Chapter 30

The princess stood with her back to the sun. What could Princess Yeonhwa have been thinking?

Sooyeon had to ponder this for days.

An actor must comprehend the role they are playing.

After all, method acting—immersing oneself deeply into the emotions—is rooted in that understanding.

“Usually, in situations like these, it’s easier if you think like the character,” said Yoon Jong-hyuk as he rested nearby still in character as Jo Young-dae.

“Yeah, as trite as it may sound, that’s the simplest way. Or you could project personal experiences onto the role… but that might be a bit too difficult for young Sooyeon,” he added.

In truth, acting doesn’t have a right answer. With a tender pat on Sooyeon’s head, Yoon Jong-hyuk conveyed this.

It seemed he appreciated the young child actor’s efforts to interpret the role on her own.

“You shouldn’t impose too much of your own thoughts on a character.”

Upon asking Jeong Eun-seon, she responded as much.

“The script itself already lays out the description and details of the character. Going beyond this is often just greed. Besides, *The Moon That Hid the Sun* is an adaptation of an original work.”

Fans of the original work are bound to be even harsher in judging how accurately the character has been portrayed. When the subjective input of actors and directors overpowers, the character may become something entirely different—definitely not the outcome the fans desire.

However, most of the drama audience might not have read the original. While the original often provides the ultimate answer, absolute correctness isn’t always guaranteed.

The responses from the novel’s readers and the drama’s viewers can diverge, after all.

“Of course, there’s no shortage of dramas that suffered criticism for deviating too much from the novel.”

With this in mind, Sooyeon nodded.

Jeong Eun-seon, who is known for her method acting, made the point that maybe being an underage actor meant doing more than necessary was just greed.

“‘I still don’t know,’” Sooyeon admitted inwardly.

She had never received any proper acting education, so she had no other choice but to explore it on her own.

Trying to think from the viewpoint of the character, as Yoon Jong-hyuk had suggested, she worked hard to evoke experiences similar to Princess Yeonhwa’s.

But amusingly, this was fruitless. Even if she drew on past lives, her unfamiliarity with such emotions gave her no help.

Sooyeon was simply too young to possess many meaningful experiences. Therefore, she turned to the original novel, hoping to understand Princess Yeonhwa.

She read the script over and over again. In various ways, she attempted to express such emotions.

It was only through trying it out in practice that she could directly understand what might be right.

It was a challenging and harsh practice for the young, emotionally inexperienced child.

But…

“Seoil.”

Standing with her back to the sun, Princess Yeonhwa was like a moon.

“I’ve believed you would come.”

In contrast to her previous fury towards Jo Young-dae, Yeonhwa now sported a despondent smile.

These complex emotions were too much for young Seoil. Perhaps the real Yeonhwa didn’t fully understand herself either.

Anger, resentment—they weren’t directed solely at Jo Young-dae but also at herself.

“Why.”

To this Yeonhwa, Seoil asked.

“Why must Your Highness leave? Is this not wrong?”

Seoil stuttered, with many things left unsaid, still immature as a child, ironically despite being the son of a renowned academic.

Seoil’s thoughts and feelings couldn’t form coherent words.

“Please don’t leave, Your Highness. You cannot go. Please, do not leave me behind.”

In the end, the only thing that came out of Seoil’s mouth was the characteristic tantrum of a young child. Though clearly unreasonable, the young Seoil persisted.

“Just don’t go.”

And only that.

“Do you really feel alright, Sooyeon?”

This question from Su-a overlapped with her current thoughts. Su-a asking repeatedly if everything was alright, and the worried face of Young-bin surfaced.

Yoon Jong-hyuk had once said that to understand the emotions of the character, finding them within personal experiences could be a method.

Fortunately, Sooyeon’s situation mirrored Princess Yeonhwa’s.

“Acting can be learned even as an underage actor. Here’s an opportunity, isn’t it?”

Producer Ha Tae-oh attempted to persuade Sooyeon. Give it more of a try, he urged. While it’s true the careers of underage actors are often short and tough, not all cases are so grim.

Isn’t it a shame? Wouldn’t those in their shoes grab the dream they’ve been striving for?

Merely one work. Just one drama.

That was all Sooyeon had done, and it had given her fame far beyond proportion.

Such luck wouldn’t come again. That’s why Producer Ha insisted.

Of course, Sooyeon understood this.

“Seoil.”

Princess Yeonhwa exhaled slowly. Closing her eyes, Lee Hye-wol—Sooyeon as Princess Yeonhwa—existed momentarily in one consciousness.

For Sooyeon, emotions were like a pretty aquarium—like a small fishbowl wishing to become the ocean.

“We are still young, so…”

Emotions for Sooyeon were like the sun reflected on the water’s surface—bright but mysterious, warm but fleeting if the surface rippled.

“Not knowing so much…”

The reflected sun seemed realistic but was fundamentally different from the genuine one. It could be easily distorted.

“There are many things we cannot do…”

Now, Sooyeon could walk across the water’s surface and see the actual sun above her head instead.

She wanted to do so much but, unfortunately, she wasn’t a skilled person with enough capacity, especially with the widening gap between her mind and body from her past life.

The puberty ahead would surely complicate matters.

“But…”

Despite the differences between Yeonhwa and herself, their stories shared similar themes.

“We are still young with many chances to learn more. Plenty of opportunities to do great things.”

That’s why, although their situations were different, Sooyeon could still voice these lines.

“It’s not giving up. We’ll absolutely return.”

Because they had decided to come back, these words carried meaning.

For Sooyeon, for herself.

At this very moment.

Sooyeon could act—could become the young Hye-wol.

She could dip her body in the sea and truly look at its depths—not the deceptive reflection but the submerged depth of emotions.

True acting.

“So, let me make a promise.”

Yeonhwa’s voice trembled before the sun she’d hidden behind, turning herself into the moon.

“Certainly…”

Addressing both Seoil and herself, Yeonhwa committed.

“Certainly, I will return.”

The princess smiled, her lips quivering. A tear rolled down her cheek as she clutched her chest and exhaled deeply.

“Regardless of anything happening, I will surely be back.”

And to the bewildered gaze of Seoil, Yeonhwa smiled.

“Please wait for me and don’t forget.”

One step after another, under the reddening sky of the setting dusk, Lee Hye-wol extended her hand toward the speechless Seoil.

“Will you make a promise with me?”

To seal the promise.

“Yes, definitely.”

Finally recovering, Park Jung-woo as Seoil responded, linking his small finger with hers. A childish, solemn agreement.

As the camera pulled back, it captured the two’s figures, the silhouette of the palace visible further down the hill, and the solemn face of Queen Dowager Eun-hye.

And finally, Jo Young-dae in the king’s seat.

Thus ended the third episode of *The Moon That Hid the Sun*.

***

“Director Ha…”

At the KMB Broadcasting Company drama team headquarters, quiet silence followed the conclusion of the third episode of *The Moon That Hid the Sun*. No one dared to ask about the ratings.

The fear of community responses lingered in the air until someone broke the silence with an exclamation:

“It’s a hit!”

Everyone’s eyes moved instantly to a grinning colleague who had just revealed the tally.

It was only the third episode, but everyone had hoped.

“Good Lord.”

Ha Tae-oh blinked, unable to believe the ratings displayed. Such numbers were beyond expectation for the third episode.

***

“Wow…”

Having already viewed the footage, Yoon Jong-hyuk marveled anew. He remembered how Sooyeon had remained melancholic for some time after shooting this scene.

It was emotional acting at its highest degree: the sole acting feat young Sooyeon could pull off, pushing the boundaries of her abilities for this role.

Seeing it again, Sua was visibly moved, sniffing away tears.

“Our girl worked hard for this.”

Contemplating the end of her daughter’s underage acting career, Sua tearfully reflected.

Smiling gently, Sooyeon reassured her.

“I’m fine.”

Truly fine, with decisions already set.

“First of all, I should visit a voice acting school and maybe look for an acting academy, too.”

Of course, Sooyeon didn’t know how the acting school might receive her, though she expected less trouble with the voice acting.

There were regrets, certainly, but even more anticipation.

“Senior.”

Addressing Yoon Jong-hyuk from a distance, the topic turned to the decision she made.

“Which side are you on? Do you think it’s a waste? Or do you find it justified?”

“Hmm,” Park Sun-woong pondered, switching glances between Sooyeon and her mother, Sua. Popularity is like fire—if neglected, it fades away as all energy is poured into sustaining it, burning until nothing but ashes remains.

Most people run as hard as they can when their star shines, leaving nothing behind.

“Frankly speaking, anyone who says they don’t feel regret would be lying.”

It was an opportunity anyone would be glad to grasp. How many people can let go so easily?

Of course, they understood the circumstances surrounding Sooyeon’s decision. She, such a determined young one, wouldn’t have made this choice lightly.

It must truly have been unavoidable.

But people hold onto what they’ve gained, and letting go is never easy.

Thus, Park Sun-woong continued,

“However, occasionally, there are people whose glow time cannot dim.”

Not a fleeting spark, but an enduring star.

“Perhaps that child belongs to that category.”

And the world calls such individuals…

“Stars.”

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