The train ride back to Seoul felt different this time.
Not because the sky outside looked particularly cinematic—although it did, all low clouds and golden light. Not because the train car was quieter than usual. It wasn't. Someone two rows back was loudly crunching chips while a toddler babbled about pigeons. No, it was different because Haru was different. Not in some sweeping, profound way. Not suddenly braver, louder, taller. But quieter, deeper. Like a still lake hiding movement beneath the surface.
The first time he'd left home, he'd done it with nothing but a secondhand suitcase and the faint, persistent hum of a ghost girl floating behind him. Back then, he'd barely known what he was doing. Just a boy with cracked knuckles and a dream too fragile to say out loud. He hadn't believed in himself—not really. He had only believed in leaving. In moving forward, even if he had no idea what forward meant.
Now, he carried something else.
Hope.
Not the desperate, white-knuckled kind. Not the kind you scream about into pillows or chase until your lungs give out. But the quieter kind. A slow-burning coal nestled in the chest. The kind that made your fingers twitch and your stomach flutter, but in a good way. Like walking toward something, instead of running away.
Minju hovered across from him, legs crossed mid-air like she was seated on an invisible swing. She was sipping from a pretend bubble tea, pink straw and all. He had no idea where she conjured these props from—ghost world? trauma hallucination?—but he'd stopped questioning it weeks ago.
"So," she began, slurping dramatically on nothing, "do you think they'll offer you a trainee extension? Or are we skipping straight to debut prep?"
Haru glanced down at the crumpled StarOne envelope in his lap. He had read its contents at least six times. The words hadn't changed, but his brain refused to stop questioning them. "We're not doing anything until I survive this meeting," he muttered.
"Oh please," Minju said, flipping upside down and sipping her ghost boba through her feet somehow. "You already had your moment. You blew the roof off the last showcase. This meeting is just paperwork and fancy compliments."
"Unless they hated it in hindsight."
"Unless you sabotage it by spiraling into anxiety and mumbling through the interview," she shot back, pointing her straw at him like a sword. "I've seen you rehearse apologies to the microwave."
"I like being prepared."
"You're not preparing, you're panicking with choreography."
He sighed and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. The countryside had long since faded into suburbs. Now it was all blurred edges and speeding buildings, Seoul's arms stretching wide to welcome them back. He could already feel the shift in air pressure—the hum of ambition, the tension of ten million quiet dreams stacked on top of one another like bricks.
"Hey," Minju said, floating closer until her voice softened. "You've already come this far. You're not the same quiet boy who just wanted to disappear."
He didn't answer for a long time. Just kept his eyes on the passing city. Then, with a voice barely above the rattle of the train, he said, "I still want to disappear. I've just… gotten better at hiding it."
That made her pause.
Then—gently—she reached out and brushed a ghostly hand through his hair. He barely felt it. Like static. Like memory.
"You've changed," she said quietly. "For real."
He didn't reply. But the silence between them didn't feel heavy this time.
It felt understood.
The StarOne building hadn't changed. Still intimidating. Still glass and steel and quiet power. Still that subtle buzz in the lobby air, like ambition was baked into the oxygen.
Inside, the same young people bustled through the corridors, all perfect hair and controlled expressions. Everyone looked like they had six backup plans and zero weaknesses. Haru had once looked at them with wide eyes. Now, he just looked.
Memories pulled at him like invisible hands—naps in dance studios with his jacket over his face, Riki sneaking ramyeon cups into the dorms, late-night harmonizing in the stairwell while Minju whispered sharp notes into his ear like some celestial vocal coach with an attitude problem.
He walked to the receptionist, who offered him a polite smile and pointed toward the elevators.
"Same hallway," she said. "Conference room 5."
"Of course it's the same hallway," Minju muttered behind him, arms crossed. "They love dramatic symmetry."
As they made their way down the corridor, her feet floated just above the tiles.
"You nervous?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Want me to haunt someone to delay it?"
"No."
"I could do flickering lights. Sudden cold breeze. Creepy whisper in the vents. Classic stuff."
"I'm good."
"You sure? I've been practicing the ghost-crawl."
He chuckled softly. A ridiculous sound to make just outside a conference room. But he didn't stop it.
Then the door opened.
Three people waited inside. One he knew—Producer Nam, who had once scolded him for "singing like a scared hamster." One he feared a little—the vocal coach, stern and sharp as always. And one he didn't know—a new man, tall, crisply dressed, the kind of person who looked like he lived in meeting rooms and was immune to small talk.
"Haru Shin," the producer said, nodding. "Thanks for coming."
He bowed deeply, posture perfect from muscle memory.
"We'll keep this short," the coach said, her voice clipped but not unkind. "You impressed us. Not just in your final performance. You've grown. In tone, in control, in stage presence."
Minju leaned close. "She likes you. She just doesn't want you to know."
The tall man finally spoke. "We're developing a new project. A smaller group. Five members. Strong vocal focus. Emotional connection. Not just visual performance."
Haru's heartbeat skidded.
"We're considering you for one of the spots."
There it was.
The sentence that changed the air in the room.
The ghost of possibility turned solid.
"But," the man continued, "there will be further evaluations. Concept testing. Live rehearsals. Showcases. Final review. This is not a confirmation. It's an open door."
Haru bowed again, deeper this time. "Yes. Thank you. I'll give everything."
The three executives nodded. The producer gave a rare, faint smile. "We'll be watching."
When the door closed behind him, Haru didn't walk away immediately. He leaned against the wall and let himself breathe. Really breathe.
Minju, meanwhile, was doing pirouettes midair like a giddy spirit ribbon dancer.
"You're in," she whispered like a secret. "You're one of them."
"Not yet," he murmured, barely able to contain the tremor in his voice. "If I pass everything."
"You will," she said, floating closer, her joy softening. "I believe in you."
For once, he didn't argue.
He just nodded.
The hallway he stood in hadn't changed. Same flooring. Same lights. But everything felt brighter now.
A boy passed him on his way to the elevator. He paused.
"Hey," he said, doing a double take. "You're the one who did 'Midnight Echoes,' right?"
Haru blinked. "Uh… yeah."
"That was insane. I still think about that last note. You wrote that song?"
He nodded slowly.
The boy grinned, gave a casual wave, and kept walking.
Haru stood still.
Minju grinned beside him. "Told you. People are listening now."
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Haru allowed himself to believe it.
To believe he could be one of the names. One of the voices. Not just a shadow behind someone else's spotlight.
He took the letter back out of his jacket pocket.
It wasn't just an invitation.
It was a beginning.
He smiled.
Still quiet. Still uncertain.
But not lost.
Because maybe—just maybe—
This was the start of something real.