PBI 07

Chapter 7

“Exactly my point. He retired ages ago….”

“I’m so sick of hearing him called ‘senior.’ How can someone that old still be so oblivious?”

For a moment, I thought it might be Lee Seong-jin, but thankfully, it wasn’t his voice.

“He just can’t let go.”

“Let go of what?”

“He thinks his piano career ended because of marriage. When it was really his own fault.”

The more I listened, the more unpleasant it became. I thought about stepping out and saying something—but really, who was I? Just another faceless piano academy instructor.

Better not stir things up.

“Poor Go Ye-rim’s daughter, though. The kid doesn’t even like piano, but she forces her to sit and play.”

I clenched my jaw.

“She’s just using the kid as a trophy. Probably because she never won enough herself.”

“They say there are lots of mothers like that.”

Clack—

I opened the stall door and walked out.

The two men gossiping froze mid-sentence and stared at me, startled.

To be fair, I was startled too.

They had been slandering the Go Ye-rim—so I half-expected them to be big names. But no, I’d never even seen their faces before.

“Ah—uh, excuse us….”

“Let’s go.”

They shuffled out awkwardly.

I stared after them, thinking bitterly, Jealous men are always the ugliest kind.

That uneasy feeling clung to me even after I left the restroom. Maybe it was because of what I’d overheard—or maybe the atmosphere had always been like this and I’d just failed to notice.

Now that I looked around, nobody seemed genuinely happy to see Go Ye-rim.

Only Lee Seong-jin, the man I’d met earlier, had greeted her with real warmth.

And soon, the truth became clearer—from Ye-rim herself.

She raised her champagne glass, utterly composed.

“I think it’s better if we move separately.”

“…What?”

“No need for people to judge you just because of me. Over there—see?—plenty of young pianists. You should go chat with them.”

She smiled faintly, that serene, bittersweet curve of her lips that somehow made my chest tighten.

I hesitated, then asked quietly:

“You came here knowing how people would talk?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate the idea of being forgotten.”

Was that honesty—or self-deception?

I stared at the pale gold in her glass.

“If even my peers forget me, then Pianist Go Ye-rim truly ceases to exist.”

“Do you regret giving up piano?”

“No. Even if I could go back, I’d make the same choice. What meaning would life have without So-eun?”

She smiled again.

“This is just… a lingering attachment.”

< 007 >

I sat on a bench outside, scratching my head with a sigh.

“A lingering attachment, huh…”

A simple word, but so achingly human.

If it were Go Ye-rim—pure classical elegance incarnate—I’d expected something far more refined.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

All I’d gained was gossip I never wanted to hear, and I hadn’t even met Yang Se-jin.

Well, he was the first Korean to win that title—probably too busy circling the globe with recitals.

Then, suddenly—

Ding…

A clear piano note sliced through the night air.

I turned instinctively. The sound came again, fuller this time.

It was coming from the hall. Of course—there had been a piano there.

The weight in my chest lifted, replaced by curiosity.

When I returned to the venue, people had gathered in a semicircle around the piano.

And there, facing away from me, someone was playing.

For a moment, I wondered—Yang Se-jin?

But no.

Dan—dadadan!

The tone was steady, precise, classical to the core.

Not flashy, but grounded—the kind of control that comes only from years of fundamental discipline.

“Seong-jin plays beautifully, doesn’t he?”

Go Ye-rim had appeared beside me.

Ah. That explained it. The back of the pianist’s head belonged to Lee Seong-jin.

“Yes… his fundamentals are excellent,” I said—then caught myself. “Ah—sorry, that might sound arrogant.”

She shook her head gently.

“No. You’re right.”

A delicate smile touched her lips as she closed her eyes, clearly enjoying the sound.

The final note rang out—Ding!—and applause followed.

Lee Seong-jin rose, scratching the back of his head, bashful.

“Haha… thank you.”

“You always play so cleanly, Seong-jin,” someone said.

“‘Cleanly’ as in ‘boring,’ right?”

“Haha, no way!”

Laughter rippled through the group. For a moment, it was lighthearted.

Then—

“Wouldn’t it be a shame to end it here?”

Another man spoke up, smirking.

“We have Seong-jin’s teacher here tonight—Miss Go Ye-rim herself! Isn’t it only polite to ask for a piece from her?”

I blinked. Teacher?

So Ye-rim had taught him.

Her face drained of color.

“That’s right! You taught him, didn’t you?”

“How could we forget?”

A staff member grinned smugly.

“Why don’t you give us a tune, Miss Ye-rim?”

I scowled before I could stop myself.

What kind of circus do they think this is?

Ye-rim’s hand trembled around her champagne glass.

It was a perfect trap: if she played well, they’d call her pretentious. If she faltered, they’d mock her decline.

Even Lee Seong-jin looked mortified.

Ye-rim lowered her head.

“I… I think—”

“The piano sounds nice,” I interrupted.

Dozens of eyes turned to me.

I walked to the instrument, resting my fingers lightly on the keys.

The coordinator frowned.

“And you are…?”

“Kim Do-yoon.”

“A pianist?”

“No. Piano instructor.”

Laughter erupted—disbelieving, mocking.

Who does this guy think he is? their faces said.

I ignored them, letting my hand glide across the keys.

“Mind if I play one piece?”

“Don’t embarrass yourself,” the coordinator sneered. “Do you even know who’s here? You’re out of your depth, teacher.”

I smiled faintly.

“Here?” I said. “I’ll play better than anyone in this room.”

The air froze.

A challenge like a gunshot.

The coordinator barked a laugh and stepped back.

The room fell utterly silent.

Ding—

I pressed a single key to feel the weight.

Ding, ding— another.

I’d already had a long talk with my right hand before sitting down.

Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 14 — “Moonlight.”

A melody even the untrained knew. A hymn of impossible yearning.

The crowd held its breath.

Moonlight spilled through the skylight like a spotlight upon the piano.

My right hand twitched—a signal.

Then—

Tararara—tadan!

The “Moonlight” Sonata’s third movement is like a staircase—each note climbing furiously toward the unreachable moon.

Tararara—tadan!

Left and right hands raced, breathless.

The right hand—perfect. The left—steadier than it had ever been, thanks to years of brutal retraining.

Faces blurred, but I could imagine their expressions.

Because I was listening, too.

Tarara—tadan!

Each strike rebounded like lightning, the polished surface reflecting the frenzy of my face.

Moonlight’s madman—yes, that’s what I looked like.

My vision swam. My back arched. Yet my hands never left the keys.

Dan—daradan!

At the height of crescendo, a smile crept to my lips. The once-cold moonlight now burned like fire.

What is “Moonlight”?
Where was the moon Beethoven reached for?

In 1801, his hearing was already failing.

How could a man robbed of sound compose something so alive?

Maybe that was the essence of genius—
a light that dazzles but can never be touched.

My left hand screamed with pain, but I played on.

Moonlight’s third movement never rests.

Even a moment’s lapse would shatter it.

And so I climbed—unyielding, breathless, burning.

“Who is that maniac…?” someone whispered.

Dan—dan—dan—!

The final chords exploded.

I sagged forward, gasping.

“…Hah… hah…”

Then, slowly, I raised my right fist—met it with my left.

A faint laugh escaped me.

“…Slam Dunk, huh?”

And then—

Clap… clap…

One pair of hands. Then another.

And another—

Clap clap clap clap!

Thunderous applause filled the hall.

Even after minutes passed, the clapping didn’t stop.

In a room full of egos—renowned pianists, critics, prodigies—that kind of applause was a miracle.

At the entrance, Yang Se-jin stood frozen, eyes fixed on Kim Do-yoon.

How long had he waited to see that face again?

“I guess…”

The man he had once admired—

“…I didn’t break his wings enough.”

A chilling smile touched his lips.

The one who had once bowed humbly before him—
a man born with untouchable talent yet no gratitude.

That was how Yang Se-jin remembered Kim Do-yoon.

He had heard rumors: the accident, the years of rehabilitation, the job at his aunt’s piano academy.

But to see him here—
playing like that—stronger, brighter, untamed—was impossible.

A few years since the crash. A few years since the hand that should’ve ended everything.

And yet… his playing surpassed his youth.

Yang Se-jin turned toward his car. His driver looked puzzled.

“Sir? You’re not going in?”

“Take me home.”

As the car door closed, Yang Se-jin let out a long, quiet sigh.

“Maybe I’ll just have to tear his wings off completely.”