The bamboo hera in Han-gyeol's fingertips trembled faintly. Taut silence hung throughout the workshop, so intense that even the sound of breathing felt intrusive.
Inside the backing paper, deep within the layers of pasted sheets, a trace of red seal paste showed faintly through. It was no simple clump of paper or stain. Someone had clearly created a double compartment and sealed it to hide something very precious.
'This isn't paste.'
Han-gyeol stopped without pushing the hera any farther. The resistance transmitted to his fingertips felt different. The wheat paste normally used for backing deteriorated and crumbled after many years or softened easily when it absorbed water. But what now blocked the tip of the hera felt tough and smooth.
Han-gyeol brought a magnifying glass close to his eye and peered into the gap. Through the faint opening, he could see a yellowish, translucent substance that had hardened.
It was beeswax (natural wax).
Someone had meticulously coated and sealed the paper's edges with beeswax to protect the contents perfectly from moisture and insects. If Han-gyeol forced the hera in and tried to tear it open, he risked ripping even the paper hidden inside.
'I have to be careful. I need to melt it with absolute precision.'
Han-gyeol opened a workbench drawer and took out a small temperature-controlled heat gun and a fine metal spatula. He set the heat gun to 60 degrees Celsius. Beeswax melted at roughly 62 to 65 degrees. Sixty degrees was the optimal temperature for slowly melting only the hardened wax without burning or scorching the paper.
WHIR—.
Warm air streamed toward the gap in the folding screen with a low mechanical hum. Han-gyeol moved the heat gun back and forth, carefully controlling it so the heat would not concentrate in one place.
Before long, the workshop filled with the delicate, sweet fragrance unique to beeswax. The hardened yellow boundary gradually turned translucent and began to glisten. It was a sign that the wax was gently melting.
Han-gyeol set down the heat gun and slid the preheated metal spatula into the gap.
RUSTLE.
The seal that had resisted so stubbornly moments earlier parted as softly as magic. Han-gyeol used tweezers to open the gap slightly. Inside lay a rectangular paper packet, carefully wrapped once more in a thin sheet of oiled paper (oil-treated paper).
Holding his breath, Han-gyeol lifted the packet with the tweezers.
When he carefully removed the oiled paper, an old sheet of xuan paper folded in half and a small business-card-sized scrap of paper dropped out.
Han-gyeol's gaze went first to the small scrap. A seal had been clearly stamped on it in red seal paste.
Sorim (Little Gem). And Jo Seok-jin (Jo Seok-jin).
It was the personally inscribed seal of Sorim Jo Seok-jin, the finest court painter of the late Joseon period and a master of modern painting. Someone had cut out only the part bearing the seal during the mounting process and hidden it behind the painting. Perhaps the owner, fearing that revealing it as the work of a famous artist would make it a target for looting through the Japanese colonial period or the chaos of war, had resorted to this desperate measure.
And then there was the other sheet of xuan paper folded together with the seal.
Han-gyeol unfolded it with trembling hands. Neat, upright writing pressed firmly with a fountain pen covered the page. It was a letter Mrs. Choi's father had left for his daughter.
One corner of Han-gyeol's heart grew heavy as he read the letter.
He recalled Mrs. Choi's desperate face as she brought the old, foul-smelling mass of mold all the way here because she could not bear to throw it away. Hoping his daughter's life would remain peaceful even after he was gone, her father had sealed his warm heart layer by layer inside this cold frame of paper.
'Mrs. Choi, I found your father's true feelings.'
Han-gyeol carefully sealed the letter and seal inside antioxidant film and stored them separately. Once the restoration was complete, they would be the greatest gift he could give Mrs. Choi.
He had secured the most important evidence, but it was too early to celebrate. The real battle began now.
Han-gyeol's gaze moved to the original painting spread across the workbench. He had peeled away the shell of crude overpainting, but the genuine painting's condition was appalling.
Colonies of black and blue-green mold spread like hideous blotches across the xuan paper, which had absorbed moisture for many years. The painting seemed to be suffering from a severe skin disease. More than half the vitality of Master Jo Seok-jin's characteristically bold mountains and gentle ripples had been devoured by mold.
'Simple cleaning won't be enough. I have to pull it out by the roots.'
Mold blooming on paper does not merely cling to the surface; its hyphae reach down into the paper fibers and consume their nutrients. In such cases, restorers commonly pour on powerful chlorine bleach because it works immediately to whiten the visible mold.
But that kills the artifact. Chemical bleach destroys not only the mold but also the fibers of century-old hanji paper. It may look clean at first, but within only a few years, the paper will crumble into powder.
Han-gyeol had not the slightest intention of doing anything so ignorant. He rose and approached the chemical shelf and the wooden cabinet filled with medicinal herbs.
It was time to create his own cleaning formula.
He poured purified water into a beaker and added three drops of phellodendron (Amur cork tree) bark extract with a dropper. Since ancient times, phellodendron had been used as a natural dye and disinfectant for its insect-repellent and fire-resistant properties when preserving important documents or scriptures. He added a tiny amount of ammonia solution and a plant-enzyme solution.
It was Han-gyeol's golden ratio, capable of selectively dissolving only the proteins in the mold without disturbing so much as a hair of the mulberry fibers in the xuan paper or the original ink.
As the solution mixed, a sharp yet refreshing medicinal-herb scent filled the workshop.
Han-gyeol prepared dozens of handmade swabs, each made by winding an extremely small tuft of absorbent cotton around the end of a bamboo stick, along with his softest weasel-hair brush, sharpened to the finest point. Then he put on a brightly lit pair of magnifying glasses.
"Now, shall I cut away the diseased part?"
Han-gyeol drew a deep breath and lightly dipped the tip of his brush into the mixed solution.
His gaze fixed on the lower-right portion of the xuan paper, where a large patch of black mold had eaten into the thick trunk of a pine tree.
TAP.
The brush tip touched the center of the mold.
HISS—.
No sound was audible, but in Han-gyeol's vision, magnified as if through a microscope, a violent chemical reaction was taking place. When the mold spores met the solution, they turned into black grime and began gently dissolving.
Han-gyeol did not miss that fleeting instant. He rolled a dry swab over the spot and lifted away the liquefied mold. Before it could seep into the paper, he used advanced reflexes to absorb only the contaminant.
One black dot disappeared, faintly revealing the original clear ink beneath it.
But there was no time to celebrate. The mold colonies spread across the entire painting numbered in the tens, even hundreds, of thousands.
That meant erasing them one by one from every sheet of xuan paper on this broad eight-panel folding screen with swabs no larger than toothpicks. It was a horrifying, tedious ordeal that tested the limits of human patience.
TAP, SWISH, TAP.
Only the sounds of Han-gyeol dipping his brush and rolling the swabs echoed through the workshop at steady intervals like a metronome.
Even his sense of time disappeared. The muscles in Han-gyeol's shoulders knotted, and the back of his neck grew rigid. His dry eyes watered, but he did not stop his hands.
With his head lowered and his back bent, he advanced one millimeter at a time, looking like an ascetic crawling up an enormous mountain range on his knees.
'Hold on just a little longer. You'll be all better.'
Han-gyeol spoke ceaselessly to the painting in his mind.
'This part hurt, didn't it? How hard was it to breathe, crushed and trapped like that? Let's get you clean and breathing again.'
Had his sincerity reached it? Or was it thanks to the miraculous blend of chemicals?
Wherever Han-gyeol's brush passed, the dank shadow of death lifted, and the vitality Master Sorim Jo Seok-jin had planted a century ago began pulsing back to life. The ink gradation cleared, and the vigor of the blurred brushstrokes stretched outward as though awakening.
The view outside the window changed from black night to bluish dawn, then to a red morning. He had worked through two full nights without sleep.
"Huaa......."
After finally wiping away the last mold spore with a swab, Han-gyeol straightened and released a deep breath. CRACK. Every joint of his stiff spine screamed.
But his eyes shone more intensely than ever.
The foul-smelling, stained monstrosity no longer existed on the workbench. Strange rocks and towering crags rose majestically on the clear, translucent xuan paper, while the water flowing between them looked vivid enough to surge forth with an audible roar at any moment. The depth created by the dark and pale ink gave the painting a perfect sense of space.
"Beautiful."
Han-gyeol murmured hoarsely. The perfect artwork before him made him forget even his exhaustion.
But there was no time to rest. He had removed the tumor of mold; now the surgical work of suturing the gouges and holes remained.
Insects and mold had eaten or rotted hundreds of holes through the xuan paper over the long years. If he proceeded with mounting the painting without filling them, it would later tear.
In the storage room, Han-gyeol found a sheet of century-old paper (old paper) whose date of production was closest to that of the original xuan paper and whose thickness and texture matched it exactly. It was precious paper his grandfather had collected for future use.
He cut the old paper to match each hole. He used neither scissors nor a knife. He wet a brush, drew a line across the paper as if painting, then carefully tore the water-softened section by hand. This was known as the water-tearing technique. It left minute mulberry fibers alive like fluff along the torn edge, allowing them to tangle perfectly with the fibers of the original painting when attached over a hole and rendering the seam invisible.
Han-gyeol dipped his brush into diluted wheat paste aged for ten years and lightly applied it around the edge of a hole. Then he used tweezers to position the prepared repair paper precisely over it and tapped gently with a soft tahe brush (tapping brush).
TAP, TAP, TAP.
It was the sound of the minute fibers of two pieces of paper crossing a century to unite as one. Like filling clouds into a perforated sky, the empty places in the painting were filled so seamlessly that no trace remained.
Once every hole was filled, Han-gyeol brought over the scrap bearing Master Jo Seok-jin's seal that he had stored separately. He calculated the perfect angle and position, then reattached it where it originally belonged, in the blank space at the lower-left corner of the painting.
That completed all the surgery.
All that remained was the mounting (art mounting) process, giving the painting a sturdy skeleton and new clothes.
Han-gyeol performed the first and second backing, attaching fresh, tough mulberry paper to the back of the painting. He perfectly controlled the paste's concentration and the direction of each brushstroke, carefully smoothing the paper so it would neither ripple nor develop air bubbles.
After completing the backing, he attached the painting to a drying board and dried it taut, then fitted it into a newly assembled folding-screen frame made of high-grade red toon wood. He wrapped a subtly patterned silk border around the edges, further elevating the painting's dignity.
Every process unfolded without the slightest deviation, as flawlessly as a vast symphony racing toward its climax.
And at last.
"It's finished."
After pasting down the final silk finishing strip, Han-gyeol took two steps back.
Dazzling morning sunlight streamed through the workshop's window and brightly illuminated the front of the eight-panel folding screen.
The mass of mold that Insadong had despised was gone. It was no longer trash that had withered beneath a husband's criticism.
Within the screen spread wide across the room, mountains of weighty vigor and a gentle river breathed. A cool breeze seemed to blow through the spaces that showcased the beauty of emptiness, while Sorim's (Little Gem's) vivid red seal at the lower left proudly proved that this work was a masterpiece left by the finest court painter of the Korean Empire.
A flawless masterpiece had been born, lacking nothing that might keep it from drawing gasps even if placed immediately in the center of the National Museum's main exhibition hall.
"I did it......."
A sound like air escaping a balloon leaked from Han-gyeol's mouth.
Only then did his body, abused without a moment of sleep for three days and nights, begin to scream. His limbs felt as heavy as lead, and his spine ached as though it would snap. His mind flashed white as extreme exhaustion swept over him, making him feel as if he might collapse at any moment.
But Han-gyeol did not leave the workbench.
He neatly returned his brushes, hera, and chemical bottles to their proper places. His grandfather had taught him that anyone who did not cherish their tools was unqualified to become a craftsman.
When he finished cleaning, Han-gyeol collapsed forward onto the workbench.
With his head resting on his folded arms, he turned and silently gazed at the brilliantly reborn folding screen.
What expression would Mrs. Choi make when she saw this painting and the letter her father had left? How wide would Mr. Kang and the Insadong appraisers' mouths fall open before it?
The mere thought sent a thrilling catharsis through him, as if washing away all the exhaustion in his body.
"This...... is why I restore things."
A deep, peaceful smile spread across Han-gyeol's lips.
His heavy eyelids slowly closed.
Warm sunlight covered his back, and the subtle fragrance of ink filling the workshop soothed him like a lullaby.
It was the sweetest, most perfect nap in the world.