After that silent agreement between Min-seo and me, I became a shadow even to myself.
Not a shadow—more like a reflection in a fogged glass: visible for a second before someone wipes the moisture away.
My anchor—the brush Min-seo held—gave the illusion of presence. But now it only pulled me toward a world to which I no longer belonged.
Every day, I felt my outlines fade. My "self" dissolved into the air like a drop of ink in water.
And yet I held on.
Not for myself—but for him.
Do-yun.
A name that still resonated inside me, like a chord frozen mid-word.
I no longer heard his voice directly—only echoes. Through Min-seo, through the dust in a beam of light, through the sounds of a distant city. But I could feel that he was becoming someone different.
He no longer looked down. He looked forward.
It pleased me and it killed me at the same time.
When I died, I thought I would remain nearby forever, guarding, as shadows do. But it turned out that love is not guarding, but letting go. Letting someone breathe, move, laugh without you.
And now I was learning that permission.
***
The morning was gray, coppery.
Cold seeped through the studio's window frames—the very morning cold where expectation lives.
Min-seo fidgeted with the camera, with wires, with paint cans, though I knew: all of this was only a way not to look at the door.
I watched him. Not with my eyes—but with presence. I felt his breath, short, nervous.
He was afraid. Not for himself, not for me—but for Do-yun.
— Will he come? — I asked silently.
Min-seo didn't answer. But I saw him flinch, as if he had heard.
And that was enough.
He always heard.
When the door finally opened, I realized: if I had a heart, it would have stopped.
Do-yun stepped in.
The light streaming through the window lingered on his face—the same face, familiar down to every line at the corners of his lips. Only now this face was different: softer, calmer, clearer.
He looked around.
The world in which I was still lingering welcomed him as its own.
And I felt the warmth radiating from him. It touched me and… repelled me.
As if life refused to let death stand too close.
— Why did you bring me here? — he asked. His voice steady, but trembling with anticipation.
Min-seo didn't answer immediately. He walked to the corner, where a faint scent of lacquer lingered, and drew aside the black curtain.
There stood the old piano.
The very one.
I recognized it immediately.
Every scratch, every shadow on its lid was a trace on my memory.
It was a piece of our past. A silent set where all our unsaid words were hidden.
— I bought it for you, — Min-seo said. — Once, Cheon-woo said that music and drawing are two languages speaking the same thing.
He smiled, and there was no pretense in that smile.
— He loved hearing you play.
I hadn't expected to hear my name. Even the dead can be surprised.
It was as if I had been ripped from my peace again.
Do-yun didn't avert his gaze. For a moment, I thought—he sees me.
But no.
He just felt.
— I want you to play, — Min-seo said. His voice quiet but firm. — Not for me. For yourself.
— I haven't played since… — Do-yun paused. — Since he died.
Those words pierced me. Not with pain—but with soft, forgiven sadness.
I had died long ago. But only now did I truly hear it—from his mouth.
Min-seo stepped closer. Took his hands.
— Music needs you, Do-yun. And you… need life.
He didn't say "me."
But I heard it in the pause.
And I understood—they both deserved a new melody.
***
When Do-yun sat at the piano, I moved closer.
Not out of desire to be near—but instinct.
I wanted to remember this moment.
His fingers hovered above the keys like birds above the wind.
He hesitated. In every motion, there was struggle.
Not with me—but with the memory of me.
"Play, my love. Play," I whispered.
"Set us both free."
And he played.
The music was like the breath of pain.
At first—short, uneven chords.
Fingers trembling, notes breaking, but gradually forming a line—not a melody, but a confession.
He wasn't playing a piece. He was playing the truth.
I heard our days in his music—laughter, unspoken words, the silence after arguments.
I heard the day he stood over my body in silence.
I heard myself—a ghost, trying to stay when I should have gone.
And the louder the music became, the more transparent I grew.
My shell trembled, as if made of glass, pressed by the light.
I no longer felt the floor, no longer felt space.
Only sound. Only his breath.
And for the first time since death, I understood—I was not one of the sounds.
I was the silence between them.
***
Min-seo stood by the window, leaning on the sill.
He didn't move, but I saw his shoulders shake.
He was crying.
He saw me melt away.
— Cheon-woo… — he whispered silently. — You're disappearing.
I wanted to answer, but could not.
All that remained of my voice was light.
Thin, soft glow, spreading across the keys.
I poured all my will into a single thought—addressed to him:
"Take care of him, Min-seo. Love him for both of us."
He understood. I saw his fingers tighten on the edge of the windowsill.
Do-yun played.
And in every sound, something new was born.
There was no more longing in him. Only gratitude.
He played not for me. He played with me, but not about me.
And that was the greatest form of love—love without attachment.
When the last note trembled and dissolved into the air, I understood: it was over.
The end had come.
Not tragic—but natural, like an exhale after a long inhale.
Do-yun lifted his head.
He looked through the light—right to where I stood.
I knew he didn't see me.
But he felt me.
He smiled.
— I love you, Cheon-woo, — he said. — I remember you. But now… I live.
The world became blindingly bright for a second.
My body crumbled in the light, as if someone untied me from time.
But the pain was gone. Instead—peace.
I watched him turn to Min-seo, reach for his hand.
His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from life.
And when their hands met, I understood: everything had happened as it should.
I stayed one more moment.
Just a moment.
To remember.
To make sure they were alive.
Then I closed my eyes.
And allowed myself to vanish.
______________________
"Love doesn't die—it changes shape. When you smile without me, I do not become oblivion—I become the light on your face. If you ever hear the music of the wind—know that it is not farewell. It is me whispering to you: live."