The director's monitor still flickered with the final moments of the subway scene—the train pulling away, Sunmin's voice echoing through the station, her name lost in the blur of motion.
The haunting shot lingered on screen, but Jihoon's attention had already shifted to the notepad in his hand.
His pen moved swiftly, noting down precise adjustments as he reviewed the edit—refining the lighting texture for better tonal balance, slowing the cut transitions to enhance emotional rhythm, and tightening the framing on Jiyong's fleeting glance to anchor the scene's emotional beat.
These were the details that lived between frames, and he was determined to bring them to life.
"Hmm… maybe a two-second hold before the fade-out," he murmured to himself, underlining a note.
Kim Haesook approached quietly, her footsteps almost silent amidst the hum of cables and whispered crew chatter.
She eased down beside him on the bench with the kind of grace only she possessed. Her eyes moved to the monitor, then to Jihoon.
"Jihoon-ah," she said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Even the hardest-working engines need to cool down. Come on, sweetheart—take a little break before you burn yourself out."
Jihoon looked up, blinking out of his creative trance. He met her gaze with a sheepish smile.
"It's okay, Omma. I'm almost done. Just need to lock this down before I forget. Besides," he added with a playful grin, "if I take a break now, the whole set might collapse."
Haesook raised a brow, mock stern. "Aigoo, you think the world will stop spinning if you take ten minutes break?"
Jihoon laughed, placing his pen down for a second. "You sound like my actual mom."
"That's because someone here clearly needs one," she shot back, tapping his arm lightly.
"You're too thin these days. You don't sleep enough. And this face—" she motioned to his tired eyes—"is not camera-friendly."
"I'm the director, remember?" Jihoon chuckled. "I don't need to stand in front of the camera."
"That doesn't mean I don't see you."
The words landed softly but deeply. Jihoon gave a small nod, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Around them, a few crew members looked on with fond smiles. One lighting assistant leaned over and whispered to the guy beside him, "Haesook omma really treats him like her own son."
The guy grinned and replied, "At this point, I'm convinced he's her son. Just look at them."
Another staff member snapped a quick candid photo of the two, preserving the moment—not as part of the movie, but as something just as important.
Back on the bench, Haesook pulled out a small carton of banana milk from her bag and handed it to Jihoon.
"Drink this," she said. "And no, you don't get to say no. Omma orders."
Jihoon accepted the milk with a soft laugh, clearly touched. "Thanks, Omma. Saranghae," he said, his voice light but sincere.
Then, with a playful grin, he raised his hand and crossed his thumb and index finger into a tiny heart shape—a gesture that is common and iconic in the future.
But at the time, it was something new, almost odd, a small symbol still unfamiliar to most now.
Kim Haesook blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter as Jihoon explained its meaning.
"A heart?" she chuckled, amused. "How do you come up with these things?"
Neither of them knew that this little gesture—born on a modest film set on Jeju Island—would one day become a cultural trend across Korea, and eventually, the world.
But in that moment, it was just a sweet exchange between two people who had grown close, bound not by blood, but by respect, care, and shared passion.
In that quiet corner of the set, with the monitor still glowing and edits waiting to be made, they sat—an actress and a director, a mother and son in spirit.
What they were crafting wasn't just a film. It was a memory. A bond. A quiet kind of magic that lived far beyond the screen.
Night fell as filming wrapped for the day.
The cast and crew returned to their accommodations, the once-bustling set now settling into a quiet calm. It was a peaceful night, marked by the gentle hum of rest after a day of creation.
The next morning, as the sun rose steadily from the east, the island stirred back to life. One by one, the team awoke—refreshed, recharged, and ready to bring the story to life once more.
The morning sun bathed Yongdam-dong in soft golden light.
Located on the northern edge of Jeju Island, just 12 kilometers from the airport, today's film set was nothing short of perfect.
The area wasn't just scenic—it was cinematic.
The natural beauty of Yongyeon Pond, where freshwater from Hallasan Mountain met the sea, offered a dreamlike backdrop for the film.
The valleys, the cliffs, and the pristine view of the sky made it an ideal location for one of the film's most visually poetic scenes.
And today's shoot was centered around a local wine company in this small town—a modest, family-run operation that produced wine the traditional way, using rejected grapes and Jeju's signature tangerines.
The owner, a warm-hearted man with decades of experience in winemaking, was thrilled to grant the film crew permission to shoot on his premises.
As he put it, "we've never had cameras here before," he said with a proud grin. "This is more publicity than I could've ever dreamed of."
The scene was crucial to the story—an emotional moment between two sisters, Gong Sunmin and Gong Somin, played by Yoona and a young prodigy, seven-year-old Kim Yoojung.
She was originally selected through a rigorous casting process—not only was Yoojung's age a perfect match for the character, but her performance far exceeded Jihoon's expectations.
The crew prepared the setting: an oversized wooden barrel filled with steaming, fermenting fruit mash.
Camera angles were pre-set. Mics were tested.
Jihoon, meticulous as ever, walked the perimeter, giving last-minute instructions.
"We're going wide first. Then push in close on expressions, especially that rising steam from the bucket—we need it to feel alive," Jihoon instructed the camera team.
He turned to the young actresses.
"Remember what we practiced with the hot sand."
"It's warm, but not dangerous, so don't be afraid. It's still bearable—I've tried it myself."
"Now focus on the moment—the joy, the weirdness, the smell while stomping on the fruits."
"And remember, you're making something beautiful. That's the key to this scene."
As Yoona and Yoojung stepped barefoot into the barrel, the wine company's advisor stood by, gently coaching them through the steps.
A crew member poured in the hot fruit mash, steam curling into the air like a soft veil. Jihoon gestured sharply.
"Camera two—tight shot on Yoona's face. Now."
Yoona laughed, half in character, half in genuine delight as she squished the mash beneath her feet.
Yoojung too followed, giggling with unfiltered childlike joy.
The scene rolled on smoothly. Jihoon's preparation, his actor-specific guidance, and the team's countless hours of practice paid off.
The chemistry between the sisters was real. Their expressions? Perfect.
Then, as the wine was poured into a massive ceramic jar to begin fermentation, Jihoon whispered into his mic, "And… Cut!"
Applause broke out. One take. No retakes.
As the crew began resetting for the next location, Jihoon sat by the monitor, replaying the footage with hawk-like focus.
Every frame checked off his mental list—light, shadow, emotion, detail. It was all there. All it needed now was a masterful edit.
Just as Jihoon was about to stand and announce the end of the scene, a commotion echoed from the distance.
Faint at first, then louder. Laughter. Chatter. A voice he knew too well—one that didn't belong on a quiet set.
He turned slowly, eyebrow twitching in disapproval.
There they were.
Yoona's SNSD bandmates—Taeyeon, Sunny, Sooyoung, and the rest—had arrived.
Dressed casually, talking loudly, laughing even louder.
With Taeyeon's iconic ajumma laugh echoing through the quiet valley air, the film set suddenly felt less like a professional production film ground.
More like a bustling Saturday at the Noryangjin fish market—complete with imaginary ajummas bickering over seafood prices and haggling on their theatrical affairs.
The entire crew fell silent, frozen in place.
Everyone knew Jihoon as a warm, easygoing director—but when it came to filming, there were unspoken rules carved in the industry.
Noise on set during a take was a serious offense.
Not only could it ruin a shot, but it could also shatter the emotional momentum the actors had worked hard to build.
It wasn't just a technical issue—it was a matter of respect, craft, and professionalism to the film crews.
Jihoon rose from his director's chair.
The crew watched closely, bracing themselves for an outburst.
After all, it wasn't just that Yoona and the others had disrupted the shoot—it was also a direct challenge to the director's authority on set.
Jihoon marched toward the group, his steps deliberate.
The chatter died down. The girls looked at him, curious but unconcerned.
He stopped in front of them, arms crossed.
"Hey… ajummas," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "The fish market is two blocks over. You sure you're in the right place?"
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then chaos.
"Ya!! What did you just say?!" Taeyeon shrieked, mock offended.
Before he could dodge, they lunged at him. Punches, light slaps, playful kicks.
Jihoon laughed and immediately crouched down, arms shielding his face. "Not the face! I still need it to make money!"
The crew watched, their jaws on the floor, as their revered director was swarmed by the girls in a mock battle of giggles and flailing limbs.
It was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous thing they had ever witnessed on any film set they'd worked on before.
Kim Haesook, hearing the uproar, hurried over. she took one look at the scene and froze.
Jihoon spotted her and immediately scrambled behind her like a bullied schoolboy seeking sanctuary.
"Omma! They're bullying me again!" he whined dramatically. "Not only did they gang up on me this time, they extorted my lunch money last time too!"
Haesook blinked, clearly trying to process the absurdity of the scene unfolding in front of her.
The corners of her mouth twitched—caught between a sigh, a laugh, and sheer disbelief.
"Oh, for heaven's sake…" she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.
Then she turned slightly and gave Jihoon a light slap on the shoulder, her voice switching to a playful scold.
"You're the director, not a kindergarten kid! Stop acting like one before I really ground you."
The girls and crew burst into laughter as Jihoon peeked out from behind Haesook with a sheepish grin.
"But Omma… it hurts!" he whined dramatically, clutching on to his imaginary wound. "Look, can't you see? It's still bleeding!"
He then wrapped his arms around Haesook's like a child pleading for candy. "This kind of injury clearly needs some Jeju premium black pork to heal—only a meal from my beloved Omma can fix this!"
Changwook, who had been there the whole time observing, suddenly doubled over with laughter.
He clutched his stomach and pointed at Jihoon with mock alarm.
"Yeah, your 'bleeding wound' looks so serious—so serious it healed instantly!" he teased, barely able to get the words out through his fit of giggles.
Not just him—the whole set was laughing, even the wine company's owner, who chuckled heartily from the sidelines.
The entire set was now in stitches, even the sound tech nearly dropped his boom mic trying to hold back laughter.
And just like that, the tension vanished.
Laughter filled the air. In a humble winery nestled in the heart of Jeju Island, something more than a film was unfolding. A story being written not just on camera, but behind it too.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe and Daoist098135 for bestowing the power stone!]