Chapter 60…
The Piano That Plays at Night (2):
Choi Won-uk, the CFO of Cheongsan Foundation, looked at his father, Choi Woo-san, the foundation’s chairman, with a weary expression.
“Let’s not have shamans wandering in and out of the school.”
“…I’d like that too.”
“I’ll take care of school matters.”
“Do you think I’m saying this just because it’s about the school?”
The father and son faced each other tensely.
“Again with that story? That child was just weak in body. Do you expect me to believe in grudges, lingering spirits, and such nonsense in this day and age?”
“Hmm.”
“The world will laugh at us. What if rumors spread? What then!”
Choi Won-uk bit his lip and raised his voice at his father.
“I’m the one who lost a son.”
At his words, Choi Woo-san sighed.
“I’m sorry.”
Won-uk left the room, turning his back on his apologizing father.
Jo Gam-dong looked at Yangseo High School with a satisfied expression.
He liked it even more than the schools he had previously scouted.
As a private school, the buildings were clean, and its long history gave it a dignified, old-fashioned atmosphere.
In this kind of setting, the mood of a protagonist being suppressed and beaten down could be captured perfectly.
“How is it?”
“Perfect.”
“What about the casting?”
“Almost done, but… we’re missing something. We need someone who looks like a perfect ‘golden boy’—handsome, has everything, but smug and irritating at the same time. We haven’t found that yet…”
Since it was an independent film, casting options were limited.
Hearing Gam-dong’s concern, Su-han looked thoughtful before carefully opening his mouth.
“…What about me?”
“Now that you mention it, you’d be perfect… Should we? But even though our budget’s bigger this time, the funds are already allocated. We don’t really have a reserve for extra casting fees.”
“Hold on.”
Su-han quickly made a phone call.
A moment later, a hesitant, almost reluctant voice came from the other end.
“Hel… hello?”
“So now you’re calling me honey, sweetheart?”
“Please…”
Like I enjoy this either?
I sighed and got straight to the point with Joo-hwan.
“You know I’m making a movie, right?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a role that’s perfect for you. The golden boy type.”
“…But that’s an indie film.”
“It’s feature-length. Budget’s 1.5 billion won.”
“Come on, 1.5 billion isn’t much for a movie…”
“Exactly. We’re poor. That’s why we need someone like you—handsome and skilled—but we can’t afford the usual price.”
“I’m a bit…”
“You said you liked me, remember? Are you backing out now?”
Gam-dong, don’t look so horrified. I’m trying my best here.
“P-please don’t say that!”
He started whining.
I kept pushing.
“I’ve got a radio variety show next week. But all my stories are about being a beggar—it’s depressing. I need something fresh. Wouldn’t this make a great story?”
“W-wait. No, no, that’s not—! You too, hyung…”
“I never said I liked you. You were the one who said it.”
Joo-hwan protested desperately.
“W-when did I ever? I just said you’d be a good fit for that commercial role with me! Don’t frame me!”
“Come on, it’s not framing. I know how you feel. I’ll just use it as fun banter, that’s all.”
“W-w-wait!”
“Hm? Why?”
“I… I should at least check with my agency.”
“Fine. Bring your seal tomorrow. I’ll send over the contract copy today. And don’t even try haggling over pay. As your mentor, I want to see the results of my teachings.”
“…Okay.”
“Thanks~.”
Click.
Looking at Gam-dong’s drained face, I said:
“You can’t act like that. I went all-in to get him cast.”
“I-I know. My head understands, but my heart…”
“Want me to carve it into your forehead?”
“Sorry.”
Stupid kid.
Like I’m not embarrassed enough.
But still, that wrapped up casting.
Filming prep went smoothly.
I doubled as staff and worked hard to support Gam-dong’s debut as a director.
I checked piano rooms, looked for usable pianos, even rummaged through storage.
It would’ve been easy to ask Man-su for help, but I couldn’t.
The foundation director’s son kept coming around, showing his face everywhere.
Was he watching me?
No.
More like keeping an eye out in case kids like Man-su snuck in.
He was also personally leading efforts to spruce up the school for our movie.
After three days of hide-and-seek, I finally found that boy again.
“You’re quick on your feet. Why keep hiding?”
[That time, you’re the one from…]
“Let’s talk, Choi Jung-hoo.”
[…Sigh.]
Jeez, what’s with the ghost sighing like that when I just want a chat?
“You… do you like the piano?”
[…]
“You play it because you enjoy it, right?”
[Yes.]
After a pause, Jung-hoo spoke.
[I do like it.]
“Then why play while running away? Did someone forbid it?”
[That’s…]
“Choi Woo-san?”
[No, not my grandfather.]
“Then it’s clear. It’s your father, isn’t it?”
Jung-hoo’s face went pale.
“Knew it. Choi Won-uk.”
[Haa.]
He looked caught.
“No one else can see you. So why hide?”
[I… I don’t know.]
This was imprinting.
Just like habits in life, ghosts often repeat memories engraved into them.
Man-su had explained that.
And I’d seen it myself as a child—
A ghost endlessly playing jacks.
A homeless man’s spirit picking fights by shoving his face into mine.
They all had patterns. Imprints.
This boy too.
His face suddenly showed desperation.
I quickly said:
“Want me to hide you?”
[What?]
“Come here. The best hiding place is right under the lamp. Treasures belong there.”
He bit his lip, then rushed into me instead of fleeing.
More than wanting to run, he wanted to possess me.
That’s what ghosts do.
‘Damn it. I’m not covered in honey, you know.’
Meanwhile, CFO Choi Won-uk came to check filming progress and heard from staff that Woo Su-han was here.
Something about him unsettled Won-uk.
Maybe it was the memory of that shaman he had seen with Su-han.
He’d claimed it was his first meeting, but the atmosphere back then had felt… off.
His steps suddenly halted.
Because of a piano.
‘Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantaisie?’
Yes. Without a doubt.
He knew that piece intimately—one used often in Chopin competitions.
He’d heard it so many times it was burned into his ears.
He quickened his pace, sweat breaking along his spine.
Finally, he stopped at the door where the sound came from. He stepped inside.
“Phew…”
He let out the breath he’d been holding.
At the piano sat Woo Su-han.
He was the one playing.
But as Won-uk listened, his eyes twitched.
“He plays… this well?”
This wasn’t something an amateur could produce.
It wasn’t about technique—
It was about interpretation.
This piece demanded deep nuance.
For some reason, Won-uk stepped back without realizing.
At that moment, Su-han’s gaze met his.
“Gasp!”
Won-uk kept retreating step by step.
Because of that gaze.
Resentment.
He began to hear it—resentful whispers woven into the music.
A suffocating bitterness that should never exist in this lyrical piece.
It pushed him back.
Finally, he turned and ran.
The piano had stopped.
Only his pounding footsteps echoed through the long hallway.
“He’s gone, right?”
As Won-uk disappeared, a calmer Jung-hoo’s voice spoke.
[Yes. He’s gone.]
“Even if you hadn’t run, huh?”
[Yes.]
Tears streamed down Jung-hoo’s face.
So that’s how it feels—facing what you’ve always feared.
Not so terrible once revealed.
“When something you love turns into something you hate…”
Watching him cry, I recalled fragments of his lingering memories.
Looking at him, I spoke gently:
“Don’t run away.”
[…Yes.]
“You still love it, don’t you?”
[Yes.]
The subject was missing, but we both knew.
It was the piano.
He had loved it. Then he came to hate it.
But even after death, he kept playing.
Running, hiding, yet still playing.
Maybe because of life’s imprint.
But I didn’t think that was all.
Because when he briefly possessed me, I’d felt it—
A shard of joy mixed with his sorrow.
“Damn it… what a fool…”
CFO Choi Won-uk bent over, panting, cursing.
Why had he run?
He didn’t even know.
He hadn’t looked back once.
Now he was disgusted and angry at himself.
“Why… why did you suddenly leave?”
His body froze stiff.
Turning slowly, he saw Woo Su-han walking toward him with a smile.
“Embarrassing, huh? Still, I practiced hard. Was it that bad to your ears?”
“No. That was no amateur.”
“Next time, I’ll practice even more and show you a proper performance.”
“Yes… I’ll look forward to it.”
Won-uk forced a smile.
But inside, his wariness deepened.
He knew Su-han—his name had been in the news often lately.
He had even researched him, since they’d be filming here.
And yet, all the articles said was that Su-han had lived as a beggar until miraculously becoming an actor.
But that performance—
It couldn’t have come from a beggar.
Practice alone couldn’t explain it.
The interpretation was off, yes—
But if he truly lacked the skill, he would have fumbled and failed altogether.
To deliberately twist emotion into a performance still required mastery.
“…This filming…”
He felt he had to stop it.
More than discomfort—
It was a powerful conviction.
That it must not go on.
