Following Hong In-hee's greedy gaze, the image of Choi Hyun-oh surfaced, and the memory of what he had done to her sent a wave of revulsion through Yoojin's body. She trembled uncontrollably. Yet, she couldn't refuse the condolence money offered even here, at the funeral hall.
With both hands, Yoojin accepted the envelope and bowed her head. In her previous life, her mother would have been sitting in this very seat, accepting it in her stead.
"Thank you. I'll make sure my mother receives it."
"Please tell her I'm sorry I couldn't give it to her in person."
"Yes."
Then, her homeroom teacher hesitated and took another white envelope from her bag.
"The chairwoman sent one more thing."
What the teacher placed in front of Yoojin was a white document envelope printed with the logo of the Gangrim Cultural Foundation.
So this was it—the sponsorship contract that had bound her for fifteen years. In name it was a sponsorship agreement, but once signed, her debt to the foundation—and to the
Gangrim Group—would only grow faster. Yoojin stared silently at the envelope.
"Please have your mother look over it and give me a call later."
"May I ask what this is? I should at least know before handing it to her."
Feigning ignorance, Yoojin asked calmly. Before the homeroom teacher could answer, the department head spoke up instead.
"For this year's performance, you'll be playing Odette in Swan Lake, right? The representatives from Gangrim Group and the foundation will all be there—it'll be your official debut stage. We believe your admission to Gangrim Arts High will go smoothly."
In reality, middle-school students didn't automatically move up to the arts high school. Competition was fierce, with students from all over the country vying for limited spots.
"I see."
"So this is a scholarship contract from the foundation. It's a great opportunity, so please give it to your mother and ask her to contact us."
Yoojin fell silent, deep in thought.Would it be better to hand it to her mother and let her worry over tuition, or to speak up now and protect her from it?
Yes—protecting her was the right choice. Her mother had suffered enough.
And though she was only fifteen now, she had already lived those extra fifteen years once before. There was no reason to hesitate.
Still, most of her classmates were sitting nearby in the funeral hall. If she spoke her mind here, rumors would spread quickly.
But to stay silent would mean giving in—to the world that had already trapped her once.
So she opened her mouth and spoke.
"Teacher, isn't tuition higher at the arts high school than at the middle school? And aren't pointe shoes and private lessons expensive?"
"Well, yes…"
The sudden question made the department head falter. Uneasy, she rushed to explain.
"Ballet is expensive. Since your father passed away, the chairwoman was concerned things might be difficult, so she personally recommended you for the scholarship."
"Is it sponsorship—or a scholarship?"
The question froze both teachers.
"It's… technically a scholarship," the department head managed, forcing a smile.
"You can look over the papers first before deciding."
As she pushed the envelope toward Yoojin, the girl raised her head.
"Teacher, I'm not going to dance ballet anymore."
Her voice was clear and unwavering. The words spread through the quiet funeral hall like ripples on still water.
"…What?"
"Yoojin?"
The two teachers stared in shock, their mouths half-open. Even the clinking of chopsticks at the next table stopped.
"I'm not going to do ballet. I want to go to a regular high school and study instead."
Gasps broke out among the students nearby.
"Did you hear that?"
"No way… Yoojin? That Yoojin?"
But Yoojin ignored them.
"Sweetheart, you're just upset right now because of the funeral," the teacher said softly.
"Let's not talk about this today."
Both teachers' faces had gone red with embarrassment.
Han Yoojin had entered the arts middle school with an already perfect foundation—natural physique, discipline, passion. She was born to dance. Losing her was unthinkable.
"I'm sorry, teachers. But I just want to study. Ballet is too hard… and I don't love it anymore."
She lowered her head.
Then, from across the room—a loud thud.
Yoojin flinched.
A harsh laugh followed. "Ha… ha ha."
When she turned, she saw him—Yoon Dong-ha, sitting two tables away.Her old rival, her partner on stage.
His dark eyes fixed on her. His jaw clenched.
"Unbelievable," he muttered and rose to his feet.
The teachers stiffened as Dong-ha strode toward her, worry flickering across their faces.
"Dong-ha, sit down. Eat your meal," one said nervously.
But he didn't look away from Yoojin. Running a hand roughly through his hair, he spoke in a low, steady voice.
"I need to talk to her."
Then, looking straight into her eyes — "Keep dancing."
Yoojin froze, her lips trembling.
Dong-ha's black pupils deepened, his gaze locking onto her face.
He exhaled sharply.
"Hey. If you don't dance, who in Korea possibly could?"
She blinked, startled. Even here, on her father's funeral day, her hair was neatly tied up in a dancer's bun—as if ready for practice.
For a brief moment, Dong-ha's eyes softened, then flushed red with sudden awareness of where they were.
The heat crept up his neck, uncontrollable.
Yoojin looked up at him and smiled faintly. He was still just a fifteen-year-old boy—awkward, earnest, and painfully sincere.
"I'm sorry, Dong-ha. I really can't keep doing it. I've thought about it a lot. I've done ballet since I was seven… I want to try something else now."
Her gentle yet firm answer made something inside him shatter.
But realizing they were surrounded by teachers and classmates—inside a funeral hall, no less—he steadied his voice.
"Then at least do the December festival. We practiced for two months already."
He was right. Their first duet, Swan Lake: Act I, was set for the school festival next month.
Yoojin's shoulders relaxed. So that was it—he didn't want to lose his partner right before the performance.
Yet, seeing his raw emotion, her heart ached in a way she couldn't explain.Even after countless ovations and standing cheers in another life, no applause had ever pierced her so deeply as Dong-ha's simple plea.
Looking at his young face—still boyish, but already graceful—she knew that in ten years he would become a breathtaking man, a dancer whose every movement drew eyes.
And knowing she would never dance beside him again carved a quiet, unbearable pain inside her chest.