It had been three days since Haru came home.
Three days of slippers instead of sneakers. Of soft cotton brushing against tile floors instead of rubber soles squeaking on practice room vinyl. Of waking up to the smell of doenjang-guk wafting from the kitchen instead of industrial air-conditioning and stale energy drinks. Of his mother stacking side dishes high enough to feed a whole choir, fussing that he looked "thinner than a ghost," which made Minju huff in offense and vanish into the ceiling.
Three days of waking in his own bed, wrapped in sheets that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and old summers. No distant hum of air purifiers. No blinking LED studio clocks counting down to the next dance session. No Minhee's relentless snoring from the bunk across the room. No walls covered in motivational sticky notes, no daily rankings pinned to the bulletin board, no vocal warmups echoing from someone's speaker at 6:00 a.m.
And still, Haru hadn't fully adjusted.
It wasn't that he was unhappy. It wasn't even that he felt out of place. It was something in between—a soft ache, like wearing a sweater one size too small. Familiar, but not quite comfortable. He walked through each day like he was trying not to disturb something invisible. Like the house held its breath around him, waiting.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even Minju noticed.
She floated upside down from the ceiling fan, her translucent ponytail swaying slightly in the breeze. Her expression was one of existential boredom—chin in her hands, eyes half-lidded, her toes nearly brushing the fan blades with each slow turn.
"I miss screaming at you during vocal runs," she whined for the third time that day. "You were always on the verge of passing out. It was so dramatic."
"You miss watching me suffer?" Haru asked flatly, sipping from a chipped mug filled with barley tea. He was curled up on the couch, a blanket across his lap, his body slowly remembering how to feel warmth again.
"No, no. I miss coaching you into almost greatness," she corrected, floating down beside him and hovering midair like a smug cloud. "There's a difference."
He chuckled—a quiet, nasal sound that didn't quite reach his eyes—and leaned his head back against the cushions. The couch dipped slightly with age, just the way he remembered. Outside, rain tapped gently against the window, soft and steady. A background hum.
Part of him wanted to rest. Truly rest. Let his body recover from months of wear and tear. Let the adrenaline fade, let the hunger for perfection curl into something soft. Sleep in, eat warm food, be cared for. Just… exist.
But another part of him—something deeper, older—felt unsettled. Restless. Like his feet itched to move even as the floor begged him to stay. Like something important was happening just beyond his line of sight, and if he stood still too long, he might miss it.
Midnight Echoes kept replaying in his head.
That last stage.
The way the crowd had hushed—not in indifference, but in awe. The way the final note hung in the air like it didn't want to let go. The look on the vocal coach's face—an almost imperceptible nod. Minju standing beside him, watching in complete silence. And Hyunwoo… that flicker of harmony. Not imagined. Not entirely.
A memory given shape.
A goodbye.
It stayed with him. Burrowed into his chest like a whisper that refused to fade.
And in the stillness of home, that memory echoed louder than ever.
That evening, when the clouds outside bruised purple and blue with approaching dusk, Haru slipped into his room and shut the door gently behind him. The lights stayed off. He didn't need them. The small keyboard in the corner sat where it always had, dusted off but clearly aged. A couple of stickers from childhood still clung stubbornly to its plastic body—one was peeling, the cartoon smile faded by time.
He sat.
Ran his fingers across the keys. Some stuck slightly. The power button had to be pressed twice. The adapter cable wobbled in its socket.
But it worked.
Minju appeared beside him, clutching her ghostly notebook, which seemed to exist purely in his imagination but somehow had weight in her hands.
"Write something new," she said, voice softer now.
Haru stared at the keys.
"What if it's not good?"
"It doesn't have to be," she replied. "It just has to be real."
That sentence sat in the air like incense—slow, warm, lingering.
He pressed one key.
Then another.
A minor chord, soft and hollow. His fingers moved slowly at first, feeling out the intervals, letting the spaces between the notes breathe. The melody didn't form all at once—it bled into the silence like ink into water. Unclear. Spreading. Becoming.
Minju floated close, closing her eyes. Humming, even though she didn't need breath. He didn't know if she could feel the vibrations of the notes the way he did, but somehow she always matched his tempo like she was part of the instrument.
It felt different from the studio.
There, every note had weight. Expectation. Here, it was personal. Raw. There was no stage, no audience, no camera lenses searching for flaws. Just two souls—one living, one not—finding something beautiful in between.
He played.
And played.
Until the melody took shape. Melancholy, but not hopeless. Honest, if imperfect. A quiet truth wrapped in sound.
When he lifted his hands, the air seemed stiller than before. Charged.
Minju drifted back slightly, blinking as if waking from a trance.
"That one felt… kind of lonely," she said softly.
"It is," Haru admitted. "I think I'm scared I won't get another chance like that."
Minju looked at him with something between pity and defiance.
"You think that was it? Your one shot?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe."
She frowned. "Well, then we make another shot."
Haru blinked. "We?"
"I'm your ghostly producer now," she declared, puffing her spectral chest. "You can't get rid of me."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Didn't plan to."
Then, as if summoned by the gods of timing, his mother's voice rang from downstairs.
"Haru! You got a letter!"
He stiffened.
"A letter?" he called back.
"From that company—StarOne!"
His breath caught.
Minju's eyes widened. "Wait… is this it?"
He bolted upright, nearly knocking over the keyboard stool. As he raced to the hallway, the family's elderly orange tabby—who technically belonged to the neighbor but had claimed their home as her own—strolled under his feet with perfect disregard for mortal urgency. He tripped over her tail and stumbled down the last two stairs, catching himself on the banister.
His mom stood in the kitchen, holding out the envelope like it was made of gold.
The StarOne logo gleamed faintly in the corner.
He took it.
Hands trembling slightly.
It wasn't thick. Just one page.
He unfolded it.
Minju leaned in, breathless even though she didn't need to breathe.
His eyes scanned the words.
Then stopped.
Then widened.
He looked up slowly, stunned into silence.
"What is it?" Minju whispered.
"They want to meet," Haru said, his voice barely more than air. "They want to talk… about debut."
The room held still.
A pause in the world.
Then—
Minju screamed.
Or tried to. No sound came out, but her mouth opened in a joyous wail, her arms flailing as she spun midair like a possessed ribbon dancer. Pure chaos, pure glee.
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod—they liked you!" she squeaked, voice shrill with delight. "Wait—they want you! Not just the song!"
Haru stood frozen, letter in hand.
His parents stared at him, half in concern, half in awe, as their son—who'd returned quiet and tired and almost faded—now stood lit from within, his ghost friend vibrating beside him like she might explode into sparkles.
Then—
He laughed.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
But real.
It came from somewhere deep. Somewhere that had gone quiet for a long time.
"Minju," he whispered, still staring at the letter, "we're not done yet."