Haneul looked at him. For the first time, not through him.
That night, Haneul had a meltdown over a broken crayon. Jin-ho’s first instinct was to fix it. Then to lecture. Then to walk away. Instead, he sat on the floor. He didn’t speak. He just picked up a blue crayon, snapped it in half, and handed one piece to his son.
“Still a crayon,” Jin-ho replied.
But by the time Haneul turned seven, Jin-ho noticed the sky was tilted. The boy wouldn’t hold eye contact. He’d stack blocks for hours, then smash them. He hummed—not melodies, but single notes, over and over. When Jin-ho placed him at a tiny piano, Haneul pressed one key. Ding. Then walked away.
“He’s just shy,” his wife said. “He’s different,” the teacher whispered.
The next morning, Jin-ho threw away the piano books. He bought a single drum. Haneul didn’t play it—he rested his cheek on the cool surface and hummed that same note. Ding.