As the unusually cold winter of 2003 passed and a chilly spring breeze knocked on the classroom windows, Lim Ahra, the young homeroom teacher of Seoul Daesan Elementary School’s 3rd grade, class 11, glanced over her seated students.
“Did everyone get it?”
“Yesss~”
If she trusted the students’ words here, she would be naïve.
Lim Ahra confirmed that even the student at the very back received the school communication slip with a sideways glance.
This was her final duty as the homeroom teacher of 3rd grade, class 11.
Daesan Elementary School 2004 Spring Break Notice
‘Once I hand this out, they’ll all be 4th graders come March… It’s been such a long year.’
Lim Ahra sighed deeply.
The 31 children in her class caused so many incidents that memories of them visiting the teacher’s office in tears flashed through her mind.
“Teacher! He hit me!”
“Teacher! She insulted me!”
“Teacher, teacher…”
Unlike in 1st and 2nd grade, she’d believed the vice-principal who said that 3rd graders were mature enough to need less supervision.
But there was one child who never caused any trouble.
‘One child made it through the whole year without causing a single incident.
The smallest, who acts like an old soul.
The previous teacher mentioned she was quite mature even in 2nd grade.’
Lim Ahra glanced at the small girl seated in the front.
Since she was the shortest in the class, she always sat at the front, quietly sharpening a pencil with a small knife.
Scratch, scratch.
The yellow nametag pinned to her clothing gleamed.
She was always quietly sitting, long hair swaying, with the sound of pencil-sharpening accompanying her.
Ko Hana
Lim Ahra gazed at the nametag blankly.
‘She’s still wearing her introduction nametag.’
While all the other students had discarded their yellow nametags at the start of the term, Ko Hana still wore hers.
Lim Ahra thought she’d eventually take it off like the others after introducing herself, but she wore it all the way until spring break.
Whether it was exemplary behavior or rebellious, she couldn’t quite say.
‘Maybe it’s less ‘rebellious’ and more… ‘extraordinary’?’
She remembered a conversation with Hana from the beginning of the school year.
It was spring of 2003, just as relationships were forming in class 11.
Hana was always alone, and Lim Ahra suspected she might be a ‘loner’ – a child who didn’t quite fit in – and called her aside discreetly.
Being careful not to cause harm, she tried to approach gently.
‘Are you uncomfortable with your nametag, Hana? Are you worried that your classmates can’t remember your name? How can I help?’
“Oh.”
In truth, Hana’s simple name was not one that could be easily forgotten, but Lim Ahra worried that she might be ostracized.
Hana’s response was something else entirely.
“The kids and you may remember, but other adults don’t.”
“Huh?”
In disbelief, Lim Ahra observed as Hana replied, her small mouth moving purposefully.
“If I wear this, then if anything happens outside, adults would say, ‘Ko Hana from Daesan Elementary School experienced something,’ instead of just, ‘Some kid experienced something.’ I wear it just in case, since my uncle works late.”
“Oh… I see.”
Lim Ahra had heard that Hana stayed home alone while her uncle was away.
In a way, this seemed like a form of self-defense.
But was that the answer a ten-year-old would give?
Hana, noticing Lim Ahra’s surprise, smiled and added, “Don’t worry. The kids find me reserved and difficult to approach, but I’m not being left out or anything.”
“Oh, is that so…?”
In reality, her appearance – visibly outstanding compared to her peers – likely contributed to their hesitance.
Hana continued, certain of her words, “Until kids grow a bit, they tend to ignore those who seem different. It’s just how it is.”
“And…”
“And…?”
In the light of the setting sun after school, Hana lifted her yellow nametag slightly.
“I just like the simple name, ‘Hana.’ Counting one, two, three makes it easy to remember, and it somehow makes me feel like I’ll live a long, slender life.”
Lim Ahra could never forget that conversation.
Since then, she wondered if that was what it meant to be a ‘genius.’
Scratch, scratch.
Hana, with her hair tied in loose pigtails, was engrossed in drawing with a thick sketchbook and a pencil in hand.
Grass, flowers, fields, trees, faces of her classmates…
In just the space her pencil brushed, she brought scenes of the world to life, evoking the vivid illustrations of nature documentaries she had seen on TV.
It was simply skillful.
Even in Lim Ahra’s untrained eyes, it was clear this was exceptional.
She was certain even experts would be impressed.
And she was only ten.
Without attending art classes, she had achieved this by practicing at home.
‘A genius.’
There was no other explanation.
Yet Lim Ahra couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone.
As a rookie teacher, she felt lost about how to guide this extraordinary artistic genius or which path to set her on.
Since Hana’s guardian, her uncle, was always at work during the day, she couldn’t contact him.
She’d even tried reaching out to a few talent-seeking TV programs and magazines, only to be brushed off.
“Parents and teachers tend to overreact when they see a child with a bit of talent. Since a Korean child prodigy was introduced in an American elementary school a few years ago, we get dozens of calls every day asking, ‘Is this the one?’ Try to consider our position.”
Later, an editor called to apologize, acknowledging that the initial response had been unnecessarily harsh, but Lim Ahra’s appeal went nowhere.
‘But Hana really is a genius…’
Yet there was nothing more she could do.
All Lim Ahra could do was note in the student record, “Has exceptional talent in art.”
‘In the upcoming class assignment meeting, I must make sure to tell the next homeroom teacher about Hana.’
She couldn’t let such a brilliant talent disappear in the corners of elementary school.
In any case, her role as a rookie teacher was now coming to an end.
“Huu…”
With a sigh of relief, Lim Ahra took a sweeping glance around the students, holding back a smile.
They had started to chatter, brimming with anticipation.
‘They’re all excited for the break again.’
Spring break, arriving just after winter break, filled the classroom with the children’s expectant energy.
Lim Ahra glanced at the clock hanging at the back of the room.
The students reacted with bated breath.
The students of class 11 fixed their eyes on Lim Ahra’s lips, waiting for her to announce ‘spring break start,’ which would grant them their freedom.
Gulp…
The silence was so intense, she could hear the sound of a swallow.
Lim Ahra paused for a moment, contemplating.
The vice-principal had instructed in a meeting not to dismiss the kids too early, as they tended to wander off to PC rooms and arcades nearby.
But rookie teacher Lim Ahra knew she didn’t have the knack for keeping these elementary kids on the verge of exploding in line for long.
‘If I don’t dismiss them now, it’ll get chaotic again.’
After a tumultuous year with her 3rd-grade class, she’d developed a mixture of love and frustration toward them, and she decided to give these “live bombs” their final gift.
So, tapping the ruler in her hand against the teacher’s desk, she announced, “Alright, 3rd-grade class 11, good job this year! Make sure to do well in 4th grade too! And remember, keep quiet in the hallways!”
“Yes!”
With that, the class president of 3rd-grade class 11 energetically led the class in a farewell salute.
“Attention, salute~!”
“Goodbye!”
“Goodbye—!”
“Goodbye!!!”
“Spring break is here!!!”
“Woo-hoo!!!”
“Who’s going to the PC room?!”
And so, Daesan Elementary School greeted spring break.
As Lim Ahra waved to the kids, a small corner of her heart also grew with concern for a young sprout that couldn’t yet see the world’s light.
‘If there’s anything I can do…’
‘These kids sure have lots of energy.’
I sighed, putting my sketchbook into my bag.
The liveliness of lower-grade elementary students was something else.
They spoke with a fierce intensity, veins straining like special forces shouting, “Ack!” at every word.
It was enough to make me think they’d be well-suited to enlist in special forces someday.
‘Despite being in the right shape for enlistment, these kids won’t actually enlist… If Mr. Kim Palgon, a true man, saw them, he’d surely be pounding the ground in disappointment.’
In any case.
Now in my second year after the time regression since 2002, I’d spent two years blending in with these kids to fulfill compulsory education.
By now, I’d grown used to tuning out most noises.
I looked at the noisy kids beside me.
‘They really are babies. What kind of conversations can I even have with them…?’
The only thing we could talk about would probably be games – the kind I used to play when I was their age.
‘Oh, come to think of it, the popular game now was some traditional folk game…?’
I was vaguely pondering that.
“Who wants to play on the playground—?”
“Hey, can’t we just go to the arcade?”
“No way, I got scolded last time! My mom said there are bad older kids there…”
One of the kids, who had been chatting away, suddenly made eye contact with me.
“Ugh, then… Uh…?”
Their eyes widened suddenly, and I, not understanding why, just gave a casual nod as if to say, ‘What’s up, bro?’
But as if by some silent agreement, they all immediately lowered their heads and dashed out of the classroom.
One kid, just before exiting the door, stuck out his tongue at me in an awkward, desperate “bleh.”
“You… poor brat! Don’t act like you’re all that while wearing that stretched-out shirt and pretending to be a princess!”
“Huh.”
Seriously, what a world.
‘It was already a madhouse even back in 2004.’
Kids spouting capitalist, materialistic nonsense… Really, tsk tsk.
It felt like a sign of the collapse of public education in South Korea.
‘But as an adult who knows the future and the world, I shall not get angry.’
Instead, I smiled pityingly, as if sympathizing with him, and played along with a joke.
“Oh, is that so? I didn’t mean to act superior. Let’s stay close as fellow commoners.”
Seeing my calm smile, the kid seemed to realize his mistake, blushing red as a beet, and he sprinted down the hall.
Fight nonsense with nonsense.
‘Is this what they call mirror therapy…?’
Anyway, that wasn’t the point.
I looked at my hands in the quiet classroom.
The palms of my 3rd-grade hands were still small and white, with only a limited range of techniques they could master.
‘On the first day, just an hour of work would make my muscles ache, my hands and back sore… But after practicing drawing daily for two years, my hands are finally loosening up.’
The hands of “Ko Hana” and the memories of “Ko Hoon” from my past life, which had not aligned properly until now, were beginning to converge.
The proverb I’d heard in middle school when I first learned the basics of art at an academy had never been wrong.
“You have to practice until your body remembers the drawing.”
‘Maybe it’s time to start planning my own projects seriously.’
I’m not a genius.
Even if I rely on future knowledge, I’ll eventually hit a wall.
Besides drawing – something I blindly worked on for 20 years – I don’t know how to do much else.
So unless I seize this rare chance now, when I still have a guardian like my uncle, I won’t be able to secure even the bare minimum of opportunities that lie ahead.
‘I’ll have to try my best.’
To live a life just a bit better than before—
…after all, I’ll need some money for stocks or crypto in the future.
At least for a regression romp, you need some cash.
That evening, my 3rd-grade homeroom teacher, Lim Ahra, called me at home.
“Hana! Would you be interested in entering a youth art competition?”
“A competition…?”
Is this… that so-called “peasant massacre”?