Chapter 11
The concert hall fell silent.
Had the performance ended successfully?
At some point, I had stopped noticing the judges entirely — lost in the trance of striking the keys, immersed in nothing but sound.
Then, cutting through the stillness, came an unexpected sound.
Clap, clap, clap—!
“Wow!”
“That was amazing, Kim Do-yoon!”
“You’re incredible!”
The students sitting in the back jumped up in excitement, forcing me to gesture quickly for them to sit before the judges noticed.
One of the judges stared at me in a daze, then finally set his pen down.
“Well… good job.”
“Thank you.”
No commentary. No critique. Just that.
I bowed politely, feeling oddly empty, and began to step off the stage — when I overheard the quiet murmur of the judges.
“I almost clapped too.”
“I did stand up — then sat down again.”
“Where the hell did that guy come from? I’ve been judging competitions for ten years, and I’ve never—”
So… it wasn’t bad.
Relief hit, and my knees nearly gave out as I descended the stage. Leaning against the wall, I let out a shaky breath — only to meet the gaze of Contestant No. 37, waiting his turn.
The last one, apparently.
I smiled awkwardly and bowed, but his glare could have cut glass. There was no mistaking the hostility in his eyes.
Before I could say anything, he turned sharply on his heel.
“…What’s his problem?”
From somewhere behind him, a faint mutter floated back:
“And what about the poor guy who has to follow that….”
< 011 >
“Cheers!”
Director Kang Mi-ryeo raised her glass high, and the rest of the teachers followed, beaming.
I’d worried the mood might be awkward like last time, but aside from Im Soo-hye, everyone seemed genuinely happy.
I lifted my glass politely.
“Thank you all for your support.”
“Can I be honest, Do-yoon?”
It was Yoon Ah-young, smiling slyly at me.
“…Go ahead?”
“Honestly, I wasn’t rooting for you at all.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Come on — everyone here’s the same. Some of us were secretly praying you’d make one mistake.”
The whole room laughed. I blinked, caught between offense and confusion, as she grinned and downed her drink.
“It’s just jealousy. You’re our age, but you play on a completely different level.”
“Same here,” one teacher chimed in. “But hearing you live… it’s not even close enough to be jealous anymore.”
More laughter.
I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or offended. At least now I understood why everyone seemed so relieved tonight.
Truth be told, I wasn’t that different from them.
Even with the Winter Wind etude focusing on left-hand work, I knew — without my right hand’s flawless cooperation, it would’ve been impossible.
Ah-young tilted her head, curious.
“So, have you decided on your piece for the finals?”
“Not yet. The results for the prelims aren’t even out.”
“You performed like a stage magician — you think they won’t pass you?”
“Right, and you’ll need a full recital program too,” Kang Mi-ryeo added.
At that, my head began to ache.
Unlike the preliminary round, the final wasn’t just one piece. It required an entire recital program — fifty minutes long, following strict guidelines.
For example:
[1] One piece by Franz Schubert
[2] One modern composition (post-1900)
And those two eras — over a century apart — had to be woven together seamlessly.
That was the real challenge.
Kang Mi-ryeo suddenly snapped her fingers.
“Why not ask So-eun’s mother for help?”
“…Sorry?”
“She used to perform recitals, didn’t she? You’ll fry your brain if you plan this alone.”
“Wouldn’t that be a bother?”
“Please. You’re the only one she actually smiles at.”
“Can’t you help instead?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you went on strike and left me drowning in paperwork! Do you know how many mothers have been calling nonstop about you?”
I turned away awkwardly. She wasn’t entirely wrong.
Still, it felt like an unreasonable favor to ask.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to.
The next morning, my phone rang.
– ‘Mr. Kim, I’d like to help with your recital program.’
“Oh… how did you know?”
– ‘Director Kang told me. I’ve done a few recitals myself, so maybe I can be of use.’
“That would be wonderful, thank you.”
– ‘Then could you come by this evening? With So-eun, of course.’
“This evening?”
– ‘You always teach her separately, right? We’ve been meaning to invite you to dinner anyway. My husband’s bringing home some good whiskey.’
“I’ll be there. Thank you.”
And so, that evening, I left the academy with Choi So-eun.
Her father, Choi Jeong-guk, was already waiting by the car, smiling warmly as he hugged her.
“Ready to go, sweetheart?”
The way he spoke to her — gentle, steady — stirred something faintly wistful in me.
Their apartment, though modest, felt bright and lived-in. Somehow, I’d imagined Ye-rim in a grand two-story villa. But this—this warmth—suited her more.
As I stepped inside, the scent of stew filled the air.
“Good evening, Mrs. Go.”
“Oh, you’re here?”
From the kitchen, Go Ye-rim greeted me with her usual quiet grace.
Dinner was lively. The normally reserved So-eun chirped like a sparrow, laughing freely in her home.
It was… nice. And yet, there was an ache somewhere in my chest, watching their small family light up the room.
Ye-rim turned to me mid-conversation.
“Does the food suit your taste?”
“Yes, it’s delicious — especially the beef stew—”
“Oh, that one’s from the store around the corner.”
“…Then the rolled omelet, perhaps—”
“That came with it as a set.”
My lips twitched helplessly.
“They must make wonderful side dishes there. I’ll have to visit sometime.”
So-eun giggled.
“Mom’s bad at cooking.”
“Sweetheart!”
“Except soybean stew. She learned it ‘cause Dad likes it. She even went to a cooking class!”
“Impressive,” I said.
“But I guess they didn’t teach side dishes.”
Ye-rim flushed and cleared her throat, while So-eun laughed harder.
I hadn’t realized the girl could laugh like that.
“I always thought you’d both be stricter,” I said. “You’re surprisingly gentle.”
“We have to be strict about piano,” Ye-rim replied softly.
For an instant, her expression darkened.
“You know what this world is like.”
Something in her tone told me she was speaking from pain — not theory. I didn’t pry.
Instead, she smiled again.
“So, how can I help?”
“Oh, right!” I pulled out my notebook eagerly. “I’ve already chosen a main piece.”
“Already? Which one?”
“Schubert’s Erlking.”
“The Erlking?”
“And for the modern piece, Prokofiev’s Diabolical Suggestion.”
Both mother and daughter froze.
Only Jeong-guk, utterly lost, leaned forward with interest.
“The titles sound cool. What are they about?”
Ye-rim hesitated.
“Are you… serious?”
“Is it too difficult?”
“Of course it’s difficult! Both are practically cursed for pianists—”
“The difficulty doesn’t matter,” I said with a grin.
What I didn’t say was: My right hand can handle it.
She sighed.
“You need to think about your wrist, too. When I saw that photo from your accident, I was terrified. The fact that you can even play again is a miracle — but both those pieces are brutal on the hands.”
I nodded.
Schubert’s Erlking — The King of the Elves.
Inspired by Goethe’s poem, written when Schubert was just eighteen.
“Father, do you not see the Erlking there?”
“My son, it’s only a wisp of fog.”
“Come, dear child, come away with me…”
A father riding through the storm with his child, the child whispering of a ghostly figure only he can see.
By the end, the child lies dead in his arms.
The piano part — relentless, storm-like, unhuman. The tempo itself a fever dream.
As for Prokofiev’s Diabolical Suggestion — that was another monster entirely. Even the composer had once ruined a live performance of it.
A devil’s waltz, a descent into madness.
I smiled faintly at Ye-rim.
“Really, it’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“…If you insist,” she said uncertainly.
“Here, let me show you the draft of the full program.”
She nodded, and I eagerly pulled out my notes.
“I was thinking of opening with…”
Late that night, back at the academy.
The building was empty and cold. The lights buzzed faintly overhead as I entered the practice room.
Sitting before the piano, I pulled out my notebook.
My right hand reached for the pen and began to write.
‘Are you sure about this?’
“Even if I’m not, I have to do it.”
‘Why Erlking? You could’ve picked anything else.’
I stroked my chin thoughtfully.
“Do you know what the piece is about?”
‘Some creepy elf king trying to kidnap a kid, right?’
“There’s a joke among music students. A sort of urban legend.”
‘What kind of joke?’
“They say the Erlking isn’t after the child.”
I lifted my left hand slowly.
“He’s after the pianist’s wrist.”
‘That’s bullshit.’
“Of course it is. But you have to admit — it’s funny. The pain must’ve been real enough for the rumor to start.”
‘You’re the one who complains, not me.’
I laughed, massaging my right hand gently. If I didn’t pamper it, it might just go on strike during the competition.
After a while, curiosity struck me again.
“Hey… doesn’t it hurt for you? Even if you’re separate from me, you still came from this body.”
‘I’m fine.’
“Why are you fine?”
‘Because I’m not your right hand.’
“But you said before that you were!”
‘I only said that so you’d stop asking stupid questions.’
I froze, staring at my own hand.
‘You really want to know who I am?’
I swallowed. Hard. And nodded.
I’d always wondered.
Was it my subconscious? A fragment of muscle memory? Some phantom limb of the mind?
No. Whatever this was, it was far beyond me — more precise, more alive.
My right hand was not me.
And maybe I didn’t want to know the truth.
The pen moved again.
‘I am—’
“W-wait! Don’t tell me you’re about to vanish dramatically or something—”
Before I could finish, the hand snatched the pen back and pinched my thigh hard.
‘Stop watching so many dramas.’
Then, in bold, confident strokes, it wrote the final words:
‘I’m someone from a long time ago.’
