Chapter 25 : The Meaning of white (9)

Kang Haerin decided to treat her student to dinner.
At the restaurant, where side dishes were self-serve, Haerin filled a plate with kimchi and pickled radish. Hansongi had already set the table.

“Oh, how thoughtful. You’ll do well in the real world.”
“It’s the least I can do, since you’re treating me.”
“You’d be surprised how many people lack basic manners.”

Haerin rested her chin on her hand and looked at her student, who seemed sullen.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like bean sprout soup?”
“It’s not that. I’m just… surprised you’re treating me to dinner, just the two of us. I mean you are broke.”
“I’ve treated you several times, haven’t I? I mean I might not be rich, but still…”
“Yeah, but it’s always been with the whole group. You’ve never asked me out for dinner alone.”

Haerin flicked Hansongi’s forehead. Kids these days were too smart for their own good; they couldn’t accept kindness at face value.

“I didn’t want to eat alone. Just give this lonely old maid some company.”
“…Why don’t you get a boyfriend?”
“If I could, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Want another flick?”

Their food arrived. Haerin emptied her rice bowl into the soup. Hansongi watched her, then mimicked her action. Haerin frowned at her student’s awkward movements.

“What? Never had Gukbap before? Are you even Korean?”
(TL Note : Gukbap, meaning “soup rice” in Korean, is a hearty dish where cooked rice is served in or with a steaming bowl of broth)
“It’s possible to try it for the first time, you know.”
“Well, get used to it. Knowing the best Gukbap places around is essential for aspiring actors.”

Hansongi chuckled and picked up her spoon, clearly thinking Haerin was joking. Haerin didn’t bother correcting her.

She would learn eventually, when she became the youngest member of a theater company, scrambling to find affordable meals.

Hansongi took a few bites, then spoke.

“Instructor, have you ever been… overwhelmed by someone’s talent?”
“Of course.”
“I see…”
“Why? Are you talking about Lee Haram?”

Hansongi choked on her food at Haerin’s blunt question. She coughed, then gulped down some water. Finally, she spoke,

“How did you know?”
“That obvious, huh? Like I said, I’ve been there.”

Hardworking, confident individuals were often hit the hardest when faced with someone undeniably more talented.

Average people could always rationalize their shortcomings, shifting the blame to circumstances or a lack of opportunity. But for those who pushed themselves to their limits, the existence of someone beyond their reach was devastating.

Just as Kang Haerin had been overwhelmed by the talent at the Metropolitan Theatre, Hansongi was now facing a similar wall in Lee Haram. The world was both complex and simple, repeating the same story with different actors. Just like a play.

Hansongi sighed.

“She’s… strange.”
“I know. We have a lot of unusual students this year.”
“Yeah, not just Lee Haram. Han Dojun is ridiculously talented too.”
“They’re the strange ones. Don’t let it get to you.”

Haerin saw the shadow of despair in Hansongi’s eyes. She hoped her student wouldn’t end up like her. Haerin’s own ending had been rather…unremarkable.

Hansongi forced a smile.

“Haram said that only those who can see the stars can become stars themselves. So, those of us who walk home after sunset are… qualified.”
“That’s a nice sentiment.”
“I was walking home one day, and I remembered her words. So, I looked up at the sky…”

She tilted her head back, mimicking the action.

“…and I couldn’t see any stars. There weren’t even any clouds. That’s when I realized… the city lights are too bright.”
“…”
“I can’t see them. I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s hard to hold onto my dreams when there are so many bright stars shining around me.”
“So, you’re giving up?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I should keep trying since I’m still young, but… I’m also scared. It’s all so confusing.”

Haerin saw herself in Hansongi’s struggles and couldn’t bring herself to smile.

She often wondered what her life would be like if she hadn’t given up, if she had kept chasing her dreams.

She knew regret was pointless, yet she couldn’t help but feel it. Honestly, she suspected she would have made the same choice, even if she could go back. She knew, even then, that she wasn’t special.

But Hansongi was too young to give up. There was plenty of time for her to realize she wasn’t special, after she had responsibilities, after she had something to lose.

Just like faith, miracles didn’t happen to those who lost belief. Haerin hoped Santa Claus still existed in Hansongi’s world.

It was an adult’s duty to lie to children.
She offered a well-worn platitude.

“Don’t give up. You’ll make it.”

***

Some jobs were best left to the professionals. Especially jobs that seemed easy. It meant they had honed their skills to a level of mastery that set them apart from the competition.

I looked around Saeron’s spotless apartment in awe.

It looked twice as big as before, perhaps because it was usually such a mess. I applauded the cleaning crew’s professionalism, transforming his pigsty into a livable space.

“I feel sorry for your apartment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Such a nice place, stuck with such a terrible owner.”
“It’s an apartment, not a living being. Why are you turning me into a villain?”
“You *are* a villain.”

Park Saeron frowned and scratched his head, clearly at a loss for words. He quickly changed the subject.

“You seem… unusually cheerful today.”
“I have a good reason to be.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“I think I’m going to win our bet.”
“Already?”

My conversation with Yeseul had finally led me to the answer. It was surprisingly simple. So simple, in fact, that I probably wouldn’t have realized it without Yeseul’s perspective.

Saeron’s expression turned expectant.

“So, tell me. What does ‘Hundred’ mean?”

I sat on his bed and pointed at my temple.

“What I’m thinking right now.”
“Are you messing with me?”

I grinned.

“There’s no right or wrong answer. What *I* think is the correct interpretation.”
“…Explain.”

Saeron stroked his chin, prompting me to elaborate. His reaction told me I was on the right track.

I gathered my thoughts, organizing my explanation.

“At first, I focused on the word itself. It could mean ‘white’ (백 – baek), the number ‘hundred,’ or even ‘back,’ as in returning to the past.”
“Right.”
“So, I tried eliminating the possibilities, and that’s where I got stuck. Because… any of those interpretations could work with your script.”

Saeron frowned and nodded. I continued,

“‘White,’ as in pure and innocent, seemed like the most likely interpretation, since the story is about a girl with no memories gradually gaining experiences and emotions. So, I set that aside and considered ‘back,’ which also fits with the amnesia theme. I didn’t think ‘hundred’ was the answer, but then I realized Seol spends exactly one hundred days with the male lead. Your script is seriously twisted.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”

I corrected him and continued.

“So, I was stuck. And then someone suggested that the ambiguity was intentional. Which is possible, for writers who prefer open-ended narratives. But your other script, ‘The Wish-Granting Moon Rabbit,’ is very clear in its themes and messages.”

Saeron’s usual writing style clearly conveyed his intentions.
In that sense, ‘Hundred’ was an anomaly.

“The biggest clue was something *you* said.”
“I told you that you shouldn’t know the meaning because you’re the lead. What do you think I meant by that?”
“Do you really think you wrote a script with an ambiguous theme? No. If that were the case, you would have told me the answer right away. So, there’s only one possibility: the meaning is revealed through *my* process of trying to figure it out. The act of searching for the answer is what completes the story.”

I smiled and slowly reread the script, picturing the protagonist.

Seol had no memories. All she possessed was curiosity, a thirst for the unknown. And that curiosity, at times, became a dangerous impulse.

Driven by curiosity, she tries to imitate her mother’s suicide, only to be saved by a man. She then experiences the world through his eyes, everything new and exciting, despite their limited environment.

These experiences are sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, sometimes painful. But for her, everything is a first. How would this unpredictable future shape her?

“When I pointed out the flaw in your script, you immediately rewrote it. You weren’t convinced by my interpretation; you were already planning to write it based on my feedback, weren’t you?”

Ironically, it was only by breaking the framework of the script that I could truly understand it. Interpretation wasn’t limited to the text itself.

Why was he paying me, using “inspiration” as an excuse, to keep meeting with him? Why had he chosen *me*, an amateur, over a seasoned actor, simply because I had offered a unique interpretation of his previous script?

The answer was simple.

Saeron’s project had already begun the moment I signed the contract.
He was simply documenting one of the countless possibilities.

“So, to put it simply, it’s about the uncertainty and the potential of the future. Because it’s uncertain, anything is possible. That’s what you wanted to express with this script, isn’t it?”

I finished my explanation and smirked at him. Saeron stroked his chin, then chuckled.

“Have you decided on your wish?”

I had.