My Past Life Was Michelangelo.
Unable to believe the reality I was facing, I stared at the ceiling and blinked my eyes. Before I knew it, morning had come.
– Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
The alarm clock blared loudly. 6:30 a.m. Time to get up. I sat up and drew aside the worn curtains. As if waiting, pure white sunlight poured in.
A bright sun.
It was a new morning, different from all the ones before.
– Beep! Beep! Beep!
I pressed my palm against the wailing alarm to turn it off and stepped out of my room.
"...You're awake?"
"Good morning."
Responding to my mother's morning greeting, I walked toward the kitchen.
A small kitchen in a small house—just four steps from my room.
Due to the placement of the table, squeezed into the kitchen against the wall, only three sides were usable for seating.
For everyone to sit, one person had to give up their seat. Today, it was my younger sister. Her back looked hunched as she sat at the corner of the table.
A familiar scene.
But a thought unlike usual suddenly crept in.
Once I start earning money, we should move to a place with a bigger kitchen. It'd be nice to have a table where we can all sit on all four sides. Oh, and while we're at it, we should get a bigger table too.
It was a goal I never would have dared to imagine before. But now, the ideas were pouring in.
Maybe becoming aware of my past life had changed something inside me. That's what it felt like. At that moment, my sister took a sip of barley tea and spoke up.
"Are you okay now?"
"Mmm."
A low groan followed from my father. Okay? Me? I turned my head. I hadn't realized, but everyone in the family was watching my face, checking my complexion. Worried expressions. I could feel their care.
I smiled.
"Yes. I'm fine."
It really did feel like everything was okay now.
"...I'm glad."
My sister muttered as she scooped up a spoonful of rice. My mother and father also began eating with visibly lighter expressions.
It struck me then—this was a scene we hadn't shared in a long time. And with that realization, I spoke my thoughts aloud.
"It's been a while since all four of us had breakfast together."
At my words, both my parents looked surprised.
"Now that you mention it, it really has."
"Oh my... you're right."
My father and mother, who leave for work at the furniture store early each morning.
My younger sister, who's constantly studying to earn a scholarship through top grades.
And me, who rides a bicycle to school to save on bus fare.
For a long time now, we had all been caught up in our busy routines, unable to even share a meal like this.
It was the cost of choosing to spend time in order to save money.
This breakfast together after so long—it felt good. It really did. Looking at the mountain of rice my mother had lovingly served, I opened my mouth.
"Having breakfast together like this is nice."
I liked it so much, I wanted to give my family more mornings like this.
. . .
The sky was a pale gray-blue. The high sun followed me along my path, brightening the surroundings unusually for a winter morning.
"Huff, huff...!"
I pedaled my bicycle hard. In this life, I had been born with so many blessings.
Kind parents. A warm sibling bond. Support and encouragement for my dreams. None of these were things I had in my past life. Suddenly, a memory from long ago surfaced.
– "Agh!"– "You worthless brat! You're a disgrace to the family! You should be working to restore our name!"– "...But I want to pursue art, Father!"– "Y-You insolent...!"
A rugged region in the highlands of the Apennines. Far from Florence, in a land full of goats—Caprese.
There, I had been born as Michelangelo Buonarroti, son of Caprese magistrate Ludovico Buonarroti. At the age of thirteen, I was severely beaten by my father and uncle.
My father, Ludovico, had hoped I would raise the family name by becoming a member and officer in the Florentine textile guild. But I had dreamed of becoming an artist.
Thirteen years old.
At the same age I once clashed wills with my father in my past life, in this life, I showed him laundry soap and got praised for it.
Steadfast support from my family.
That was a blessing—one that deserved to be called such.
And so.
Every time I pushed down on the bicycle pedals toward school, I repeated it dozens, even hundreds of times.
Do well.
Do better than anyone!
For my parents, who gave me their unconditional support.
For my sister, who never complained even though money that could be hers was being spent on her useless older brother.
I made the vow again and again, racing across the long distance. When the cold of winter finally seeped into the gloves gripping my handlebars, I saw it ahead—set against the blue sky.
Korea's top arts high school, Cheonghwa Arts High.
Pulling my bicycle through the school gate, I passed a line of luxury cars—Benz, Audi, Bentley, Porsche—each rolling over the threshold one after another. The cars came to a stop in the distance, and students wearing long padded jackets climbed out.
At Cheonghwa, it was a sight so common, it didn't even catch your eye anymore.
I looked at the cars for a moment, then bowed my head—to finish locking up my bicycle. When I stood up again, mine was still the only bicycle in the rack.
Without hesitation, I turned toward the main building. In the front entrance, students who had arrived early in their own cars were already changing into indoor shoes.
As I reached my shoe locker, those students were heading up the stairs. Their steps looked confident and relaxed.
"Hey."
"Morning, guys."
Several teachers walked among the students with attendance sheets in hand. The faces of the students exchanging greetings were bright, without a hint of shadow.
"Good morning, teacher."
"Hello, teacher."
These were the ones born into wealth, armed with strong grades, and adored by the academic teachers. In school, they were known as the nobility.
Clack. I closed my locker and tossed my indoor shoes to the floor. Behind me, it grew noisy. Students from the dorms and those arriving by school bus poured in.
"...So you went to the concert yesterday?"
"Yeah. Professor Yoon gave me a ticket and said I should go hear it in person. Lucky, right?"
Students chatted as they changed their shoes.
"Ooh... But does Professor Yoon know you're aiming for Korea University instead of Seohui University?"
"Nope."
"Wow. There's going to be drama later."
These were the students born with no shortage of means and plenty of talent to boot. Adored by the practical skills teachers, they were known in school as the elites.
Clack-clack-clack.
I stared blankly as they ascended the stairs in packs. When they turned the corner and disappeared, the first bell finally rang.
Listening to the bell, I slowly began to move as well.
I was the only one left on the first floor.
An oddball who belonged to neither group. An outsider. A loner.
.
.
.
As I opened the classroom door and stepped inside, the students were chatting in small groups, clustered by their cliques.
My seat was right by the back door—the last seat in the row pressed against the wall. I hung my art supply bag on the hook and sat down, when I felt something unusual: the weight of glances.
"Yesterday… the teacher… they said…"
"…senior year… college entrance exam…"
"…poor family to begin with…"
I couldn't hear the murmuring clearly, but I could guess well enough what they were saying.
They must've heard, somehow, about my sculpture teacher's suggestion yesterday—that my dad should consider letting me quit lessons.
As I looked at them, one of the group—like he'd been waiting for the cue—walked toward me.
Kim Dong-hwi.
Both of his parents were teachers, and he'd made an impression by loudly proclaiming since our first year that he was going to Hanyang Art University, majoring in Western painting.
"Is it true?"
His protruding cheekbones twitched smugly.
"What is?"
"I heard Mr. Cho Byung-kwon told you to stop taking lessons for senior year."
"…"
Strictly speaking, he didn't say to stop entirely—just that it might be better to prepare for the CSAT instead of continuing lessons.
But Dong-hwi twisted it for effect.
"Wow… that's really unexpected. Didn't Mr. Cho like you because you worked hard? Geez, one day he's all praise, and the next he's stabbing you in the back."
He spoke as if appalled by Mr. Cho, but his smirk was practically celebrating.
Of course he was enjoying this. Just days ago, he'd been gossiping behind my back, saying I was all talk despite lacking any real skill.
And now he had the gall to act concerned?
I looked away, disgusted, and turned my eyes to the schedule. Friday. Four periods of drawing, starting in the morning.
"So does that mean you're not applying to art school anymore? Are they letting you use studio time as self-study?"
Even as I debated when to take out my clear multi-compartment drawing kit from my art bag, Dong-hwi kept at it.
He was clearly trying to provoke me, poking and prodding like he'd done this many times before.
I just stared at him, thinking how beneath me this whole thing felt. Then, as if on cue, a few kids heading toward the front door turned back.
"Hey, Dong-hwi! Quit it and come to the drawing studio already."
"Yeah, leave him alone. Our dear Seok is breaking into pieces over there!"
"Haha, seriously. Cut it out, or Seok might cry."
"Should I?"
Dong-hwi chuckled and finally walked off toward the front entrance, where the drawing room was. His pencil case was tucked under one arm.
"See you in the studio, Seok."
After that playful jab from the so-called 'talented crowd,' the classroom was suddenly empty—except for me.
I slowly stood up.
And took out my drawing kit from my bag. Inside the translucent case, erasers, utility knives, sharpeners, and pencils clinked softly.
"Still-life drawing, huh…"
"Today is a test."
It had been five minutes since Mr. Go Doo-han, our drawing instructor, made that slow yet cutting declaration. Students were now dragging easels into position.
Their lips were pouting.
For two reasons.
"…Sir! A test, all of a sudden?"
"It's almost winter break, saeeeem…!"
The first reason was simple: finals were over, report cards handed out, and break was just around the corner. Why a test now?
"If I say we're doing it, we're doing it. Got a problem?"
"Well… but nobody does plaster cast drawing anymore."
"Hey. Have you even done plaster cast drawing before?"
"Nope. Not even once."
The second reason was the test subject: plaster cast drawing—a format almost extinct in modern entrance exams.
But Mr. Go stood firm.
"Less whining, more drawing."
At Cheonghwa Arts High, studio instructors wielded true authority. The students had no choice but to gather around the Venus plaster cast and begin forming circles.
Before long, the students were divided into four groups—A through D—based on previous drawing scores. Twenty students to each Venus cast.
Most tried to claim a seat with a frontal view of the statue's face. The slackers who didn't care one way or the other plopped themselves down at the back, facing Venus's rear.
As for me—the outsider, the loner, the misfit—I had no choice but to sit directly behind the statue's head.
"You'll have 3 hours, including breaks. Evaluations start right after."
At the mention of evaluations, a chill ran down students' spines. With final grades already distributed, there was only one kind of "evaluation" left:
Placement for next year's drawing classes.
Whispers spread: Was this how the 3rd-year drawing classes were being decided?
Some students even picked up and moved their easels to get a frontal view of Venus.
One by one, other drawing instructors began entering the studio, confirming the test's weight.
In that rising tension, I quietly sharpened my pencil.
Sharpened it sharply—sharper than any blade—as I stared at the back of Venus's head.
"Begin."
Everyone immediately pressed their pencils to paper in a frantic rush to sketch. With an unfamiliar angle and form, urgency filled the air. The soft scratch of graphite echoed through the room. It was the sound of pencils carving their way across 16x22-inch paper.
In the thick silence of focused effort—
Surrounded by nothing, like a castaway on a deserted island—I slowly lifted my head.
The plaster Venus, perched on its stand, presented the blank canvas of her scalp.
I closed my eyes.
Pressed my thumb down against the pencil. Felt the grain of the wood on my fingerprint. The chill of the metal ferrule spread through my palm.
I savored that sensation.
And, with my eyes still closed, drew the first stroke—shhk.
The razor-sharp lead moved across the paper in a bold line.
A beautiful gray.
A line so urgent, so alive, it could convince someone Michelangelo himself had returned to life—through my hand.