After that day, when I, Cheon-woo, admitted my defeat and my selfish attachment, my life as a ghost gained an unexpected lightness. I was no longer tethered to Do-yun's pain; I was merely a spirit, awaiting my final end. I spent most of my time in Min-seo's studio, where my invisible, fading form caused the least disturbance.
Min-seo acted. He didn't just call Do-yun; he pulled him out of the apartment.
— I need to shoot a series of architectural studies for a magazine, — Min-seo said on the phone, and I could hear him carefully avoiding any personal tone. — I need someone who understands light and space. You're the best. Coffee and sandwiches on me.
I knew it was a lie. Min-seo didn't need Do-yun's help for the shoot. What he needed was for Do-yun to see again that life was moving forward.
I couldn't accompany them. I understood that the farther I stayed from Do-yun, the better for him — and the faster I would vanish. I remained in Min-seo's studio, becoming his ghostly operator, awaiting the report.
***
I spent the day in complete silence, watching dusty rays of sunlight filter through the studio's grimy window. The hours dragged slowly. I tried to recall moments of my life with Do-yun, but they felt like someone else's photographs. The more Do-yun moved toward the present, the more the past slipped away from me.
In the evening, Min-seo returned. The studio door opened, and with him rushed the cold, damp air of Seoul. Min-seo looked tired, but alive.
I immediately "flew" to him.
— How is he? What happened?
Min-seo didn't pretend not to hear me. He wearily dropped the camera on the table and sat down, covering his face with his hands.
— He… he worked, Cheon-woo. He walked. We talked about composition. About how light falls on concrete. About how silence sounds in an empty building.
— And us? About me?
— Not a word. And that was good, — Min-seo lifted his head. His eyes held so much emotion that I, a ghost, could barely withstand the intensity. — He smiled, Cheon-woo.
It was a blow I received with gratitude. Do-yun's smile. A smile I would never see again, but one born from my self-sacrifice.
— He smiled when I photographed him. He caught the shot — two people in the window of an old building, reflected in a muddy puddle. And he said it looked like 'hope in a swamp.'
I felt my ghostly heart swell with unbearable, bitter joy. My quiet, poetic Do-yun was returning.
— And then… — Min-seo paused. — Then I saw that something tormented him. Not you. His own conscience.
— The past.
— Yes. He spoke about why we broke up. He said he hated himself for hurting me, because I was 'the only one who saw him without a mask.' He said he was a coward.
I, Cheon-woo, felt my transparency intensify. This was ours, my last joint task with Min-seo: to finally shatter Do-yun's guilt.
— You should have told him the truth, Min-seo. About why you were angry.
— I did, — Min-seo stood, walking to the window. — I said: 'You were right, Do-yun. I was too young and too obsessed with the idea that you belonged to me. You chose the one who calmed you. And that was right. I wasn't angry at your choice, but at the fact that you didn't give me a chance to leave gracefully. But now I understand. And I forgive you. And you must forgive yourself.'
I was stunned. Min-seo had not only let Do-yun go, but also me. He had completely rewritten their past, so it became a foundation, not ruins.
— But he knows that you…
— He knows I love him, — Min-seo interrupted. — He always knew. But now he knows that my love doesn't demand his presence. It demands his happiness.
At that moment, I realized: Min-seo wasn't just saving Do-yun from grief. He was saving him from me. From a ghost who could not move forward.
***
I felt my ghostly shell thinning. My hands became almost entirely invisible. It was not mere exhaustion. It was the beginning of the end.
— I'm leaving, Min-seo, — my voice was now like a soft gust of wind. — He is healed.
Min-seo spun sharply. He stared at the spot where I stood, and his eyes, able to see the invisible, were filled with panic.
— No! Not now! — His voice was taut, like a stretched string. — He hasn't played yet! He hasn't sat at the piano! You must be there when he does! You must hear!
— I… I can't, — I felt myself being pulled, my anchor dissolving. — I am being drawn away.
— Then you must return! — Min-seo rushed to the table, grabbed my brush, which I had left in the studio on my last visit, and clenched it in his hand.
— You are tied to him, but you are tied to creation! Cheon-woo, you are the anchor! Don't leave!
I focused on the brush. On the scent of wood and paint, which I didn't feel but which symbolized my life. I pulled myself toward the studio, toward Min-seo, toward the last hope of seeing Do-yun happy.
— You must bring him here, Min-seo, — I whispered. — Here is my work. Here is your work. He must play where we all were.
Min-seo nodded. He understood.
— Okay. I'll bring him. Hold on. You must see him smile.
I watched him. His exhausted face, his determination. Min-seo was my guiding angel. My rival had become my final friend.
I knew: soon I would disappear.
Not because I had lost — but because everything had finally become right.
Do-yun had stopped living through me. He had begun to live as himself.
Sometimes I see him from afar — in a window reflection, at an intersection, in a raindrop.
He no longer stares into the void, as if waiting for an answer.
He moves forward, with that soft light on his face that was only there at the beginning of our story.
And beside him — Min-seo.
Quiet, attentive. The one who does not destroy, but supports.
I do not feel jealousy.
I feel pride.
______________________
"I don't want you to remember me as a pain. Let my shadow be your light, and my love the wind that fills your sails as you move forward. Live, Do-yun. Let my silence become the music you will someday play without me."