Chapter 85…
The Gift Left by Those Who Departed (1):
After a day’s rest, the filming resumed and was now approaching its final stages.
With help from the Cheongsan Foundation, they successfully shot scenes at a school where Suhan ran around in a school uniform.
It was as if he were stacking up new memories to make up for the high school life he had been deprived of.
He got to conquer the school, play the role of a rebel clashing with teachers, and even experience being the most popular student on campus.
“But there’s no piano double?”
“I heard Suhan is doing it himself.”
“The piano? If he’s clumsy, it’ll be obvious right away, though.”
There are actually quite a few people who play piano. Some pick it up as a childhood hobby, while others even win prizes abroad.
“Hmm. Maybe it could work as long as his hands don’t show… but why’s the camera positioned there?”
One of the crew members looked blankly at the setup.
The tripod was being set up in a way that clearly showed the keys.
At that moment, Suhan appeared, smartly dressed in a suit.
This scene’s concept was that of a dream — becoming a handsome and talented student-teacher inside that dream.
“Uh… well, the idea is that in dreams anything can come true. Everything’s been going smoothly until now, but if this one thing feels awkward, it could break the immersion. Some might even say it’s childish.”
The camera director, watching the assistants set up, voiced his concerns.
Then Suhan’s makeup staff cautiously spoke up:
“I heard he practiced a lot.”
“Sure, everyone says they practiced. But usually, if it takes a long time, you bring in a double for the actual performance.”
“Wouldn’t it be the same for us?”
“This is live recording.”
“…Oh.”
The Cheongsan Foundation’s school music hall was famous for its excellent facilities, often used for concerts.
So everyone was busy trying to capture authentic sound.
The camera director furrowed his brows and said:
“But what if…”
“Yes?”
“…he really does play the piano convincingly?”
“If he does?”
“Then I’ll follow every drama and movie he stars in, no matter what.”
“Come on, seriously?”
Everyone burst out laughing — but the director didn’t seem to be joking.
“Is he lacking in acting?”
“No.”
In fact, what everyone consistently praised was his acting ability.
At first, when they heard Suhan — whose only credit was a supporting role in a drama — would be cast, many worried.
They were shocked that, even in a low-budget production, he was given the lead role in a commercial film.
But since Baeksan Group and the Cheongsan Foundation were backing it, at least they weren’t worried about financial losses.
And surprisingly, despite a few odd slip-ups, his acting was far better than anyone expected.
“Suhan’s potential was only recognized in a historical drama — and just one at that. In modern dramas, he was still unproven.”
That kind of talk soon disappeared.
Thanks to him, the atmosphere on set was always lively.
Food trucks and coffee trucks came regularly, and BS Food (a Baeksan Group subsidiary) catered every meal.
It didn’t feel like a low-budget film at all.
Unlike other shoots where only the main staff ate properly while others had to make do with boxed meals, here everyone ate well — even extras.
Some staff were already worried about how they’d adjust when working on other sets later.
Rumors even started among some veterans: “This might turn into a big hit.”
“Big hit” didn’t mean trouble — it meant a low-budget film becoming a massive success.
There were precedents, after all.
And although this movie was officially low-budget, with Baeksan Group’s support, people were saying it wasn’t really low-budget at all.
“So maybe he’s lacking in skill?”
“No.”
“Look at the atmosphere here. In my experience, flops are decided early on, by mid-production at the latest. But here, the mood is completely different. Every day they do a rough edit right after shooting, and the director is throwing his whole body and soul into this.”
“Hmm, true.”
“This film won’t lose money, that’s for sure.”
Everyone agreed.
The budget wasn’t huge, so if the movie turned out well, it could later be sold to streaming platforms at a good price.
“Casting Suhan as the lead turned out to be the best choice. Honestly, this film is practically a one-man show.”
“Probably because the director lived with him, he knew exactly what Suhan was good at — and gave him roles that fit perfectly.”
The camera director smirked and added:
“Exactly. And do you think a director like that would make him play the piano himself if it was going to look awkward?”
“N-no way…”
Everyone avoided saying the one word — beggar.
Former beggar.
Just a year ago, that’s what Suhan had been.
Or less than a year, really — he had spent his childhood drifting between the streets and orphanages.
To think that such a person had so many talents felt unbelievable.
Assistant director Cho appeared, and everyone dispersed to their places.
Slowly, they took their seats and watched Suhan approach the piano.
Just moments ago, there had been anxious glances. Now, they were filled with anticipation.
Everyone recalled their earlier conversation. Even those who hadn’t joined in were still watching him with the same expectant gaze.
Throughout filming, Suhan had always delivered results far beyond what they hoped.
“It’s only rehearsal, but let’s treat it like the real thing! Stay sharp!”
“Yes!”
Sometimes a rehearsal scene turned out so well that they didn’t even use the actual take. Especially for musical performances.
So everyone held their breath in tension.
A big moment could happen at any time.
“Standby!”
“High…”
Silence — not even the sound of wind could be heard.
Everyone’s eyes were fixed solely on Suhan.
“Action!”
I’m nervous.
Funny. Back at home, practicing, I never felt this way.
Since when did I even get nervous?
If I were the protagonist of a dream, would I be nervous now?
No.
Thinking of it as a stage, I glanced at the crew and smirked.
That’s how it should be.
In this dream, the protagonist is supposed to act like a kid with delusions of grandeur, running wild.
So I gave a little smile, then turned back to the keys.
Slowly, with a smile on my face, I surrendered myself.
Until now, the gifts left behind by those who departed had never once let me down.
That’s why I think of them as gifts.
Ding—
My fingers began gliding across the keys as if they were born to.
The piece was Chopin’s Étude.
The very same piece Jung-ho had once played here for his grandfather and father.
It was notoriously difficult, often chosen for competitions.
But for me, it was the most familiar piece.
It hadn’t been me back then.
But now, that ability belonged to me.
So naturally, I closed my eyes, letting myself be swept away by the melody echoing in my ears.
“…!”
The staff gasped, covering their mouths.
Assistant director Cho, watching the monitor, clenched his fist.
He had already seen Suhan play at home and here at the hall.
Back then, even he — someone who didn’t usually enjoy piano — had felt joy in music for the first time.
On the monitor, Suhan’s fingers danced across the keys, left to right.
The piece was Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu.
A well-known masterpiece — the perfect choice.
It looked like mischievous little dwarfs were darting across the keys.
Even just watching his hands was mesmerizing.
Gam-dong (the AD) chuckled in disbelief.
Suhan had said these were “gifts” left by those who had departed.
But Gam-dong knew the truth: Suhan had spent countless nights practicing with a weak keyboard and headset.
When shooting ended early, he’d come here to practice more.
They lived in the same house — there was no way he didn’t notice.
He’d seen him grimace in pain, gripping untrained fingers.
It wasn’t just a gift handed to him.
Like Suhan said, it was a gift born from a heart that had once understood someone else’s.
Gam-dong thought of the grandmother’s cooking the same way.
A smile formed on his lips.
Then he looked around.
“…Hup.”
He covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.
He signaled to the behind-the-scenes cameraman to film the staff instead.
The making-of camera swung toward them.
Every single crew member stood with their mouths wide open, as if hypnotized.
The five-minute performance ended.
Suhan turned and smiled at the staff.
Then, someone clapped.
Clap!
The person instantly looked mortified.
But Gam-dong leapt to his feet, clapping loudly.
“Bravo! Woooo!”
The rest of the staff erupted in applause and cheers.
They didn’t need a signal — they all knew.
They hadn’t worked together long, but they’d built something real.
The sound of applause filled the hall, natural yet powerful.
The first staffer who had clapped — face bright red — now cheered the loudest.
“See! I told you so!”
The camera director, who had confidently predicted Suhan would pull it off, yanked off his headset and shouted in excitement.
“Seriously, how is this possible? That was real playing, right?”
“Yeah! He actually did it! Crazy!”
“This isn’t a few days of practice — he’s good enough to win prizes at competitions!”
“Really?”
“I majored in piano, you know!”
“What, you did?”
“This is insane! He could compete nationally, maybe even internationally!”
“Ah, that’s why you clapped first.”
The “piano major” staff member suddenly wilted.
“I-I’m ruined.”
“Nah. Didn’t you see the director? He’ll make it work!”
“True, they’ll probably film audience cutaways later… but that performance was the real deal.”
Filming continued smoothly with wide shots and audience reactions.
Students were brought in under the guise of a special class, filling the seats completely.
Their reactions were just as natural and enthusiastic.
