My invisible life had turned into a feverish waiting. After the emotional outburst caused by Min-seo's message, Do-yun had slipped back into silence, but it was different now. It was electrified, like air charged with ozone after a lightning strike. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, but now he watched. Watched his phone, the flash drive Min-seo had left, and the fabric-covered piano in the corner of the room.
I sat on the windowsill, blending with the gray autumn light. My shell had become almost transparent. I could feel energy slipping away from me like fine sand through fingers. My connection to the world weakened in proportion to Do-yun's return to life. I was like a shadow being chased away by bright light. And all the while, I watched — powerless, forbidden to intervene.
Min-seo was supposed to come. He had sent Do-yun a brief, businesslike message: "I'll stop by. I want to apologize for yesterday." No drama, just dry courtesy. Min-seo knew that Do-yun valued formality above all, especially when his emotions were at their limit.
When the knock came, Do-yun flinched. The sound seemed deafening in the dead silence. He didn't open the door immediately. He stared at it for a long moment, gathering the pieces of his scattered mask. I hovered nearby, observing the tension in every muscle of his face.
Do-yun opened the door.
Min-seo stood in the doorway. He brought with him the scent of fresh air, rain, and — as I felt it — life. In a clean coat, hair damp from the rain, he looked impeccable. Against Do-yun, disheveled and pale, Min-seo seemed the embodiment of order.
— Hello, — Min-seo said quietly.
— What are you doing here? — Do-yun's voice was even but icy.
— I came to apologize. And to take something. May I come in?
Do-yun stepped aside, letting him in. The air in the apartment thickened. The energy of two living people, weighed down by past and guilt, pressed on me so strongly I felt every vibration.
Min-seo entered, pausing to look around the apartment. Not judgmentally, but with sadness. He saw the chaos Do-yun had hidden: unwashed dishes, old newspapers, disorder.
— I understand that you're not expecting visitors, — Min-seo said, his gaze resting on the piano, covered with cloth. — But I had to apologize in person for that message. I was harsh.
Do-yun crossed his arms.
— And what? You expect me to say "it's okay"?
— No. I expect you to speak the truth.
— The truth is that you lie, Min-seo. You pretend you've forgiven me for the past to make me forgive myself for what happened to Cheon-woo.
It hit the mark. I internally applauded Do-yun. He was too clever for games.
Min-seo nodded. — You're right. I lie. I want you to feel better. I want you to live.
— That's not for you to decide! — Do-yun raised his voice.
— It's for you to decide, — Min-seo stepped closer, closing the distance. — But I can tell you something I wanted to say a long time ago. I remember the day we parted. You were angry, I was angry. I wanted to say something but didn't. I felt…
Min-seo paused. It was our code, mine. I held my breath, watching him speak my words — my own words, which were to become his lie:
— I wanted to tell you… that your hands smell of coffee, not of notes.
The words fell into the apartment's silence like shards of glass.
Do-yun froze. There was a look of horrified recognition in his eyes, not surprise. It was mine. Only mine. He knew Min-seo could not have known it. It was an intimate, everyday grumble, part of our daily life — a bridge between past and present.
My heart constricted. Jealousy — painful and fierce — pierced me completely. Min-seo had just taken my personal signature, my words, and made them his own to save Do-yun.
Do-yun stared at Min-seo, eyes wide: How do you know this?
— Wha… what did you say? — his voice trembled.
— I said: your hands smell of coffee, not of notes, — Min-seo repeated. — I meant to tell you that you think too much about small things, about work, about everything except music. I meant to tell you that you should return to yourself.
Clever. He turned my reproach into care for music. Min-seo made it his, filling with meaning words I once whispered.
Do-yun froze. His gaze fell to the keys. If Min-seo knew this — it meant… Cheon-woo had told him. It meant I spoke of him with Min-seo, even after my death. It meant my presence, my love, had been part of this substitution, but also part of his healing.
A tear appeared on Do-yun's face for the first time in a long while, but not a tear of grief. It was a tear of confusion, breaking through the wall he had built.
I hovered between them, feeling my ghostly shell thin. My interference exhausted me.
Min-seo gave Do-yun no time to ponder.
— I want to take that lens, — he said quietly. — The one you broke when we argued. I want to repair it.
A lie. But it worked. Do-yun moved toward the studio.
I followed him. The studio was dark, as always. The painting faced the wall.
Do-yun found the lens. Broken under a layer of dust. He lifted it, eyes falling on the piano.
— I want you to sit and play, — Min-seo said softly.
— I can't, — Do-yun whispered. — It's… betrayal.
— It's life, Do-yun, — Min-seo said sharply. — Cheon-woo wouldn't want you to…
Min-seo stopped, remembering rule #2. I nodded, grateful.
— Cheon-woo wouldn't want you to become a shadow. He loved your music. Sit and play. Play for him, — the words were sharp, filled with pain, almost like a sting.
Do-yun closed his eyes. Slowly lifted the cover. The keys were dull. He placed his hands on A-flat — his favorite note, the start of his improvisation.
I screamed to him in the subconscious: Play, Do-yun. Please. I release you.
A minute of agonizing silence. Do-yun pulled his hands back.
— I can't, — a weak voice. — I can't betray him.
— Fine, — Min-seo was unfazed. — I'll take the lens.
Do-yun remained at the piano, but now he looked at the keys. He was a composer again, ready for life.
Min-seo left.
— I'll bring him back to life, Cheon-woo. But you must disappear, — he whispered.
I felt my transparency strengthen. I was almost invisible. Farewell had begun.
I remained alone, watching Do-yun, hearing his breathing even out. And finally understood: being a ghost means more than witnessing. Being a ghost means loving, letting go, and allowing life.
______________________
"Sometimes letting go is the only way to remain part of someone's life. I am but an echo, yet even an echo can learn, wait, and love, until it fades completely."