PBI 02

Chapter 2

It began with a storm cloud.

A dark, crawling mass moving closer from afar, as if to swallow me whole.

My right hand moved on its own, and my left followed to match it.
Not from thought — it was pure instinct.

The right hand, already heated, danced madly across the keys.
Solemn yet exhilarating.

Sweat ran down my entire body as sixteenth notes poured out like rain.

This is the tempest I’ve always dreamed of… or maybe something beyond it.

Keeping up was all I could do.
And yet, I couldn’t even feel my right hand anymore — as if it belonged to someone else.

“How is this even possible…?”

Ding—!

The sudden, sharp sound struck my ear, and the performance stopped.
I stared at my right hand with a reproachful look.
At this point, the fact that it was moving on its own wasn’t even the strangest thing anymore.

“What? Why’d you stop?”

My right hand picked up a pencil and scribbled something on the sheet.

[Focus before you die.]

A chill ran down my spine. I’d never felt such malice from handwriting before.
I nodded obediently. The right hand rose once more, ready to dance.

Tap, tap—

A light drumming of fingers on the keys — a signal.

As I pressed down, the world around me shifted.

A man stood in the middle of an empty stage, his face hollow.
From the far end, a storm cloud charged toward him like a beast.

The Tempest.
A piece where the right hand plays the rain, and the left the clouds.

Da-ra-dan! Da-ra-dan!

I forgot the alcohol still in my system and focused every nerve I had.
I’d heard the masters perform this back in my Eastman days —
but my right hand now far surpassed them all.

Had the god of piano descended into me?

By the time the first movement ended, I was drenched — sweat or rain, who could tell?
Each page turned felt like a gust of wind roaring through my lungs.

Then came the soft second movement…
and finally, the third.

The light drizzle turned to a downpour.
Every note felt heavy, as though I were sitting in the middle of a storm.
My left hand cramped with each strike, but I didn’t stop.

When would I ever hear — or play — something like this again?

The Tempest was written in Beethoven’s darkest days.
He must have felt it — the slow, certain death of his hearing.

And I, a pianist of the 21st century, had lost my wrist.
Beethoven of the 18th had lost his hearing.

Across time, we shared the same loss.

Tears rolled down, mingling with sweat and the imagined rain.
Beethoven’s Tempest — perhaps it was his rain made from his own sorrow.

My right hand raced toward the climax.
I pounded the keys as if my breath might be torn away by the storm.

And then—

Ding…

The sound faded like mist.

“Huff… huff…”

I hung my head, gasping for air.
I’d never played anything so overwhelming.

Even if Beethoven rose from his coffin, he couldn’t match that.

My right hand, tireless, grabbed the sheet music again and scrawled:

[This is the Tempest.]

< 002 >

Yoon A-young clutched her chest.
She’d only stopped by the academy to grab her forgotten wallet —
but from one of the rooms came a sound that rooted her in place.

It was Beethoven’s Tempest.

She had never heard a performance like it.
Every note drowned her deeper and deeper,
and by the time it ended, she was drenched in sweat.

This wasn’t just The Tempest.
It was the best performance she had ever heard — of anything.

The right hand especially —
it was divine.

Who could it be?

No student should be practicing at this hour.
And no teacher here was capable of that.
She knew their skill levels all too well.

Click—

The door opened. A-young ducked behind a corner.
Out stepped Kim Do-yoon.

She gasped.

He’d injured his wrist.
She’d once caught a glimpse of the long surgical scar beneath his sleeve.

Is… is he healed?

Confusion lingered as his figure disappeared down the hall.

* * *

Early morning, city hospital.

“So you’ve had major surgery before.”

The doctor glanced between the X-ray and monitor,
his reaction so bland it almost felt insulting.

“Is there… any change? Like the nerves reconnecting, or side effects?”

“No. It’s exactly the same as before.”

Exactly the same.
I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“Doctor… are there diseases that make your hand move on its own?”

“Excuse me?”

After a pause, the doctor nodded.

“There is. It’s often called Alien Hand Syndrome.
It usually appears in split-brain patients, when the corpus  callosum is damaged.”

Alien hand… split brain… corpus callosum.
I had no idea what that meant, but apparently, I didn’t have it.

I left the hospital feeling even more tangled than before.

When I woke that morning, I’d thought it was a dream.
A hand that could barely lift a spoon —
playing piano on its own?
That couldn’t be real.

But it wasn’t a dream.
I realized that in the bathroom.

My right hand had gone on strike.
It refused to brush my teeth.
During my shower, it even twisted the faucet because the water was too cold —
I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I raised it carefully.

“You’re not sulking, are you?”

It stayed quiet.
Somehow, I could feel its mood.
How had my life come to this — pacifying my own hand?

“It’s just procedure, okay? Think of it as a check-up.
You know, like the annual kind.”

I muttered to myself as I walked out.
Across the street, a nail salon caught my eye.

“Maybe a manicure for a change of—”

Smack!

The random slap startled everyone at the bus stop.
Yeah. Message received.

“Fine, fine. Work first.”

By late lunch, I arrived at the academy.
Soo-hye and Seok-hyun greeted me with their usual shameless grins.
A-young, however, acted strangely awkward.

What’s her problem?

Puzzled, I went into the lesson room.
My student, Choi So-eun, bowed politely.

“Good afternoon, teacher.”

“You’re early.”

She was already prepared, sitting primly by the piano.

“Want me to play it first?”

Her eyes widened — I’d never offered to play before.
She quickly stood aside.

Today’s piece was Chopin’s Black Keys Étude —
light, lively, full of playful rhythm.
Famous too, thanks to that movie Secret.

I placed my hands on the keyboard.

“…Aren’t you going to start?”

She blinked innocently.

Why could I feel pressure on the keys?
Yesterday, it was effortless — my right hand had handled everything.
Now it was like dead weight.

I leaned closer and whispered.

“Are you really going to do this?”

No answer. Just my rising frustration.

“Just this once, please! I’ll give you a massage tonight!
I’ll even buy aloe hand cream—”

Ding—

A single clean note. Agreement.

This time, I was nervous.
As I pressed down, music poured forth.

“Wow…”

Perfect.
There was no other word.

People passing in the hall stopped to watch.

The Black Keys Étude — a common piece, familiar to all.
Yet no one could look away.
Each key pulled at my fingers like it wanted to devour them.

Five minutes passed before I even noticed.

Ding—!

The music stopped abruptly.
My right hand slipped back into my pocket, as if saying that’s enough.

“Uh…”

I turned to So-eun, feigning calm.

“You saw that, right?”

“T-teacher… you can play that well?”

“Well, I am a piano teacher.”

I laughed it off, motioning at the sheet.

“Your turn.”

The lesson ended without issue.
Even without the right hand’s cooperation, I managed just fine.

As I packed up, So-eun tugged my sleeve.

“Can I stay and practice more? I… want to play like you someday.”

“Of course. If you get stuck, call me.”

“Thank you!”

Such earnestness. It was hard not to feel proud.

Evening came.
Instead of going home, I slipped into an empty room.

“Alright, what is it this time?”

My right hand had been giving signals all afternoon —
specifically, pinching my thigh mid-lesson.
I nearly screamed three times.

It immediately grabbed a pen and began to write:

[Who do you think you are, teaching anyone?]

“…Excuse me?”

More scribbles.

[Practice.]

“You mean I should practice piano?”

[Because of you, I can’t play properly.]

I fell silent.
He had a point.

Even yesterday’s Tempest — I could barely keep up with him.

“…Fair enough.”

Looks like I was about to take lessons from my own hand.

“But what’s the point of me practicing left hand only?”

[We need to synchronize.]

“With you? Then what piece are we—”

[Liszt.]

I froze.

“…You’re kidding, right?”

The right hand slid casually onto the keyboard.

“No way. Nobody practices Liszt for warm-up!”

It picked up the pen again.

[Shut up and play.]