When I was young, I dreamed of becoming a sculptor.
There wasn't some grand moment that sparked it. It was just an ordinary elementary school art class. We brought bars of laundry soap and used carving knives to create something. That was all it took—I was captivated.
I remember that day vividly. Like unearthing a gem from a square block, I moved my hands, drawn by the blade.
Even to my elementary-school eyes, the finished piece looked remarkably good. Good enough to make me think, I want to fill the world with things this beautiful.
From that moment, I wanted to become a sculptor who discovers beauty.
"Frankly speaking, I think it's best if you give up on art school…"
My teacher struggled to finish the sentence. It was mid-December. A bitter cold wind slipped through the cracks of the empty art studio.
"Teacher. There are 106 accredited art schools in the country. …Are you saying there isn't even one that Seok can get into?"
My father's question made my ears burn. Not from the cold—out of shame.
Four years had passed since I started sculpture, one of the less competitive majors in the field of art. Yet, instead of improvement, I was hearing this. I hated myself for it.
"Sir, as someone who once studied art yourself, I'm sure you know—art school is just the beginning. The real world is what matters. And in our country, over 6,000 art majors graduate every year. It's brutal competition. Many students, even after four years of art school, end up doing something entirely different."
The teacher paused for breath before moving to a heavier subject.
"...Sir, Seok will be in his final year soon, and to be honest, art school is expensive. Very expensive. These days, people say it's nothing to spend five million won a month toward the end of prep season."
Art costs money. Everyone knows that.
The teacher likely brought it up because he knew our financial situation wasn't ideal.
My father surely understood what I did. I glanced at him.
His eyes, fixed on the teacher, looked unbearably sad.
"…Are you telling him to give up on his dream because of money?"
"…It may sound harsh, but the reality is—spending that kind of money to get into just any art school might do more harm than good."
"..."
I clenched my hands on my knees. I was furious. I was frustrated. And I was ashamed of my lack of talent—talent that made my father look so sad.
"Sir, I know it's a difficult decision. But maybe you should think about Seok's future."
"…His future."
"Yes. If we only think about the short term, with enough money, he might get into an art school. Seok works incredibly hard—his skills would improve quickly after the college entrance exams. He's a student who made it into Cheonghwa Arts High School, after all."
There was pride in his voice. Cheonghwa, the most prestigious arts high school in Korea. I had just barely made it in as a late addition, so hearing that left a bitter taste in my mouth.
"But from what I've seen over the years, while Seok can master the techniques if he keeps working like this…"
The teacher didn't finish. But I knew what was coming.
If he works hard, he'll learn the techniques. But talent isn't something you can earn with effort. Seok doesn't have it. Sending him to art school is pointless. It'd be better to find another path now.
But the teacher couldn't bring himself to say those words aloud. After a long, regretful look at me, he changed the subject.
"Sir, sorry for the long conversation. Anyway, I looked at Seok's grades before this meeting, and he's doing fairly well. He reads a lot and is active in school, so his student record is solid. …It might sound strange, but from the second semester, I think Seok should stop attending art lessons after school and start preparing for the college entrance exam."
In other words, prepare to apply to a liberal arts college instead of an art school.
That was the conclusion of today's parent-teacher conference.
While everyone else stayed for lessons, I climbed into our truck to head home. The teacher had kindly suggested I talk things over with my family.
As I opened the truck door, the words "[Seok's Furniture Shop]" were momentarily obscured.
Click.
The inside of the truck was still warm—Dad must've run over here. That warmth didn't belong on a day this bitterly cold.
"Cold?"
It felt warmer than the studio. Dad quickly turned on the heater and glanced at me. My eyes welled up—not from the cold, but something else. I forced a smile.
"I'm fine."
"…Shall we go straight home?"
"Yes."
"Alright."
Without another word, Dad started the engine. The truck slowly moved forward. In the distance, I saw the art studio, still lit up. I had so much to say to Dad, but no words would come out.
As we drove silently, I stared out the window. As we reached the main streets, we passed rows of academies. All I could see were art academies.
– "Dad, hurry up!"
A memory flashed by—my first day at art school in middle school. I was so excited to finally study art properly, beyond just carving soap.
I stared at the passing art schools and supply stores and forced my mouth to open.
"Dad."
"Hm?"
"…Can we stop by the bookstore?"
"The bookstore? Why?"
"To buy some workbooks."
I thought of the allowance I had saved to buy art supplies. Now, it would be spent on test prep books.
"…Seok."
"Let's just stop by."
The entrance requirements for liberal arts colleges are different from art schools. Even starting now, time was tight if I wanted to get into a university in Seoul.
As I watched the art stores disappear behind me, I muttered as if to seal a promise.
"Please."
"…Okay. Let's do that."
Dad turned the wheel. We made a right at the intersection. At last, the art schools and stores vanished from my sight.
I felt like I could breathe again. That's what I told myself.
The teacher had told us to talk again as a family, but when we got home, Dad just told me I'd done well and quietly went to his room.
Mom must've sensed something was wrong too. She followed him in with a serious expression. That was three hours ago.
In this poorly soundproofed house, the only thing I could hear was the refrigerator humming. It was the perfect environment to study.
– In my opinion, analyzing past questions is the most! important part of preparing for the college exam. So…
It was now 11:30 PM. My sister wouldn't be home from her academy for a while.
Just a little more, then I'll put the laptop back.
If she found out I was using it without permission, she'd flip. I was getting nervous when—
"Seok."
Dad called me.
"Yes!"
"Come out."
"…Why?"
I opened the door and stepped into the living room.
Dad was sitting at the table, drinking. When had he started? One bottle was already empty. He must've been drinking quietly while I listened to the lectures.
"How are you feeling?"
How long had he been sitting there? My chest tightened. I raised my voice.
"I told you I'm fine."
Dad looked at me for a while, then gestured.
"…Sit down, Seok."
Across from him was an empty soju glass. I looked around for Mom. The bedroom door was tightly shut—she must still be inside.
"..."
"Sit."
Reluctantly, I sat across from him and stared at the glass. It felt strange. Why was it there? Surely not…
Before I could finish the thought, Dad lifted the half-empty soju bottle.
"Let's have a drink."
"…High schoolers aren't supposed to drink."
"It's okay. Just one."
He didn't wait for an answer and poured it. The sharp smell of alcohol stung my nose as the glass filled.
A foreign smell.
A foreign expression on Dad's face.
It was uncomfortable.
He pushed his glass forward.
"Cheers."
Clink. The glasses touched. I awkwardly followed his motion. He emptied his glass in one go. I mimicked him, hesitantly.
It was bitter.
And somehow, sweet.
That was my first impression of soju.
I didn't want to get used to this taste. I frowned and stared at the table.
Then his voice dropped like a weight onto my head.
"Son… I'm sorry you didn't inherit any talent from me."
His heavy apology crushed me. My eyes burned. Was it the soju? I remembered his story—how he'd followed Grandpa, a stone sculptor, into the world of art.
"…I should've given you something better."
"I told you, I'm okay."
Then came the sound of quiet sobbing. Not mine, not Dad's—Mom, crying quietly from behind the bedroom door.
"Son."
The suffocating frustration that had been stuck in my throat surged up again. My lack of talent was making my whole family sad. That made me angry. And deeply sorry.
"...But if you still want to continue—"
"I said I'm fine!"
I roughly ran my hand over my face. I'd lost control. I'd made a mistake. But I couldn't hold it in. My emotions were boiling over, so I stood up. I couldn't control it.
"I... I'm confident I can be happy, even on this path."
Even if it's not art.The words I couldn't bear to say stuck in my throat.I turned away and walked off quickly. I needed fresh air.
Bang!I burst out of the house.Clack clack. I dragged my bicycle—bought to save on transport costs—down the steps carelessly.
Then I pedaled hard.I just rode without thinking.I pushed as hard as the resentment in me.
As the scenery rushed past, memories of all the effort I'd put in flashed by.
"Aaaaargh!"
To be honest, it was just bravado.
I didn't want to quit. I loved art. I loved sculpture. I couldn't see myself happy doing anything else.
My eyes stung. Sweat—or something else—blurred my vision. I could hardly see. Still, I kept pedaling.I didn't want to think. About anything.
As I raced forward, totally out of it—
Meow!
A calico cat leapt out of a bush.
"Ah!"
Crash!I swerved the handlebars, and the bike flipped. My body scraped and rolled down a slope beside the park trail. Tangled with the bike, everything hurt.
Before I knew it, I was lying on the ground, flat on my back.
"Haa... haa!"
Maybe because I'd been pedaling non-stop, I was gasping for air. My mind gradually calmed down. As my blurred vision cleared, I saw the moon. A full moon, bright and beautiful.
"So pretty."
Was that sculpted by someone too?
Meow!
Just as I was starting to feel embarrassed about that silly thought, the cat meowed again. It was definitely the same calico cat from before.
Suddenly, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. I felt like I'd heard that meow somewhere else before...
The moment that thought hit me, a sharp pain exploded in my head.Had I hit my head when I fell?It felt like hundreds of needles were stabbing into my skull.
"Ugh!"
My vision swirled.The headache got worse and worse.It hurt.I'd never felt pain like this before.
I forced my limp arm up to clutch my head.What's happening to me?The moment I thought that—
Darkness fell.
.
.
.
"Huff, huff!"
When I came to, I was running through the night.The dawn air filled my lungs. I was panting.Meow.A cat's cry echoed again.
Ah! That meow—it was the same as the calico's. No doubt about it.But... had I ever run through a place like this?
I tried to look around, but my head wouldn't move.What is this? My body didn't feel like mine.
...Was this a lucid dream?
Sweat dripped into my eyes, making them sting.Despite my will, my pace slowed.
In the distance, a cathedral stood silhouetted against the full moon.Before I knew it, I was standing in front of it.
In the deep darkness, I pushed open the cathedral doors.The heavy wooden doors moved smoothly, well-oiled.A musty wood smell drifted in as I stepped inside, and moonlight revealed a familiar interior.
I instinctively knew where I was.
"St. Peter's Basilica!"
The heart of global Catholicism. A cathedral built over St. Peter's tomb.I walked confidently through the place as if it were my own home.Strange. I'd never been here before, so why did I know its layout so well?
Was it okay to just walk in like this?Questions piled up.Then suddenly, words of complaint spilled from my mouth.
"What? Rome? Lombardy?"
The language was unfamiliar—No. It was familiar.A Florentine dialect. The foundation of modern Italian.
Suddenly, I remembered why I'd come.It was because of what the critics had said earlier that day, after seeing my work.
Despite seeing the masterpiece I'd created, the critics failed to recall the name of the great artist—me.No, they didn't just fail to say it. They claimed the incredible work must have been made by some genius artist from somewhere other than Rome, Lombardy, or Florence.
"Ha!"
I scoffed and pulled a chisel and hammer from my coat.My heart pounded with nervous energy.
This was the Renaissance era.No artist was allowed to sign a work created for the Church.But knowing that, I still climbed up onto the piece I had created.
I had to let them know.
For the blind, I carved the phrase I had prepared into the sash across the Virgin Mary's chest as she cradled Jesus.
[MICHEL. AGELVS. BONAROTVS. FLORENT. FACIEBAT]
I ran my hand over the inscription in the dark and read it aloud:
"Michelangelo Buonarroti of Florence made this."
A name etched into history.
The sculptor so revered he was called a "god" among Renaissance artists.
Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni.
I realized it instinctively.
This wasn't a dream.
This was me.
"I'm...!"
Suddenly, knowledge poured into me.A vast flood of stories and memories spanning over 400 years overwhelmed my body.
It felt like my head would split.In the midst of the pain, Kang Seok's pupils darted rapidly.It was hot.Memories surged with the pain, awakening sensations I'd never known.
It felt like new cells were forming in my body.
"Gah!"
The breath I'd been holding burst out.
The black world turned white.
"...Hey!"
What?
"Hey, are you okay?"
A middle-aged woman looked down at me with concern.Behind her puffy down coat, the full moon I had seen earlier still shone.
Amid the flood of memories pouring in like light, the moon was the only thing that remained clearly in focus.
My heart pounded wildly.The woman calling me "student," the people whispering around me—none of it mattered.
I raised my hand.
From my elbow to my wrist, from wrist to thumb and middle finger—I felt muscles pulling.
Something was different.
"Haha... hahahaha..."
Everything had changed.
It was almost 4 a.m. when I finally returned home after my night of wandering.
"Dad."
As I opened the front door, I saw my father with a flushed face.He must've been waiting by the door, having heard me coming up the stairs.
His eyes were red. His hair was messy.I'd never seen my father like this before.With a face on the verge of tears, he called my name.
"...Seok."
Then my mom and younger sister burst out of the bedroom.
"Seok!""Oppa!"
Both of them had swollen, red eyes and noses.The whole house looked like it had been in chaos.
I looked at my family and awkwardly smiled.
There was something I'd wanted to say.I'd been holding it in ever since the parent-teacher meeting.Earlier, I couldn't force it out no matter how badly I wanted to—but now, it just slipped out.
"I'll just keep doing sculpture."
.
.
.
In my previous life, I was Michelangelo.