The morning sun spilled softly over the rooftops of the old Seoul neighborhood. His mother had barely slept, but her eyes carried something new—
Courage.
Maybe fragile, maybe trembling,but courage nevertheless.
The twenty wallets she had re-made lay neatly stacked in a cloth bag. Every seam perfect. Every corner sharp. Every stitch steady. For the first time in a long time… her work reflected pride, not desperation.
She dressed him warmly, bundled him in a scarf twice his size, and placed him gently into the stroller.
"We're going," she whispered, as if speaking to herself."To the boutique."
He nodded.
To her, it was terrifying.To him, it was destiny.
Insadong was nothing like their neighborhood.
Shops displayed handcrafted ceramics, wood carvings, traditional teas, and artwork behind glass windows. The streets were clean. The buildings were painted with care. The people walked slower, not rushing from survival to survival.
This place…was wealth in soft colors.
The kind of place where ideas turned into income.
The kind of place his mother belonged.
She found the boutique easily—a charming little store decorated with pastel ribbons and handmade accessories displayed inside small glass boxes.
Mirin's Handcrafted Boutique
His mother hesitated at the door, clutching the bag of wallets like it was her soul.
He reached up from the stroller and touched her hand.
She exhaled deeply and pushed the door open.
Inside, Mirin greeted them with a bright smile.
"Oh! You came!" she said. "Come in, come in!"
His mother bowed repeatedly, overwhelmed by the warmth.Mirin gently took the cloth bag from her hands.
"Let me see what you made."
She opened it.
And froze.
"Oh… wow," she whispered.
She pulled wallet after wallet from the bag, examining each one carefully. The stitching was precise. The edges clean. The quality professional.
His mother trembled. "I… I tried to make them perfect…"
Mirin looked up with serious eyes.
"These are not just good. These are sellable."
Tears immediately filled his mother's eyes.
"You've improved so fast," Mirin said, amazed. "I don't say this lightly—your work is boutique-level quality."
His mother covered her mouth, choking on her emotions.
For the first time in years…
Someone respected her.Truly respected her.Not as cheap labor.Not as a poor single mother.But as a craftswoman.
Mirin continued, "I'll display them today. If they sell as I expect, I'll double the order next week."
His mother wiped her tears. "Th-thank you… thank you so much…"
Mirin crouched to look at the baby."And you, little guy," she cooed, "you helped your mama, didn't you?"
He blinked innocently.But inside?
He approved of her.
She saw value.Not vulnerability.
That made her an ally.
As Mirin arranged the wallets on a display shelf, she said casually:
"By the way, a shop owner from your neighborhood called to complain."
His mother stiffened. "Who… who called you?"
"Some man," Mirin said with a dismissive tone. "Older. Angry. Said you were unreliable and irresponsible. Told me not to work with you."
His mother gasped, her face draining of color.
"He… he called you?"
Mirin nodded. "He wanted to 'warn me' about you."
She placed the last wallet down, stood straight, and brushed her hands together.
"But I don't take orders from insecure men."
His mother's eyes widened in pure shock.
Mirin crossed her arms.
"He said you're slow, lazy, and messy. But these wallets?" She pointed at the display. "They prove he's either blind, stupid, or lying."
His mother began crying again—silent tears flowing.
He felt something twist sharply in his chest.
The sewing shop owner wasn't just controlling.
He was attacking.Sabotaging.Trying to crush her future before it began.
A real enemy.
A dangerous one.
But he'd made a fatal mistake:
He underestimated a woman with talent.And he underestimated a reborn man standing in a toddler's body.
On the way home, the neighborhood felt different.
Colder.Hostile.Watched.
People whispered.
Some avoided eye contact.Some smirked.Some looked at his mother with pity or mockery.
And then—as they turned a corner—they saw it.
Shredded fabric.Threads scattered like confetti.Ruined material dumped in front of their apartment door.
The sewing shop owner had destroyed her last batch of cloth.
A message:
"You belong under my boot."
His mother stood frozen.A trembling hand covering her mouth.
The man had crossed a line.Not just business sabotage.Humiliation.
She knelt, picking up the ruined fabric with shaking hands, whispering,
"Why… why are they doing this…?"
He watched her break silently.
And something inside him hardened.
This was no longer about inconvenience.This was war.
But before she could gather the ruined cloth, a familiar voice shouted:
"HEY!"
They turned.
The teenage boy stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed with triumph.
"My dad says if you refuse to listen, he'll make sure nobody around here works with you. You'll be begging for trash soon."
His mother recoiled like she had been slapped.
The boy smirked.
The baby stared.
There was no fear.Only calculation.
The boy sneered down at the toddler."What? Gonna bite me again?"
The toddler held his gaze.
Unblinking.Cold.Older than he looked.
The boy faltered.
Just slightly.
Because there was something wrong about this baby.Something… unsettling.
He looked away first.
Cowards always do.
That night, his mother sat in the dark, holding him tightly.
"I don't want problems…" she whispered. "I just want to feed you… I just want a normal life…"
He listened to her heartbeat—broken, scared, pounding with anxiety.
He wrapped his tiny hand around her thumb.
She sniffed, wiped her tears, and kissed his head.
"I'll protect you," she whispered.
He smiled.
Because he understood everything.
She would protect him with her life.
But he would protect her with the world.
When she fell asleep, he looked at her tired face, then at the shredded cloth piled near the door.
He whispered his first words with true intent:
"Bad man… wrong."
A toddler's voice.But a grown man's hatred.
And the sewing shop owner had no idea—
He had just created his greatest enemy.