The Bird in the Gilded Cage

The eldest daughter-in-law of the GH Group family, rumored to have tragically died young in an accidental fall, became his mother. And he became Goo Jae-hwi, the eldest grandson of the GH family, who required medical treatment after the trauma of his mother’s death.

From that moment on, he lived hidden within the house. At seven years old, he began his education as a replacement for his brother who had died at nine, preparing for the day he would be presented to the world as “Goo Jae-hwi.” Yet, no matter how much he became Jae-hwi, he could never be the real thing. Consequently, the contempt, coldness, and discrimination directed at him were no different from when he was an orphan.

If anything, it was worse. As an orphan, he could play and study with the other children in the orphanage; he could at least have friends. After coming to Korea, that was no longer the case. He was utterly alone, and he cried every night.

The spacious room on the second floor of the massive house, with its castle-like high walls, was his prison. Soft, cozy bedding, delicious food he couldn’t identify, books he couldn’t read, electronic devices with unknown purposes, and various toys—things that didn’t belong in a prison were inside his.

“Открой дверь! Выпусти меня!”

There were countless days when he screamed for them to open the door, to let him out, to send him back to where he came from, as he pounded on the locked entrance. But the firmly locked door would only open long after he had exhausted himself and fallen silent.

After this cycle repeated several times, he began to bide his time. He acted quiet on purpose to make them open the door sooner. He calculated the moments when they brought him food or when outsiders visited. And each time, he would push aside whoever blocked his path and run with all his might.

He tried to escape without a plan. But every time, before he could even make it down the stairs, he was caught and confined back in the second-floor room.

A doctor visited regularly. The employees, replaced after the mistress’s death, looked pityingly at the “young master who had fallen mute from shock,” yet none of them offered a helping hand. There was no one anywhere who would listen to his pleas.

And so, he resigned himself, and his formal studies began in earnest. Before he could fully master Korean, the first thing he had to engrave in his mind was what he must never say.

I am not Goo Jae-hwi. I am not the young master.

In his clumsy Korean, he wanted to deny the titles used to address him. But he knew the cold gazes that were always fixed on him, so he swallowed his words. If there was any luck to be found, it was that his years as an orphan had made him quick to read the room.

Whenever the home-schooling tutor arrived, he wore sunglasses to hide the color of his eyes, using a vision problem as an excuse. Then, from the age of eight—a year after arriving in Korea—he had to wear contact lenses that made his pupils appear black.

Gradually, he forgot his original name and his native Russian. Simultaneously, he began to harbor questions about who he was and why he was born.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should never have brought you here.” “…” “You seem utterly useless.” “…” “I doubt you can even play the role of the eldest grandson. You might have inherited your mother’s flexibility, but I have no idea what use such a talent would be…”

Goo Yoon-han usually ignored him. But on nights when he was drunk, he would look at his son in exasperation. He would mutter to himself, and through those monologues, Jae-hwi learned that his biological mother had been a Russian ballerina.

His biological father was a Korean chaebol; his biological mother was a dancer whose name he didn’t know. His two older sisters hated him immensely, and his grandfather was a silent, terrifying man. That was all he knew about the people he was supposed to call family.

The older he grew, the deeper his existential questions became. Am I Goo Jae-hwi or not? These people who tell me to call them Father, Grandfather, and Sister, yet look disgusted when I do—are they my family or not? Should I never have been born? Was I born only to serve as a substitute for someone else? What can I do? What must I not do? Why was I born?

“Fortunately, you seem to have inherited my brain.”

At the age of eleven, he passed the high school equivalency exam. It was four years after he started studying Korean and three years after he began serious academics. Realizing his son’s extraordinary intellect, Goo Yoon-han began to pay attention to him.

He was taught various foreign languages, excluding Russian, and was given support and encouragement in fields he found interesting. A computer appeared in his room, and a stock account was opened in the name of Goo Jae-hwi.

Even so, he was still confined within the house. He still had to eat his meals alone.

Then, when he was fifteen—spring of the year he turned seventeen by Goo Jae-hwi’s age—he met Taerin for the first time.

She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Her sharp, cat-like eyes, her small, straight nose, her clear white skin, and her plump, red lips. Jae-hwi couldn’t take his eyes off Taerin, who had appeared in a school uniform alongside Goo Jae-kyung, who was two years her senior.

“Your two sisters look so much alike, like twins, but you don’t look like them at all.” “…Yes. People say my sisters took after my father a lot.” “Right. It seems so. I guess you take after your mother’s side? That’s a relief.” “…” “Don’t start looking like them later. Your sisters are so unpleasant. Especially Goo Jae-kyung.” “…I’ll try.” “He says he’ll try. How cute.”

In front of Taerin, who let out a small giggle, Jae-hwi felt a strange heat. His mouth went bone-dry, and he became acutely conscious of every breath he took. He felt somewhat dizzy.

Until then, Won Taerin was just a “pretty older sister.” A girl he would timidly approach to talk to when his scary eldest sister wasn’t looking—one who would entertain him and occasionally stroke his hair with a smile.

When her eyes went wide, asking if he was really seventeen, he almost blurted out that he was actually fifteen. He didn’t want to lie to her, of all people. But he knew what would happen if the word got out, so he kept silent.

Concerned by a doctor’s remark about his emotional development, Goo Yoon-han allowed him to keep a dog. He named the newborn Doberman “Sasha” and cared for, cherished, and loved it personally. Then, one day…

“I’ll only tell you. I’m actually ten, not twelve. And Goo Jae-hwi isn’t my name. My real name… I, I can’t remember it, but anyway, I’m not Goo Jae-hwi.”

His grandfather, Goo Kwang-hyun, happened to overhear him murmuring this while hugging Sasha, whom he had raised for nearly a year. That afternoon, Sasha disappeared, and all the employees were replaced. To the boy crying and searching for Sasha, Goo Yoon-han said:

“Give up. You’ll never see Sasha again.” “…Why?” “I believe I told you to watch your mouth.”

It was a threat: if he spoke recklessly, he would lose the things he cherished. So, Jae-hwi could never confess the truth. Because more than anything, he wanted to keep seeing Taerin.

Two or three times a week, Taerin would visit Banguja in Yeon-o-dong, where the GH Chairman resided, to prepare for an American internship program with Goo Jae-kyung. Every time, Jae-hwi watched her.

Sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for thirty minutes. He would loiter near Taerin, waiting for the moments Goo Jae-kyung stepped away. As the seasons turned to early summer, on a day when the sun blazed prematurely, Jae-hwi engraved the three syllables of Taerin’s name deep into his heart.

It was the day of Goo Jae-kyung’s birthday party. Dozens of friends were invited, and Taerin, who had to maintain a relationship with Jae-kyung for various reasons despite not being a “friend,” also came with a small gift.

Goo Jae-kyung had ordered him to stay on the second floor since her friends were coming, but knowing Taerin was there, he couldn’t stay still. He hadn’t seen her in a long time because he had been in the hospital for the past two weeks. So, Jae-hwi hid behind the door leading to the backyard—the party venue—peeking out with only half his face visible.

“Why are you acting like that over there?” “…Just because. I’ll stay here today.”

Behind the U-shaped Banguja was Dugugwan, the staff quarters. In the wide backyard between the two buildings was a swimming pool that Goo Yoon-han had built for his three children long ago. Goo Jae-kyung was busy playing in the pool with the friends she had invited.

Taerin was sitting alone on a sunbed closest to the backyard entrance. It was the spot furthest from the pool, shielded by a large tree so that she couldn’t be seen from the water.

Wary of why he was only showing half his face instead of approaching as usual, Taerin narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, but soon shrugged her shoulders with an indifferent expression.