After the café meeting, Min-seo immediately sprang into action. He understood that Do-yun didn't just need a listener — he needed a guide, someone to help him return to life, to music, to himself. Min-seo took on this role with precision and professional rigor, while I, Cheon-woo, became a ghostly observer, stripped of any ability to intervene, yet compelled to follow every step.
I couldn't be in Do-yun's apartment. My presence was painful — for him and for Min-seo. I lingered in Min-seo's studio, listening to his phone calls, watching every breath, every pause, every word. It was a silence saturated with tension and hidden jealousy, swelling inside me.
***
Their interactions became a daily ritual. They didn't talk about my death, nor did they speak of me. They talked about music, notes, melodies, and the scores that carried memories of the past.
— That ballad you gave me, — Do-yun said, — it's too sad. Do you want me to cry?
— No, — Min-seo replied, — I want you to play it. Sadness is also energy. Don't be afraid of it.
Each conversation drew pain out of Do-yun, and drew me further from the world of the living. My boundaries thinned; I became transparent, almost invisible. If I reached for the lamp, it didn't flicker. I passed through objects, and the floor no longer registered my steps.
***
My fit of jealousy struck when Min-seo decided to come to Do-yun's apartment to help him sort through old sheet music.
— I'll come by, Do-yun. I'll bring food. And let's go through this pile of notes. You won't be able to start playing while it's such a mess.
— Okay, — Do-yun replied without resistance.
I followed them. I had to see everything with my own eyes.
The apartment was brighter than I remembered. It seemed that Do-yun had opened the curtains for the first time in ages. Old newspapers, sketches, boxes of sheet music lay scattered on the floor. Min-seo brought the smell of food — onions, meat, fresh bread. A scent Do-yun barely noticed, but I felt with excruciating clarity. It was the scent of life, which Min-seo was returning to the apartment, to his world.
***
They sat on the floor, among the notes and sketches. Min-seo methodically sorted papers by year, showing Do-yun forgotten melodies, old drafts, old improvisations.
— Remember this? — Min-seo held up a scrap of paper. — You wrote this when you lost to me in cards and had to fulfill a wish.
Do-yun smiled, shyly and quietly. The first smile in a long time.
— You asked me to sing a lullaby, — Min-seo continued. — And you sang.
Min-seo's laughter filled the apartment. It was alive, loud, contagious. I stood in the corner, barely breathing. Their story was coming alive. Their unspoken, youthful love showed in every glance, every gesture. My jealousy burned, but it was powerless.
***
I tried to intervene. I gathered all my ghostly strength and nudged a box of sheet music. I wanted to break the moment, to draw Do-yun's attention to me, to the cold, to the ghost.
The box shifted. Do-yun and Min-seo fell silent. Both looked at it.
— Draft wind, — Min-seo quickly said, clenching his fists. He felt my desperate attempt to interfere.
— No, — Do-yun said, eyes wide. — Cheon-woo… You're here?
I couldn't answer. Min-seo took the initiative:
— Don't say foolish things, Do-yun. It's just a draft. You haven't slept for three days. We need to eat. Come on.
He stood, took Do-yun by the elbow — not gently, but decisively — physically pulling him away from the dangerous memory.
***
I stayed in the living room, empty. I sat on the floor among the sheet music and sank into a monologue that could only exist for a ghost:
"I love him. I love him so much that I cannot let go. I want him to live, to be happy. But I want him to be happy with me. That makes me selfish. I am dead, and he is alive. My love is shackles, attachment is a chain. I must let go."
I looked at the dusty piano. Our life was here: my drawings, his notes. And in the kitchen, Min-seo laughed. Real, alive. His laughter was the future, and I was the past.
I felt myself slipping away. My legs nearly vanished. I wasn't just disappearing — I was letting go.
— You're right, Min-seo, — I whispered. — I am holding him.
The wave of jealousy ebbed. What remained was a bitter, pure sense of acceptance. Min-seo needed to help Do-yun love music again, to help him live again. If he had to love Min-seo — so be it.
***
I went to Min-seo's studio. He was quietly preparing ginger tea, focused, calm. He sensed me immediately.
— You've gone, — he said softly.
— I haven't gone, — I replied. — I freed him so you could save him.
— I know, — Min-seo nodded. — Now your part is done.
Days turned into weeks. Min-seo and Do-yun sorted through scores, listened to the flash drive, searching for the notes that could revive Do-yun. I watched from the shadows, feeling my transparency increase with every laugh, every new melody, every lively movement of Do-yun.
***
I remember the day Do-yun first sat at the piano without me. Min-seo stood beside him, supporting his gaze, guiding his hands. Do-yun played slowly, cautiously, at first hesitating. But the music came alive, like a breath released after a long hold.
I stood in the corner and realized my time was coming to an end. Every movement of Do-yun, every note, every laugh from Min-seo was pushing me out of the world of the living. But it was right. I had to leave.
On the day Do-yun played his first full melody after a long silence, I felt I could go. Min-seo embraced him afterward, quietly, almost imperceptibly. And then I understood: now they were together, and I was no longer needed.
***
I left them together. I left Do-yun with the person who could give him life again. I vanished, dissolving into the air, into the sounds of his music, into Min-seo's laughter.
______________________
"I release you, Do-yun. Live as we dreamed, without me. I was your anchor — now you can sail freely. I love you, but I love your life more than my presence."