The email sat open on Haru's screen like a bruise.
No header. No digital trail. Just that one line: "You're getting too close. Stop."
Seojun leaned over his shoulder. "Do you think it's real? Or someone messing with you?"
Haru didn't answer.
Because deep down, he knew.
It was real.
And it meant he was close to something someone wanted buried.
By morning, they had a plan.
The forum thread mentioned a spring evaluation. Seojun remembered a vocal trainer who had worked during that time — someone older, someone quiet, who left shortly after that year.
Her name was Song Misun.
She used to run warmups for the early-stage vocal trainees. Rumor said she left on her own. Others whispered she had a breakdown.
They found a vague listing for a private music studio under her name on an old business registry.
No phone. No social.
Just an address.
It took three trains and a twenty-minute walk to get there.
A second-floor space above a stationery store. Faded sign: MISUN MUSIC.
Haru knocked.
No answer.
He was about to leave when the door cracked open.
A woman in her fifties. Tired eyes. Pulled-back hair. She looked at them like they were ghosts.
"We're not selling anything," she said.
"We're looking for answers," Haru said.
That made her pause.
"About someone who was in the spring evaluation. Seven years ago. A girl. Number seventeen."
Her expression didn't change.
But her hand on the doorframe trembled slightly.
She opened the door.
"Come in. But I only have ten minutes."
The inside was clean. Sparse. A few chairs. A single upright piano. No student photos. No trophies. Just a quiet, echoing room.
"Who sent you?" she asked.
"No one. I just… found the name."
"Minju," she said, without needing it confirmed.
Seojun looked at her sharply. "So you do remember."
She sank into a chair. Folded her hands tightly.
"I remember everything. Because I was the one who stayed with her when she fell."
The room chilled.
Haru sat across from her. "What happened?"
Miss Song stared down at her hands. "She was nervous that day. You could see it in her shoulders. But she went up anyway. Sang her first line. Then collapsed. Just folded in like a paper doll."
"And then?"
"Then the head trainer came. Told us to clear the room. Said she was fine. Said we'd be 'restarting the rotation.'"
Her voice cracked.
"But I stayed. I couldn't move. I saw him check her pulse. He looked at me and said, 'She's just tired. Don't say a word.'"
Haru felt sick.
Seojun whispered, "Did she die there?"
Song Misun nodded once.
"They removed her that night. Said she was transferred to a hospital. But she never came back. They erased her from the logs. Removed her name from the evaluation sheet. Told the other trainees she dropped out due to anxiety."
She finally looked at Haru.
"But you remember her. Don't you?"
Haru nodded. "She talks to me."
No shock crossed her face.
Only quiet understanding.
"Then she never left at all."
Before they left, she wrote something on a slip of paper.
A name.
"This is the man who shut it down. He was her direct evaluator. Now he runs PR at your label."
Haru stared at the name.
He knew it.
He'd shaken this man's hand. Smiled for his camera.
But now, everything felt poisoned.
Everything felt fake.
Seojun folded the paper into his jacket.
"Thank you for telling the truth," he said.
Miss Song nodded. "Make it worth something."
Back in the train, Haru finally let out the breath he'd been holding.
"She wasn't forgotten," he whispered. "She was buried. On purpose."
Seojun sat beside him in silence.
But his hand didn't leave Haru's shoulder the whole ride back.