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# Chapter 18: A Father’s Hand
The moment Minjun stepped into the studio, he realized he wasn’t breathing.
Studio A was smaller than he’d imagined. Gray walls. Bright lighting. And in the center—a bed. A middle-aged man who looked like an aspiring actor lay on it. When he saw Minjun, he smiled. But it wasn’t a warm smile. It was professional. The smile of an actor who understood his role perfectly.
“So you’re Minjun?”
A woman sitting in the corner of the studio spoke. Late thirties. Her clothes and demeanor screamed Netflix producer. Expensive black blouse. Eyes filled with absolute certainty in her own judgment.
“Yes.”
Minjun answered quietly. He knew instinctively that this was the appropriate voice for this moment.
“You’re with The Star, right? I think I’ve seen you before.”
The producer flipped through a list. The sound of pages turning echoed loudly through the studio. Like a war trumpet.
“This is my first Netflix audition.”
Minjun spoke again. Junho was listening intently. The rest of us stayed silent. They were the audience now. This stage belonged to Minjun alone.
“Good. Then let’s begin. You’ve read the script, right? Your father is dying. You have things you want to tell him. But you can’t say them. Why? Because words aren’t enough. Understand?”
Minjun nodded—not a nod of understanding, but of acceptance.
“Lie down on the bed.”
The producer gestured. Her fingers were very short. Her nails were trimmed. Like someone who worked with materials.
Minjun walked toward the bed. One step, then another. Strangely, this short distance felt eternal. The actor lying beside the bed stood up. He smiled at Minjun once more, then got down. Now he was no longer an actor. He’d become a prop.
Minjun lay down. Beside him was empty space. His father’s place.
“Hold your father’s hand.”
The producer spoke. The middle-aged man climbed back onto the bed. His hand was warm. No—that wasn’t what Minjun felt. What he felt was his own hand trembling. His fingers gripping the man’s hand.
“Now, imagine your father is dying. Death is approaching. And you think about all the things you didn’t do. Didn’t help your father. Didn’t save him. Didn’t tell him things. All of it crushing your chest. Understand?”
Minjun couldn’t speak. Instead, his eyes closed. Unintentionally. His body reacting automatically.
“Good. Then stay silent. Don’t say anything. Just express it through emotion. Netflix doesn’t watch actors who speak. Netflix watches existence.”
In that moment, Minjun’s chest began to move.
At first, it was subtle. Like holding his breath. But it quickly transformed into waves. Waves he couldn’t control. As if someone were excavating his entire chest.
It wasn’t crying. Crying requires voice. But Minjun remained silent. In his silence, everything was being said. His father’s absence. Ten years of emptiness. What he couldn’t stop. Words he couldn’t speak. Courage he should have had.
His father’s hand. It was very warm. Though it was the hand of an actor on stage, it was real to Minjun. A hand from ten years ago. His father’s hand brushing his head when he was in high school. That hand was now in his own grasp.
“Father…”
Minjun opened his mouth. His voice was shattered like broken glass.
“I’m sorry.”
After those two words, there was nothing else. Only silence. But that silence contained everything. Ten years. Every word he couldn’t say to his father. Guilt for not saving him. The contradiction and confusion of still being alive, lying on this bed, holding his father’s hand.
Minjun’s chest moved again. But this time it was different. A movement beyond control. The moment all his defenses crumbled.
The producer said nothing. The middle-aged man didn’t move. The studio’s air froze. Only Minjun’s chest was moving. And that movement was acting. No—it was no longer acting. It was reality.
Minjun opened his eyes. They were wet. But these weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of realization. Tears of understanding what he needed to do, what he needed to say, what he needed to reveal.
“Father, I…”
Minjun opened his mouth again. This time, his voice came from somewhere deeper. From his soul.
“I hated you. I thought you abandoned me. I thought you were weak. So I tried not to become you. I tried to be strong. But…”
Minjun’s voice broke. But even in that breaking, every emotion was contained.
“But I’m weak too. I fail too. I don’t know either. I’m alone too.”
In that moment, something shattered in the studio.
The producer clapped her hands. Slowly. Meaningfully.
“Cut!”
When that single word came, Minjun remembered he was lying on a bed. The middle-aged man was already standing. His face held reverence. Like someone who’d witnessed something sacred.
Minjun got up from the bed. His hands were shaking. Actually, his entire body was trembling. As if he’d been in an extremely cold place. As if he’d just surfaced from diving to the depths of the ocean.
“Good.”
The producer spoke again. Her voice had changed. Before there had been commands and instructions. Now there was certainty.
“You’re a really good actor. Where did you study?”
Minjun couldn’t answer. He opened his mouth, but no words came. As if his vocal cords had been destroyed.
“This drama is Korea’s first Netflix original. It’s four episodes. The theme is death and love. The son discovers who he is while his father is dying. Through that process, his relationship with his father changes too. From hatred and anger at first, to understanding and forgiveness at the end. This role…”
The producer looked at Minjun. Her eyes were very intense.
“This role is very important to Netflix. It’ll be Netflix’s face. You’re a sufficient actor for this role.”
In that moment, Minjun doubted his ears. Had he heard wrong? Was he still lying on that bed? Was this part of the performance?
“Netflix will make their final decision in two weeks. But from my position, I want to recommend you. Really.”
The producer stood. She extended her hand to Minjun. It was very warm. Like his father’s hand.
“Thank you. That was really good acting.”
Minjun took her hand. In that moment, Junho and the rest of us entered the studio. They’d seen everything from outside. Through the mirrored wall. Their faces held a strange expression. Not joy. Not relief. It was the expression of people who knew something very important had just happened.
“Thank you.”
Minjun bowed to the producer. His voice had returned to normal. But it wasn’t his former voice. Something had changed. As if he’d become someone else.
In the hallway to the elevator, Junho grabbed Minjun’s arm. The rest of us took his other arm. As if without our support, Minjun would collapse.
“What did you do?”
We asked. Our voice was filled with awe.
“I don’t know.”
Minjun answered. It was the truth. He didn’t exactly know what he’d done. How he’d done it. He only knew he’d been lying on that bed, holding his father’s hand, and his chest had moved.
In the elevator, Minjun looked at his hands. They were still trembling. But this wasn’t the trembling of fear. It was like he’d touched electricity. The trembling of something awakening.
“What are you thinking right now?”
Junho asked. His voice was calm, but filled with curiosity.
“My father.”
Minjun answered. A simple answer, but it contained everything.
“Do you think he saw me?”
We squeezed Minjun’s hand tighter. As if that question pierced our own chest.
“He saw you.”
Junho spoke. His voice was filled with certainty.
When the elevator reached the first floor, Minjun knew he’d changed. At first it was subtle, but it became increasingly clear. His body felt different. His breathing sounded different. His thoughts moved differently.
Leaving the Netflix building, the sun had already sunk deep into the western sky. 4:15 PM. The buildings along Teheran Road in Gangnam had become black silhouettes in the evening light. Like stage backdrops in a theater.
On the way to Junho’s car, we didn’t let go of Minjun’s hand. As if letting go meant he’d disappear.
In the car, Junho spoke.
“Now we wait. Two weeks. What will you do during that time?”
Minjun looked out the window. Seoul’s evening was growing deeper. Lights were beginning to turn on one by one. Like stars appearing.
“I have to live.”
Minjun answered.
But the moment those words left his mouth, Minjun’s phone vibrated. A low buzz. Not a call—a message. Minjun picked up his phone. A name appeared on the screen.
Seongjun.
And the message was simple.
“Minjun. Did you see the Netflix audition? I did too. Since we’re actors at the same company, we don’t compete with each other, so I’m rooting for you. Fighting!”
Minjun read the message. Once, then again. And he read the lie in it. Not real support, but provocation. A hint that he’d also gone to the Netflix audition. A declaration that they were competing.
“What is it?”
We asked. We’d felt something appear on Minjun’s face.
“Seongjun sent it.”
Minjun answered.
“What did he say?”
“He’s rooting for me.”
Silence fell. The silence of Junho and us. In that silence, something broke. No—something began. A new game. A new competition.
Minjun put his phone down. The screen went dark. But the message remained. Something he’d felt holding his father’s hand was trembling again because of this message.
Seongjun. What scene had he done? What acting had he shown? Had he met the same producer? Had he heard the same words from her?
“It’s still far.”
Junho suddenly spoke. As if he’d read Minjun’s thoughts.
“Anything could happen in two weeks. Netflix always makes unexpected decisions. And you still lack experience. This much isn’t enough.”
Junho’s words were cold, but they contained warmth. The warmth of protection. The warmth of lowering expectations.
“But you did well.”
We said. Our voice was looking at Minjun.
“You really did well. If Netflix doesn’t see it, that’s Netflix’s loss.”
Minjun couldn’t respond to that. Instead, he looked out the window. Gangnam’s night was growing deeper. And in that depth, Minjun realized he’d forgotten something.
What he’d said while holding his father’s hand.
What he’d felt.
And what he needed to do next.
Two weeks. It was very long. It was very short. It would feel like an eternity.
But Minjun knew. Something had changed. That he was no longer the same person. That he’d passed through some door.
He didn’t know what lay beyond that door yet, but at least he’d opened it.
Seongjun’s message still remained on his phone screen. False words of support. But hidden in that lie was real emotion. The fear of going to the same audition. The anxiety of possibly failing. The fear of being weak.
Minjun deleted the message. But he knew it wouldn’t disappear. It would remain somewhere in his heart. It would keep stimulating him. Keep waking him up.
Junho’s car left the Gangnam streets. Teheran Road, then Dosan Avenue. Night was growing deeper. And in that night, Minjun thought again about what he wanted.
Success? No. That was too big.
Money? No. That wasn’t it either.
Then what? To remain in someone’s memory. To move someone’s heart with his performance. To prove that he could be weak and strong at the same time.
To not become like his father.
But to understand his father.
That was exactly what he wanted.