October 2nd, 2024 (Sunday) - Hongdae (Seoul), 5:57 AM
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Sunday came thin and early over Hongdae, washing the narrow streets in pale gold. Steam rose from soup stalls setting up near the subway. A deliveryman shouted a quick greeting before speeding off, the sound of his bike's engine bouncing off the buildings. Shutters rolled up with slow, metallic groans. The air smelled of broth, old beer, and roasted beans. Posters from last night's gigs fluttered in the light wind, half torn and curling at the edges. Somewhere, a bus sighed to a stop, then pulled away.
Ji-hoon woke before the alarm. The room was still, shadows lying flat against the walls. The phone screen glowed to 6:00 a.m., but his thumb shut it off before it could speak. Messages flooded the top of the screen—K-ARTS gossip, his name threaded through the noise—and vanished beneath a single gesture. He sat up, spine straight, hands moving without thought. The plug clicked out. Pillows aligned. Blanket folded sharply, square corners pressed flat. Every motion landed cleanly, almost rehearsed, as though his body remembered a script his mind no longer read.
He brushed his teeth. Drank warm water. Ate breakfast that was measured on the table: one bowl of miyeok-guk, three slices of last night's kimbap, and a plate of kimchi. The clock turned 7:00 a.m., exact. Chopsticks rested parallel, not a drop misplaced.
Outside, Hongdae stirred louder. The whine of scooters, the rattle of shutters, a café bell testing its sound twice before opening. The smell of espresso drifted up the stairwell, mixed with fried oil from a street stall below. Inside, water hummed through the tap as he washed his dishes, the sponge moving steadily over porcelain. The chipped edge on one plate interrupted the circle. His hand paused, then worked around it, careful not to press too hard.
By 7:30 a.m., sunlight spilled across the small apartment, catching the air thick with dust motes. On the low table, photos lay facedown. In the corner, three cardboard boxes sat perfectly aligned, each one labeled in careful handwriting: "music sheet," "old items," and "medical." He paused at the last box a second too long. A quiet flicker crossed his still face—there, then gone. Against the wall, the old Samick upright waited, polished but silent. On its stand lay Stravinsky's Trois mouvements de Pétrouchka, the piece he was supposed to perform at the KBS-KEPCO final last night, the margins of which were dense with pencil. Ji-hoon's expression smoothed again as his hand lifted the lid.
"Since it's Sunday..." Ji-hoon muttered under his breath.
The air in the apartment held still as his body slipped into a pattern too old to question. His back straightened, shoulders squared. Fingers hovered, then descended. Scales first—C major, then G, then D—each note crisp, equal in length and tone. The faint hum of strings joined the pulse of his breath. The rhythm lived in him like a heartbeat long replaced by a metronome.
"One... two... three... four..." His whisper blended with the mechanical rhythm. Each repetition matched the last. Hanon followed, the patterns rolling steadily like ticking gears. Then came Czerny 299, the figures ran clean across the keys.
The smell of polished wood and faint dust filled the air. The small vibrations of hammers striking strings trembled faintly under his fingertips. His count never faltered. His focus stayed on count and contact. Every bar carried the discipline of years compressed into breath and muscle memory.
A faint hitch—a single late note from the left hand. The smallest flaw. Yet, his eyes tightened as the fingers froze midair. Silence. Then the passage began again from the start, the voice marking each beat, quieter now, closer to a prayer.
When the final chord of the exercise faded, his hands lifted at the same time. A slow twist of the right wrist. Then the left. Shoulders relaxed. Breath left him on cue, as if exhalation too was part of practice.
---
The piano came alive again. His hands leaped across octaves with frightening precision, each strike of the hammer sharp and even, bright at the edge. The old Samick seemed to strain under the weight of Stravinsky's Trois mouvements de Pétrouchka, yet it sang with impossible clarity, each note landing as if guided by a machine. The Danse russe burst forth, a storm of scales and staccato jumps, his wrists snapping from octave to octave without hesitation. Then came the sudden stillness of Chez Pétrouchka: a quiet web of slow, suspended tones that shimmered under the faint hum of the strings. By the time La semaine grasse arrived, his fingers were flying again, carving out the rhythms of a carnival in collapse. Sixteen minutes of movement, the air thick with vibration and sweat, the piano's faint scent of resin and varnish rising with the heat.
The final chord rang through the apartment and dissolved into the walls. Ji-hoon didn't move. The music stopped, but his body held the shape of playing.
Silence.
Then breathe. Then nothing.
His hands lifted again, slower this time. The first measures of Chopin's Ballade No. 4 unfurled into the air, round and careful, the sound subdued but flawless. Each phrase landed exactly where it should. Even the dampers obeyed with perfect discipline. The line was exact, airless.
Midway through, his fingers stalled above the keys. The sound lingered, unsure whether to fade or continue. His head tilted slightly, eyes tracing the invisible line of a phrase that should have carried emotion but didn't. Then the silence claimed it.
He started again. The same passage.
Another stop. Again. And again.
"That's not it..." The whisper carried no anger, only fatigue. His hands dropped to his lap. The air felt heavy, the faint metallic smell of the piano wire still clinging to his skin.
He sat there, jaw tight, listening to the ghost of a note that hadn't been born. Between pulse and the ticking clock, Hanon, Czerny, scales—none of it reached what had slipped.
---
The apartment's chime rang once, sharp against the weight of the silence, echoing through the small space still heavy with the last notes of Chopin.
"Ji-hoon-a, are you home?"
A woman's voice, worn but steady, floated through the door. It carried the soft Busan lilt of someone who had lived long enough in Seoul to hide it, but not erase it.
Ji-hoon rose from the bench, movements slow, almost reluctant. The wood under his bare feet creaked faintly as he crossed the short hallway. Gray hair and a wool scarf filled the peephole's circle. He turned the knob.
"Good morning, Bang ajumma," he said, voice polite, measured.
"Ah, there you are." Her smile bloomed like a habit, warm and unhurried. The smell of boiled barley tea and laundry soap drifted in with her. "I thought that was you. Not many young ones play like that before breakfast."
A faint, practiced smile touched his lips. "This is Hongdae, ajumma. I'm sure the neighbors are used to it by now."
She laughed, soft and crackling. "That banging downstairs isn't music, dear. You're the only one who makes the building sing." A dry cough followed, light but persistent.
He glanced at her. "Your cough again?"
"It's the change in air. Don't fuss." She reached into the deep pocket of her padded vest and drew out a white envelope, its edge creased from being held too tightly. "Someone from the Mapo-gu Office came by yesterday while you were out. They left this."
The paper rustled as she handed it over. The seal, a faint blue circle with the Mapo-gu emblem, caught the light. The official stamp pressed against his palm felt heavier than paper should.
"Thank you," he said quietly, taking it with both hands.
Mrs. Bang studied his face for a moment. "You've lost weight. Are you eating? You always say you're fine, but fine doesn't mean healthy."
He gave a small nod. "I'm managing."
"Practicing too much again?" Her tone softened, the kind only elders could make sound like scolding and care at once. "Don't let the piano swallow your days. A person has to breathe, too."
Her words hung there, faintly perfumed with barley tea. Ji-hoon only murmured, "Yes, Bang ajumma," eyes lowered. But the corner of his mouth curved slightly—barely visible, yet real.
She smiled, satisfied enough to pretend she hadn't noticed the tension in his jaw. "I'll bring over some banchan later. The radish kimchi turned out well this time. You can't live on gimbap forever."
"Thank you," he said again, softer this time, almost grateful.
"Good boy." She chuckled and turned, the padded vest rustling. "Now, go back in before the air gets cold. Don't let this old ajumma keep you from your music."
He bowed lightly, the motion smooth but genuine. The door closed behind her with a muted click, shutting out the faint smell of laundry soap and the cool breath of the hallway. The apartment was quiet again, but something of her warmth stayed, lingering in the air like steam from tea.
---
As Ji-hoon returned to the living room, the stillness seemed to follow him. His hand moved automatically, reaching for the small cutter knife tucked neatly with other tools beside the side table. The familiar sound of the blade sliding out cut through the quiet.
He slipped the knife under the flap and drew a clean line across the envelope. The paper gave a soft sigh as it tore. Inside, a single A4 sheet lay folded between a pamphlet, several registration forms, and a smaller envelope. The paper carried the faint smell of toner and official ink—a sterile scent that felt colder than the morning air.
He unfolded the sheet slowly. Each crease resisted, as if it wanted to remain closed. The printed words were spare, emotionless, the font bureaucratically neat.
> Notification of Death Registration Completion
> Registrant: Kang Ha-eun
> Issuing Authority: Mapo-gu Office — Civil Affairs
> Date of Issue: Seoul, October 1, 2024
The seal in the corner shimmered faintly under the light—a circle of blue with the Mapo emblem stamped deep into the fibers. He traced it with his thumb, the texture rough against his skin.
His fingers tightened around the page until the edge bent. A faint exhale escaped him. "So, it's finished," he murmured. "Eomma."
For a moment, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. Not joy. Not relief. Something without a name.
The air tasted faintly metallic, and his throat burned as he swallowed. The tears came not as sobs, but as a slow overflow, tracing the edge of that unnatural smile. They fell soundless, cooling against his skin.
He let the paper rest on the table. The word Death stared back at him in clean black ink, unmoved by his trembling. "Even now," he whispered, "you set the terms." His voice barely rose above the hum of the refrigerator. He pressed his thumb into the seal until the paper dented.
He gave a short, unsteady laugh that cracked midway. It wasn't bitter, but it wasn't kind either. It was the sound of someone caught between release and guilt. The smile broke, replaced by silence. Outside, Seoul exhaled—the distant hiss of buses, the faint call of a street vendor starting her day. Inside, the room stayed motionless, holding the faint scent of paper and dust, the echo of a held note that would not resolve.