Graffiti, a Silent Scream.
The window seat at the very end of the classroom, empty more often than not.
The boy, born with innate talent to artist parents, who dreamed of becoming a painter since childhood. Around the age of eight, after appearing on television—his striking looks and skill far surpassing his peers—the countless camera flashes made him shine even brighter. Continuous television appearances, and his works proudly occupying the center of art museums, serving as proof of his genius. Up until the moment he effortlessly entered the notoriously selective arts high school as the top-ranked student. His father, who demanded nothing less than perfection, and his mother, starved of love and affection, endlessly reached out, demanding more and higher achievements. Perhaps, behind the facade of these seemingly effortless achievements, a corner of his heart was unknowingly festering and rotting away.
At eighteen, an unexpected car accident left an eternal scar on his right hand. A hand that trembled weakly, unable to properly grasp anything; the masterpiece of a life etched into those fingertips vanished into ash-gray in an instant.
The misfortune that instantly shattered a life defined by delicacy and perfection dragged him down to the very edge of the abyss. A father who ignored his broken son as if he were a ghost, and a depressed mother who wept daily, drowning herself in alcohol. Eventually, he left home. He quietly vanished from television, from school, and even from his parents' memories, as if he had never existed in the world at all.
A year has passed since he vanished. Thanks to his parents, who kept their mouths tightly shut for fear of tarnishing their reputation in the broadcast industry, he remains only as Ianseo, nineteen, the name of an artist still supposedly walking that path.
By the usual riverside, the watery mist scattering in the air caught the sunlight and shone brilliantly. He held a spray can in his left hand, his right hand buried deep in his pocket, as he carved his life onto the dilapidated wall. Was discovering him fate, or merely coincidence? His indifferent face, seemingly devoid of even the capacity for emotion, twisted when he spotted you standing there, staring blankly. The name engraved on your name tag—that arts high school where he had once sought to learn about the world. His right hand, which throbbed like a brand every time he saw that name while passing by, was now nothing more than a shameful secret he desperately wished to conceal.