sweat with one hand.
"[Now of all times...]"
He bolted to Himari’s studio.
Normally, he’d never interrupt her creative flow.
Why poke a dormant bomb?
But this was different.
If Himari was a contained explosive, the president was an unstable warhead—unpredictable and lethal.
The same applied to Himari’s perspective.
"Uesugi!!"
"[What?! Who said you could barge in?!]"
"[Disaster! The president’s coming!!]"
His scream mirrored a general facing an invading army.
Himari reacted identically.
"[Why’s that deranged fossil coming here?!]"
"[He recognized Heo Ok in Yeonwoo’s playing...]"
"[Oh shit...!]"
Her pen clattered to the floor.
Heo Ok, who’d arrived at Himari’s Tenjin studio after shopping to retrieve Yeonwoo, turned glacial upon hearing the news.
Her frosty aura—reminiscent of the Jazz Witch’s legendary wrath—left Himari paralyzed.
"Who’s coming?"
Heo Ok growled in Korean, abandoning her usual Japanese for Himari’s sake.
Himari jabbed the manager’s side.
"[I-I was talking to the president, and he heard Yeonwoo’s piano... S-sorry, I didn’t think—]"
"So Datemura Shunji... that wretched relic."
"Y-yes, Sensei."
"He’s still breathing...?"
Heo Ok sighed bitterly.
Datemura Shunji.
Owner of POJ Music, a top-tier Japanese distribution agency and talent firm [entertainment offices in local terms].
Despite avoiding idol culture, his foresight had kept POJ among Japan’s top three agencies for years.
After Japan’s former top agency collapsed and restructured, POJ objectively became the largest native music entity.
But the critical issue...
"Call him. Warn him I’ll retaliate if he comes."
"......"
"Not that the old fool would listen."
Their relationship was notoriously hostile.
They coexisted under the same sky but should never have shared the same earth.
Trapped between them, Himari dreaded the storm their reunion would unleash.
"Grandma! Listen! This is Wes Montgomery’s song!"
Yeonwoo, blissfully unaware, kept playing.
