There were songs you forgot the moment they ended—just a pleasant tune playing in the background of a café, dissolving into the hum of passing cars or footsteps across wet pavement. But some songs… some you couldn't unhear even if you begged to forget. Ji-hoon knew that kind intimately. The ones that burrowed under your skin like a secret you didn't ask to carry. The ones where a single note could unravel memory.
The piano keys were cold under his fingers that morning—colder than usual. He had arrived at the empty conservatory half an hour before his lesson, though he hadn't planned to. His body just moved on instinct now, carrying him to places long before his mind caught up. The silence was thick, broken only by the soft echo of his footsteps on marble and the breath of wind that slipped through a cracked window.
He let his fingers rest on the keys like they were bones of something ancient, something once alive and breathing. The silence begged him to play. But he hesitated. Because the last time he had played alone in this room, something had changed. The weight of that moment still pressed into his chest like a lingering bruise.
His hands finally moved, slowly at first—tentative notes that trembled through the air like a confession. He wasn't playing a composed piece. He wasn't even playing something he knew. It came from somewhere deeper. It was a memory translated into melody, a ghost pressing down his fingers. His mother's lullaby was folded between the notes—not directly, but like its shadow lived beneath each one.
And then he heard it.
A sound.
So soft at first, it could've been imagined—a chair creaking. A breath caught. A shift in weight. But it was real. Ji-hoon froze mid-chord, his ears now straining in the silence. The keys under his fingers hovered on the edge of something unfinished.
"Don't stop."
The voice.
He turned his head slightly, his senses sharpening like a blade. It wasn't Si-wan. It wasn't Hye-jin. It wasn't anyone he expected. But he knew the tone—it was a man's voice, maybe in his forties. Gentle, oddly calm, almost too composed for someone who'd been eavesdropping in a practice room.
"You… were listening?" Ji-hoon asked, his fingers slipping away from the keys, the tension creeping down his spine.
"I wasn't trying to. The door was open. And I—" the man paused, his footsteps moving closer across the floor, "—I've never heard someone play like that before."
Ji-hoon straightened slightly. "Like what?"
"Like they're remembering something they shouldn't have to." The man exhaled, slowly. "Like the music is bleeding."
The words hit Ji-hoon harder than he let on. He turned his face toward the voice, trying to measure its weight, its intent. "And what would you know about bleeding music?"
There was a long silence. Then: "More than I'd like."
Ji-hoon's hands slid off the piano, falling to his lap. "You a musician?"
"No," came the man's reply. "Not anymore."
Ji-hoon didn't speak again. He didn't need to. The silence filled with a tension too rich to ignore. He hated how easy it was for strangers to walk into his vulnerability, how often they mistook his blindness for an open door. But this one felt different. Not safe, not exactly. But… curious. Familiar, even.
"You didn't play that song for anyone else, did you?" the man asked.
"No," Ji-hoon replied, quiet but firm. "I didn't play it for you, either."
"I know."
Another pause. Then the man's footsteps retreated. No names exchanged. No explanations. Just the scent of cologne fading again in the air—not the one from that night, no—but something piney and worn, like old books or rain-soaked coats. And then he was gone.
Ji-hoon sat in the silence that followed, his heart still echoing the melody he didn't mean to give away. That song… wasn't just a memory. It was a scar. And once again, someone had seen it—heard it—without permission.
He should've been angry. But all he felt was tired.
So he played again. And this time, he didn't stop.
Ji-hoon's hands hovered over the keys, feeling the cold beneath his fingertips, the silence stretching between each note he played. His head tilted slightly, as though he were listening for something that wasn't there, the sound of an echo that hadn't yet settled. His body remained still, frozen in a moment where time felt like it had stopped—and yet, the world outside was moving without him.
The door to the conservatory creaked again. Ji-hoon's ears flickered, catching the sound. He could tell by the faint scrape of leather soles on the stone floor that the stranger hadn't gone far.
He exhaled sharply, unsure whether he was more annoyed or curious. "You can stop lurking. I know you're still there."
There was a beat of silence. The man's presence was like a shadow in the room, tangible and unsettling in the way it seemed to loom, yet remain distant. Then came the sound of footsteps again, slower this time, deliberate, until they stopped just in front of Ji-hoon.
"You're very different from the others," the voice said, low, almost a murmur.
Ji-hoon wasn't sure if the comment was a compliment or an observation. He didn't want to ask—didn't want to care. But his fingers twitched, a subtle movement that betrayed his desire for connection, for something deeper than just the surface of a conversation. He hated how easily he could give into the smallest sliver of attention.
"What do you mean by that?" Ji-hoon asked, his voice steady but with an edge of caution.
The man sighed, a sound full of something Ji-hoon couldn't place. He seemed to lean closer, just enough to make Ji-hoon aware of his proximity. "Most people… they play the piano because they want to be heard. But you?" The man paused, and Ji-hoon could feel the weight of his gaze, even though he couldn't see it. "You play like you're trying to remember something. Not show something."
Ji-hoon's breath caught for a second. His fingers stilled. The man was right, of course. It had always been like that, even from the very first time he had touched the keys. It wasn't about impressing anyone or performing for an audience—it was always about remembering the touch of his mother's hands, the rhythm of her lullaby, the music she had woven into his life like a thread pulling him back to her.
But Ji-hoon didn't answer. He didn't need to. There was no point explaining what the man already seemed to understand, as unsettling as it was to hear it out loud. Instead, Ji-hoon let the silence fill the space between them, his fingers finding a pattern that wasn't quite a melody, just a vague imprint of what he longed to recapture.
The man's voice broke through the quiet again. "You know, you shouldn't be here alone."
Ji-hoon's head tilted, his brow furrowing. "Why's that?"
"You're too exposed." There was a slight chuckle in the man's voice, a sound that made Ji-hoon's skin prickle uncomfortably. "I'm not talking about physically. I mean… emotionally. People who play like you—who feel like you—are dangerous to be left alone with."
Ji-hoon felt a cold chill running down his spine. Dangerous? He wasn't sure if the man was referring to something deeper or just the implication of his emotional state. Either way, the words rattled him, more than they should have.
"I'm not dangerous," Ji-hoon replied quickly, his tone sharper than he intended.
The man was silent for a moment. Ji-hoon could feel his hesitation, like he was searching for the right thing to say. Finally, he spoke again, but this time with a note of something softer, almost sympathetic. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just… sometimes, people who bury themselves in their music, in their grief… they forget how to live outside of it. And that's when things get dangerous."
A heavy silence followed his words. Ji-hoon let it linger, like the weight of a decision hanging in the air. Was this man talking to him, or about him? Ji-hoon had always felt like a walking contradiction—surrounded by the empty echoes of the piano and the endless shadow of the night his mother died. He couldn't live without the music, but he was afraid it would eventually consume him.
"I know that feeling," Ji-hoon said, his voice quieter now. "I've felt it for a long time."
"I'm not telling you to stop playing," the man replied, his tone thoughtful, measured. "But maybe it's time you learned how to play for something other than memory."
The words hit Ji-hoon harder than he expected. Something inside of him cracked open, a tiny fracture that had been waiting for the right push. He didn't reply right away, trying to process what the man had said. He thought he was the only one who carried his mother's memory with him every day—like a tether, pulling him back to the past—but maybe that wasn't true. Maybe there was more to the story than just the grief that haunted his every waking moment.
"Who are you?" Ji-hoon asked, finally turning his face toward the man's voice, though he knew he couldn't see him. It was the only question that made sense. "You seem to know a lot about me."
"I don't," came the reply, quiet and almost regretful. "I just know how it feels to lose something you can't get back."
Ji-hoon nodded, though the man couldn't see it. The room felt smaller now, the space between them heavier. The words still hung in the air, unanswered, like a song that had no beginning or end. His fingers returned to the keys, but they moved slowly, tentatively, unsure of where to go next. The melody that emerged was fractured, torn between wanting to remember and needing to forget. It was a song he knew he couldn't unhear, no matter how much he tried.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his playing, the muted rhythm of his own pulse in his ears. And then the man's voice, faint but clear, pierced through the music again.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, his voice softer this time. "But don't let it be the only thing you are."
The words were like a lifeline and a weight all at once. Ji-hoon played on, not sure whether to be grateful or afraid of what was being offered. But the room had grown too quiet, too still.
He could feel the man's presence shift, hear the soft scrape of his shoes on the floor again. The sound of his departure was barely a whisper, but Ji-hoon felt it like the last note of a song that had lingered just a moment too long.
And then, he was alone.
Ji-hoon sat motionless, the last fading echoes of his piano's keys ringing in his ears. His fingers, still poised above the ivories, twitched as if they were reluctant to let go of the moment, reluctant to face the silence that followed. The room, once filled with the sharp clarity of music, had returned to an eerie stillness, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something he couldn't name.
For a moment, Ji-hoon considered standing, but the weight of the space kept him anchored. He wanted to move, wanted to break free of the confinement of his thoughts, but something—something in the tension of the moment—kept him here, alone with the music and the memories.
His mind swirled, not with answers, but with questions that had no clear path to follow. He had always thought that music was a place where he could lose himself, where he could disappear into the sound and feel closer to his mother again. But the stranger's words haunted him now, far more than he would've liked to admit. Don't let it be the only thing you are.
What was he supposed to do with that? The music had been his anchor, his refuge, but now it felt like a trap. His mother had been his world, and the piano had been the last piece of her he could still touch. Was it possible that by holding on so tightly to what she left behind, he had lost himself?
A shiver ran down Ji-hoon's spine as a gust of wind rattled the window, sending a sharp chill through the room. His hands hovered once again above the keys, but he didn't play. He couldn't. For the first time in a long while, the music seemed too far away, like something he couldn't reach. He let his fingers fall to his lap, the quiet pressing in on him as the darkness of the night outside began to creep further into the room.
And then, in the midst of the silence, he heard it. A faint scent—so subtle, so familiar, that it seemed to hang in the air like a whisper. Cologne. The very same cologne his mother had worn. It was as if she were here, in the room with him, the scent pulling him back to a time when things made sense, before everything fell apart. His heart skipped a beat.
But when he reached for it, to grasp at whatever fragment of her was left, it faded. The smell was gone, slipping away as quickly as it had come, leaving only the faintest trace of something he couldn't hold onto.