The night air was thick with the promise of finality. The concert hall trembled beneath the weight of anticipation, its old wooden bones groaning as the audience filled the velvet-lined seats in near silence. Ryu Ji-hoon stood behind the curtain, fingertips brushing across the smooth, cold surface of the grand piano. He could hear them—hundreds of breathing souls waiting. Yet all he could feel was the ghost of her hand over his, the memory of his mother guiding him through the keys before he could even speak.
It was supposed to be a triumphant return. The blind prodigy back after months of silence, months of tragedy. They had all come to hear him perform, to witness the miracle. What they didn't know—what they could never know—was that this was not a return. It was a farewell.
Joon-won stood beside him, tense, his hand on Ji-hoon's shoulder. "Are you sure you want to do this? You don't owe them anything."
Ji-hoon smiled faintly, not at the audience, not at the piano, but at something distant. Something buried in the halls of memory. "I'm not playing for them. I'm playing for her."
The lights dimmed. The curtain began to rise.
He walked to the piano slowly, with a cane in hand he barely used. He could navigate a stage like it was his home. The spotlight followed, bathing him in silver glow. The applause was soft at first—hesitant. Then it built, wave after wave of admiration, awe, sympathy. He bowed his head politely, and sat.
He touched the keys. They were like ice. Each one held history.
He began to play.
Not a practiced piece. Not something rehearsed to perfection.
But something raw. Something broken.
The music flowed like blood.
He didn't just play—it poured out of him. Violent, tender, and agonizing. Notes that twisted around his grief, wrapped themselves around every scream he'd swallowed since her death. The loss, the silence, the darkness, the fury—all of it translated through his fingers, crashing onto the keys in wild bursts, then pulling back to almost unbearable stillness.
People stopped breathing. They leaned forward, eyes wide. They weren't just hearing a performance. They were witnessing a confession.
Flashbacks raced through his mind—his mother brushing his hair before a recital, her humming while slicing fruit in the kitchen, the smell of her perfume lingering on his jacket. Then: the blood. The crash. The silence.
He struck a dissonant chord so harsh it made the audience flinch.
It wasn't music anymore. It was mourning.
His shoulders shook. Tears streamed down his face. Still, he played.
The world disappeared. There was only the piano and the memory of a woman who gave everything so he could live.
He reached the climax. The part of the song that didn't exist in any sheet music. A place only he knew. And as he hit the final chord—a gentle, aching minor that hung in the air like a ghost—his hands fell from the keys.
Silence.
No applause. Just silence.
Ji-hoon bowed his head and whispered, barely audible: "That was for you."
He stood.
And left the stage.
Backstage, Joon-won was crying.
"You didn't just play music," he said hoarsely. "You bled."
Ji-hoon said nothing. He felt empty. Not numb—just… done.
As he walked down the hallway, he passed mirrors that didn't reflect him. He was a ghost moving through space, held together by grief and purpose. He exited through the side door, letting the cool air hit his face.
And from the alley behind the concert hall, he heard footsteps.
"You think you can hide behind your music?" a voice growled.
Ji-hoon turned, breath steady.
From the shadows, a man stepped forward—the same one who had followed him twice in the past week.
"You think your little performance changes anything? Your mother still died for nothing."
Ji-hoon didn't flinch. He reached into his coat. A small recording device clicked.
"I was hoping you'd say something like that," he said.
The man lunged—but within seconds, two of Ji-hoon's hired guards tackled him to the ground. Joon-won emerged from behind, calling the police.
Ji-hoon turned back to the music hall, standing still in the wind. The encore was over. But the truth? That was just beginning.
His fingers twitched.
He would never play that piece again.
Because it belonged to the dead.
To her.
To the part of him buried with her.
The last encore.
Ji-hoon's fingers hovered above the keys like ghosts unsure of possession. His hands trembled—not from fear, not entirely, but from a storm that had no outlet, a grief that had grown teeth and kept biting into his ribs. The silence before the encore was louder than any applause. It wasn't quiet; it was loaded. Heavy. Waiting.
He lowered his head slowly, blind eyes closed, even though the darkness was all he'd ever seen.
"You don't have to do this," Hye-jin had whispered backstage just moments ago. Her voice had cracked like old vinyl. She was shaking, her violin clutched like a lifeline. "You don't owe them this."
Ji-hoon hadn't answered. Not with words. He had simply placed a hand on her shoulder, just enough to reassure her. And walked out.
Now he sat in front of the grand piano, the entire hall holding its breath. He could feel it—the weight of a thousand eyes, the tension in their lungs, their skin. They were waiting for brilliance, expecting closure, demanding catharsis. He had to give them all of it.
But this wasn't for them.
He took in a slow, deep breath.
This was for his mother.
And for the version of himself that still dreamt about her humming lullabies at night.
The first note came out soft, almost brittle. It cracked a little as his finger pressed too lightly, too cautiously. The audience didn't notice—but Ji-hoon did. He bit down on his lower lip, hard, and pushed forward.
The piece was something he'd composed himself, a melody he'd built out of fragments of her voice, the memory of her perfume, the rhythm of her footsteps on cold tiles, the soft creak of the chair where she'd sit and watch him play. All of it—reborn in music.
The second measure was stronger. His fingers began to find confidence. Not arrogance. Not flair. But that raw, bone-deep truth. Every chord bled with love and ache and fury. Every sharp note was a scream he'd never voiced. Every soft bridge was a moment he wished he could've held onto.
Ji-hoon didn't just play.
He opened a wound and let it sing.
By the time he reached the crescendo, he wasn't even aware of his surroundings anymore. The stage faded. The crowd dissolved. Time didn't exist. There was only her. Her image in his head—fuzzy, incomplete, but warm. Always warm. Her voice in his mind, her laughter echoing, her lullaby weaving itself into the music.
And then—
The final chord.
Sustained. Long. Fragile.
He held it.
Let it stretch.
Then silence again.
He pulled his hands back slowly, breathing like he'd just run for miles. His back ached. His chest was tight. His eyes—useless as they were—felt wet.
No one clapped.
Not immediately.
It was too much. Too vulnerable. Too honest.
And then, one by one, like rain tapping gently on an old windowpane, they began to applaud.
It wasn't the wild ovation he'd expected. It was slow, rising, unsure. But it built into something reverent. Like they'd witnessed something sacred and didn't know how to honor it.
Ji-hoon stood. A small nod. He could barely hold himself upright.
He walked offstage without a bow.
Backstage, Hye-jin was waiting. She looked at him like he was both a miracle and a ruin. "You okay?"
He shook his head.
"No," he said. "But I will be."
Later that night, in the dim, unfamiliar quiet of his dressing room, he sat alone. The encore had drained him. There was no music left in his fingers. His hands felt like stone. His soul even heavier.
Joon-won came in quietly, a manila folder in his hand.
"I waited till after," he said.
Ji-hoon didn't move.
Joon-won placed the folder on the vanity table. "Photos. Names. One of them was in the crowd tonight."
Ji-hoon finally turned his head. "Which one?"
"The one who used to work with Si-wan. He clapped the loudest."
Ji-hoon didn't respond. He just leaned back in his chair and laughed. It was bitter, hollow, a laugh without humor.
"Do you want me to take care of it?" Joon-won asked. "Say the word."
Ji-hoon stood, slowly. His whole body ached. "No," he said. "Not tonight."
"What about tomorrow?"
He didn't answer.
Outside, the crowd was still buzzing. People were crying. Talking about what they'd witnessed. Some were calling it the most powerful performance they'd ever seen. Others didn't have words. Just awe.
But Ji-hoon wasn't thinking about any of them.
He was thinking about a room that no longer existed. A chair where a woman once sat, her hand resting gently on a boy's shoulder. A boy who used to believe the world was safe as long as she was near.
And a piano that had once known joy.
He walked out of the venue through the back exit. The night air was cold and biting. A car waited for him—black, unmarked. Inside, one of the men he'd trained sat quietly.
Ji-hoon opened the door, slid in.
"Drive," he whispered. "We're not done yet."
The city at night was quieter than Ji-hoon remembered, though it was more likely that something inside him had gone too loud. Everything external felt muted now. The streetlights looked like soft flames through the fog on the window. He leaned his head against the glass, his hands still trembling from the performance. The adrenaline had worn off, but something heavier remained—like grief caught between his ribs and refusing to dissolve.
The driver didn't speak. No one in Ji-hoon's crew ever did unless asked. They knew him too well by now.
Ji-hoon's voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "Take me to the studio. Not the flat. I want to listen."
"To the encore?"
He nodded once.
When they arrived, the building was empty, silent but for the echo of their footsteps. Ji-hoon didn't bother turning on the lights. He moved with muscle memory, hands trailing across walls and chairs. He slipped into the small sound room, locked the door behind him, and reached for the reel the engineers had left on his desk.
It was warm.
Still warm from the machine.
He placed the headphones over his ears.
Pressed play.
And he listened.
For the first few seconds, he felt like an outsider to his own art. Detached. Like someone else had played it. Someone more in love. Someone more broken. The version of himself who had sat at that piano just hours ago wasn't here anymore—he was gone, scattered in the silence between each note.
Then the chorus came in. A motif. Four bars he'd lifted from a lullaby his mother used to hum when he couldn't sleep.
It hit him like a punch to the throat.
He ripped the headphones off, unable to breathe.
The chair crashed backward as he stood. His knuckles slammed into the edge of the desk. He didn't feel the blood. Didn't notice the sting.
He just stood there, panting, a storm screaming in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I didn't hear the danger in his voice. I'm sorry I didn't stop you from answering that door. I'm sorry I was playing that night instead of holding your hand."
His voice cracked. "I'm so sorry."
And then the tears came, heavy and relentless. He dropped to his knees on the cold tile floor and didn't fight them. The soundproof room swallowed every sob, every curse, every scream.
When he finally stumbled out, his body empty and aching, the sun was beginning to rise. The sky was streaked with soft pinks and bruised purples. Morning light crept across the floor as if afraid to touch him.
He found Joon-won in the hallway.
"Get me a list of every sponsor from that night," Ji-hoon said. "The gala where she died. The ones who funded the event. I want names, addresses. I don't care how long it takes."
"You think one of them—"
"I know one of them."
He pushed past him, bloody knuckles and hollow eyes, and headed for the elevator.
"But first," he said over his shoulder, "let's talk to Seol-ah."
Joon-won's face stiffened. "Are you sure that's smart?"
"No," Ji-hoon replied. "But it's necessary."
She had disappeared from the public eye a year ago. Last known performance canceled mid-tour. No interviews. No sightings. A ghost wrapped in rumors. But Ji-hoon remembered the way she looked at his mother's casket. She had known something. Something she never said.
If he was going to finish this—really finish it—he needed everything. Every secret. Every whisper. Every goddamn lie.
He would burn the house down and play a lullaby in the flames.
His encore wasn't the end.
It was just the silence before the scream.