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HELIO SCANS
[Translator - Hestia]
[Proofreader - Kaya]
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Chapter 50: Kindred Wounds
I don’t have many memories of Kimiyama Reiko.
We crossed paths a few times in my previous life, but that was about it.
We didn’t talk much, and as the daughter of my mentor, she always felt... off-limits somehow. An awkward boundary I didn’t know how to cross.
All I really knew was—She was an outstanding student, good enough to get into a top-tier university.
And she had been writing from a young age—but for some reason, she stopped altogether. A complete silence.
Kimiyama-sensei never seemed to want to talk beyond that.
There was a subtle distance between him and his daughter, and because of that, I didn’t pry either.
Time passed like that.
- …Sensei, I’m sorry.
When I went through “that incident,” the one that left me unable to create anymore—
Kimiyama-sensei didn’t look at me with pity, or anger, or even disappointment.
He simply looked... surprised.
And the true meaning of that expression—I only came to understand it after I returned to the past.
＊ ＊ ＊
Reiko had been on the verge of tears, her voice trembling with frustration.
But having that kind of conversation right in the middle of a back alley wasn’t ideal.
So I brought her to a convenience store at the nearest intersection.
Ding-Dong.
The automatic door chimed softly.
With the convenience store’s usual mellow jingle playing in the background, I stepped out and handed Reiko a snack as she stood there, head lowered.
“Here. Something sweet might help you feel a little better.”
She didn’t say anything—just looked at me—but she still took the cream puff without resistance.
Biting into it in silence, she looked lost in thought.
I carefully asked.
“Have you... seen a doctor?”
Reiko gave a slight nod.
“Dissociative disorder, psychosomatic visual impairment, PTSD.”
As I listed them off, Reiko’s eyes widened in surprise.
That look told me everything.
She was just like me.
Half-hoping I was wrong, I began reciting the symptoms I had gone through myself, one by one.
“At first, all the paper probably just looked black. With therapy and treatment, it likely got a little better—maybe even to the point that it didn’t affect your daily life anymore.”
Reiko’s eyes began to tremble.
Back when I was an adult, I’d only ever seen her with a cold, unreadable expression.
But seeing her like this now—it finally hit me.
I really had come back in time.
“But in the end... every time you try to write again—the screen, the paper, all of it just turns black, doesn’t it?”
Even if you drag a white pen across the page, even if you gouge into the paper with a cutter, that deep, endless black just swallows it all.
You can’t see anything.
“...How do you know that…”
Reiko, who hadn’t said a single word since breaking down in the alley, muttered as she looked up at me.
“We really are… painfully alike, huh.”
A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
Now, only now, do I realize.
What must’ve gone through Kimiyama-sensei’s mind…
When he saw me suffering from the exact same condition that had already stolen his daughter’s gift for creation?
“Reiko-san, earlier you asked me to help you write again.”
“…Yeah— I mean, yes.”
“I’ll help you.”
At my words, Reiko looked up, eyes wide.
“...Wh—”
“Just don’t ask me why. That’s the only condition.”
It’s just... a form of atonement.
For everything I took from my mentor, for how I never managed to give anything back.
Ugly and self-serving, maybe—but I want to believe that this second chance I’ve been given might still mean something.
＊ ＊ ＊
A quiet cafe.
At a table next to a large glass window, Jung Junhyuk slid a novel and a stack of manuscript paper across to Reiko, who was sitting across from him.
“Today, we’re going to do some hand-copying.”
“Hand-copying?”
“Let’s drop the honorifics for now.”
“Alright.”
Reiko accepted the change without hesitation, causing Junhyuk to pause for a beat before clearing his throat and continuing.
“I’ll explain the reason later. For now, just give it a try.”
Reiko gave a small nod and began to copy a page from the novel onto the manuscript paper, the soft scratch of her pen filling the air.
When she finished the page, Junhyuk checked it, then handed her a new sheet of manuscript paper and quietly took the novel away.
“This time, copy the same page—but from memory.”
At his instruction, Reiko picked up her pen again and started writing.
“I’m done.”
She said shortly.
“Already? Wait, really?”
Junhyuk leaned in to check her work and compared it to the original.
Not a single syllable was off. Every word, every particle—perfectly replicated.
“Uh… yeah, see… this—this shouldn’t be happening…”
Then he remembered: Reiko was the same person who, in the not-so-distant future, would go on to top the entrance exams of one of Japan’s most prestigious universities.
Gulping, Junhyuk pushed another blank sheet toward her.
“That was just the warm-up. Don’t get cocky. The real thing starts now.”
Sounding like some B-rate movie villain, Junhyuk had Reiko keep doing Hand-copying exercises.
And finally, the result he was waiting for came.
“See? I told you—even a genius hits a wall eventually!”
His voice was oddly gleeful.
Of course, even Reiko couldn’t memorize every single page of an entire book.
Eventually, she made a mistake. She left a blank.
What was scary, though, was that—aside from the blank—the rest of the page was an exact match.
“You don’t remember what goes in that part?”
“I remember the meaning and the flow… but not the exact words.”
Reiko bit her lower lip as she answered, recalling Junhyuk’s smug grin from earlier.
“In that case, it’s fine if it’s wrong—just fill in the blank with whatever words you think fit. Don’t worry about matching the exact character count.”
At his words, Reiko turned back toward the page and lifted her pen.
Or tried to.
“……”
Without saying a word, Reiko sat frozen, her breathing growing shallow and erratic. Watching her, Junhyuk slowly pulled the paper away.
“The page looks black to you, doesn’t it?”
Reiko clenched her eyes shut, as if in pain, and gave a small nod.
Hyperventilation. Trembling.
It wasn’t just that the paper appeared black—her anxiety had taken physical form.
“It’s okay. Close your eyes and take deep breaths. From here on, I’ll read it aloud. You just focus on what you’d write in the blanks and say it out loud.”
As Junhyuk read the lines aloud, Reiko filled in the missing words with her voice.
He carefully transcribed her responses onto the manuscript paper.
“Now…”
Junhyuk said gently.
“...Open your eyes, slowly.”
Reiko opened her eyes, cautiously.
In front of her was the original novel she had been copying earlier.
“Can you see it clearly?”
“…Yeah.”
“Good. Then let’s compare your transcription to the original and see what’s different.”
“…!”
Junhyuk handed her the paper.
It was the same manuscript paper she had just been working on—ordinary paper.
What had appeared pitch black only moments ago now showed her handwriting mixed with Junhyuk’s.
“You can see it now, right?”
“I can… but how…”
Junhyuk gave a slight shrug.
“It all comes down to how YOU define the boundary between creation and imitation. It’s just a simple trick of the mind.”
He pointed to the handwritten pages Reiko had copied so far.
“And we’re not done yet. From now on, we’ll repeat this process over and over.”
She had likely gone through a similar course of treatment at the hospital.
That’s probably why she was able to function in her daily life now.
But cognitive behavioral therapy aimed specifically at creative activity requires personal effort—deliberate, focused attempts.
It was just a coincidence that Junhyuk and Reiko happened to share the exact same symptoms. But how they each navigated it would differ.
Junhyuk had only discovered this method because it had been recommended to him during his own therapy. That’s why he was now able to guide Reiko through it.
“Some days it’ll work. Some days it won’t. You’ll need to manage it regularly.”
“…Can we do a bit more today?”
“Pushing it won’t speed things up. Let’s pace ourselves. Add a little more each time.”
Junhyuk handed her a handkerchief.
Only then did Reiko realize her forehead was covered in sweat. She took the handkerchief and wiped it away.
“Your school break’s coming up soon, right? Once it starts, let’s try a few more things together.”
At his words, Reiko gave a small, heavy nod.
＊ ＊ ＊
Before anyone realized, summer break had crept up.
Once the homeroom teacher wrapped up the closing meeting, summer vacation would officially begin.
The middle school classroom was already in chaos, filled with shouts of “It’s summer break!”
The hot topic among the students? None other than how to make the most of their vacation.
Fan-favorite titles like 'Titan of Tremor' and 'Fullmetal Alchemist' were still going strong in a good way.
“Did Eren really die?”
“No way. What kind of manga kills off the main character?”
“You can’t be too sure. The creator IS Wakayama Jun…”
“Sigh… That jerk did Naina dirty like that, but man, his past is heartbreaking…”
“His whole family died right in front of him. How could anyone stay sane after that?”
Some kids were angry at certain characters. Others defended them with all their hearts.
The fact that these stories kept sparking passionate debate was proof of just how deeply invested everyone was.
Kanna, watching the class with a faint smile, turned her gaze to Junhyuk.
“He’s asleep.”
In the past, he would react to the class’s mood—looking reassured or even quietly pleased—but lately, he didn’t show that kind of response anymore.
And more recently, he’d been dozing off like this often, which worried her.
“Don’t get too hyped just ’cause it’s summer break. Try not to get hurt running around and make sure you rest up. That’s all.”
With those parting words from their homeroom teacher, Mr. Matsumoto, the students erupted in cheers and quickly grouped off.
Kanna joined in too, chatting with the girls who naturally gathered around her.
While laughing and talking, she casually scanned the room—Junhyuk was already gone.
“Sorry! I’ve got a shoot today, so I’ll head out first!”
Kanna quickly slipped away from her group and rushed after him.
Luckily, she spotted him not too far away. Just as she was about to call out to him—
“Wait a—!”
She flinched and looked around.
‘Maybe I should wait until he reaches a less crowded place… huh?’
That familiar stalker-y instinct kicked in, and Kanna couldn’t shake a weird feeling of deja vu. Still, she quietly followed Junhyuk from behind, waiting until he reached a quieter, more secluded spot.
“Jun! Wait up!”
She finally caught up to him in a deserted alley.
“What the—? What are you doing here?”
Junhyuk turned around with a surprised look. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Kanna to follow him.
“Well, I… we haven’t really talked much lately, so I thought—”
Ding-a-ling—
A ringtone cut her off. Junhyuk fumbled in his pocket and answered his phone.
“Hello?”
The mood, the momentum—completely derailed. Kanna stood there with a pout, waiting for the call to end.
But as Junhyuk listened, his face slowly twisted from neutral to stunned to alarmed.
“Yes? Uh, yeah. That’s true, but… um, I’ll give you the address, so—”
He began stammering, stumbling over his words, then suddenly started pacing in place.
“Kanna, sorry. Let’s talk next time, okay? Something urgent just came up.”
“Huh?”
Before she could even respond, he was already gone, sprinting away.
“…I’m flying overseas for a shoot tomorrow.”
Kanna muttered to herself.
But Junhyuk was no longer there to hear it.
＊ ＊ ＊
As soon as I got to the studio, I started tidying up my desk right away.
The desk was a mess, the table cluttered, and sheets of paper were scattered all over the floor.
It wasn’t anything too serious, so it didn’t take long to get the place back in order.
Just as I was wrapping up—
Ding-Dong.
The doorbell rang at the perfect moment.
“Just a second! Ow—!”
On the way to the door, I stubbed my pinky toe—unlucky—but I still managed to greet the guest in a reasonably decent state.
“Thanks for coming all this way.”
Not many people ever visited my studio, but today’s guest was both rare and unexpected.
“Please, come in, Kimiyama-sensei.”
Kimiyama-sensei had come all the way to my studio.
＊ ＊ ＊
As soon as Togo sat down in the chair across from the desk, Jung Junhyuk handed him a steaming cup of tea.
Togo gave a small nod of thanks and took a cautious sip.
“Sorry to drop by unannounced. I had some errands nearby, and then I remembered your studio was in the area.”
“Not at all. I'm grateful you stopped by.”
Slurp—
After taking a sip, Togo looked up at Junhyuk.
“I hear my daughter’s been relying on you quite a bit.”
Junhyuk nearly spat out his tea in a panic, barely managing to swallow it without choking.
“Th-That’s a misunderstanding, I think…”
“A misunderstanding?”
Togo raised a brow.
“You’re not helping her write?”
“Ah…”
“So… is there something to be misunderstood?”
Junhyuk averted his gaze as Togo’s eyes sharpened, and he scrambled to explain.
“There’s nothing going on. And there won’t be anything, either.”
Togo gave a satisfied grunt and nodded. “Mmm. That’s how it should be.”
“…What did Reiko tell you, exactly?”
Junhyuk asked cautiously.
“She said she sees the paper turn black whenever she tries to write. That it's some kind of psychological condition.”
“...Did she tell you why it started?”
Togo gave a bitter smile, watching as Junhyuk looked away.
“Guess I don’t need to ask. That face says you already have your suspicions.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I actually came to say thank you.”
Togo placed his teacup down.
“There was a fight between Reiko and her mother… just before the accident. A stupid, petty argument. The kind everyone has. But that was their last conversation.”
When Reiko could no longer create, I thought… Maybe that was for the best. Better not to do it at all than to suffer through it.
“But I was wrong.”
He muttered quietly.
“She wanted to keep creating. I just… didn’t realize it in time. Instead, I tried to pull her away from it.”
“But now, her face is noticeably brighter. It’s thanks to you, Jung.”
“……”
In Junhyuk’s mind, fragments of their shared past flashed by.
- Why even you…?
- I realized too late what she really wanted.
- If even her student gives up on her, then as her father…
- I wouldn’t be able to face her.
As he looked at the faint smile on Togo’s face, it felt like a piece of a long-lost puzzle had finally clicked into place.
“You two… seriously. Clumsy as hell.”
Junhyuk muttered in Korean, too fast for Togo to catch. Before the man could ask, Junhyuk changed the subject.
“Kimiyama-sensei, are you no longer working on any projects?”
At that, Kimiyama let out a soft sigh.
“I’m getting too old to cling to things like that.”
“But there’s still ink on your fingers.”
Startled, Togo looked down at his hands.
Beneath his pinky finger, there was a faint smudge of black ink.
“…Are you trying to draw manga again?”
“……”
“You’re dealing with a condition that causes hand tremors, aren’t you?”
“…!”
Togo’s eyes widened as he stared at Junhyuk.
“I noticed when your hand shook while holding the teacup.”
Junhyuk said calmly.
Though the truth was, he’d realized it long before.
“If you typed on a computer, you’d probably have an easier time writing novels. But I won’t ask why you’re trying to draw manga again.”
Junhyuk met Kimiyama’s gaze directly.
“I’ll help you. So you can create something whole again, Kimiyama-sensei.”
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HELIO SCANS
[Translator - Hestia]
[Proofreader - Kaya]
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