Chapter 10
The Letter of Recommendation
Knock, knock.
“Yes.”
When Yeoul carefully knocked, a brief but clear voice of permission came from the other side of the door.
Her face, already tense, stiffened even more. She opened the door with restrained, rigid movements and stepped inside.
“Hello, Professor.”
At her polite greeting, Professor Yoon Ja-kyung—who had been poring over some papers, jotting notes with her fountain pen—looked up.
“Who…? Oh, Yeoul?”
Her expression brightened with recognition. She rose from her seat and walked toward the sofa.
“Sit down.”
“Yes, Professor.”
Yeoul waited for Professor Yoon to take the upper seat before sitting down herself.
“You weren’t in the practice room this morning. Just got here?”
“I came around eleven to practice.”
It was actually a bit past eleven, but knowing how much the professor liked precision, Yeoul gave her a clean answer.
Professor Yoon gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied that, even if she’d arrived late, she hadn’t neglected her practice.
“So, what brings you here?”
The professor crossed her legs, clasped her hands neatly on her knee, and gazed at Yeoul with that same calm, unshakable look.
Her tone wasn’t scolding, but every syllable she spoke somehow struck like a switch of reprimand.
“But you traded your life as a cellist for something ordinary. And now, after a month, you’ve come back to tell me you’ve changed your mind. To think that the cello was something you could give up so easily… it makes me sad for all the time I spent believing in you.”
“…I’m sorry, Professor.”
Yeoul wanted to explain—that she had given up her overseas study only because she believed she could continue playing the cello even after marriage.
That she had trusted Seungtae’s promise, only to find herself living in a hell fueled by his inferiority complex toward Gunwoo.
That now, because the marriage had fallen apart, she finally had a chance to go abroad again.
But none of those words could leave her mouth.
No matter what she said, it would only sound like an excuse.
“You’ve already let go of a chance that came to you with difficulty. So you must also bear the responsibility for that choice.”
“Yes, Professor.”
Head bowed, Yeoul nodded quietly, accepting the decision.
She then placed her hands neatly together, rose from her seat, and bowed politely.
“I’ll take my leave now, Professor.”
“Are you going to practice?”
“Yes. I’m happiest when I’m with my cello.”
Forcing back the ache in her chest, Yeoul lifted the corners of her lips in a small smile.
The professor’s stern face softened into warmth at her answer.
“Yes… that’s the Kang Yeoul I know.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
“I came to ask for a letter of recommendation for my study abroad.”
Professor Yoon’s expression froze.
Her fingers began tapping lightly—a habit she always had when thinking deeply.
Watching the steady rhythm of the professor’s index finger, Yeoul swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat.
The longer the professor thought, the more likely the answer would be no.
How long had it been?
At last, the tapping stopped.
“Yeoul.”
“Yes, Professor.”
She answered immediately, though her voice came out sharper than she intended—perhaps from nerves.
“A month ago, when you said you wouldn’t go abroad because you were getting married, I respected your decision.”
Her tone was calm, without a hint of emotion.
Even so, Yeoul didn’t feel hurt.
She knew the professor’s affection, her sincere concern, her regret when Yeoul first gave up her chance—all of it had been real.
Or maybe, it was because Yeoul had already learned, the hard way, how precious that lost opportunity truly was.
So there was no room for resentment.
“That’s why today, I’m disappointed in you for the first time.”
At those words, Yeoul lowered her head even further. She couldn’t bear to meet the professor’s eyes.
“Studying at the Royal Academy of Music—it’s an opportunity that can change your life. The moment you graduate, your name will carry weight as a cellist.”
Yeoul bowed once more and left the office.
You already knew, didn’t you…
As the professor had said, it was a chance she had thrown away herself.
When she’d come to announce her decision to give it up, Professor Yoon had tried to stop her again and again—reminding her that once lost, such a chance would rarely return.
So maybe that was why, deep down, Yeoul already knew the professor wouldn’t accept her request now.
It’s fine. I can play the cello again—that’s enough.
Her chest ached with unspent emotion, tears pressing at the edge of her eyes, but she brushed it all away.
Being able to play again was more than enough reason to be grateful.
With lighter steps than when she’d come, Yeoul headed to the practice room.
Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows.
Professor Yoon stared in silence at a blank sheet of paper that read only one word in bold: Reference.
This letter of recommendation was unlike any other—it was something only a graduate of the Royal Academy of Music could write.
That meant it wasn’t given to just anyone.
I thought I’d made up my mind…
Nearly thirty years since graduating, she had finally decided to recommend someone.
But Yeoul had given up that near-miraculous opportunity for marriage.
It was pure, yes—but also foolishly naïve.
“Yeoul should be the one to go.”
For the past month, she had wrestled with the question: cancel the recommendation, or give it to someone else instead?
“I was going to give it today…”
Last night, she had finally decided to give the recommendation to Chaerin, Yeoul’s classmate.
Compared to Yeoul, Chaerin fell short—but not by much.
After all, she had been accepted into Korea National University of Arts, a place filled with only the best.
Her technique was dazzling, perfectly calculated—but unlike Yeoul’s, it didn’t move the heart.
“Right… what’s wrong is wrong.”
For the first time, she had chosen to compromise—to recommend not the best, but the next best.
And then, two hours ago, Yeoul had come, asking for the chance again.
At first, Professor Yoon had been stunned.
In four years as her mentor, Yeoul had never once demanded anything.
Seeing that quiet girl now speak with conviction had been surprising, even moving—though she hadn’t shown it.
Still, no matter how talented Yeoul was, a chance once abandoned could not be returned so easily.
Not even for a student she cherished deeply.
“The only way to be sure… is to see for myself.”
She rose from her chair and left the office, heading straight to the second floor where the private practice rooms were.
Peering through the small glass window of each door, she passed several rooms until she spotted Chaerin.
Even through the imperfect soundproofing, the melody spilled out flawlessly.
“Yes. Perfect. Not a single mistake.”
Every note, every rhythm, every pitch was precise.
Nodding several times in acknowledgment of Chaerin’s skill, she moved on.
Then she stopped before Yeoul’s room.
The moment she heard the sound flowing through the crack in the door, her expression hardened.
“…Ha.”
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped her.
“As expected… what’s wrong is wrong.”
She had almost made a terrible mistake—almost chosen compromise over conviction.
But the instant she heard Yeoul play, she knew.
If it wasn’t the best, it could never be second-best.
Yeoul’s music wasn’t something heard with the ears—it was carved into the heart.
“The recommendation belongs to Yeoul.”
Even if it never reached her hands and ended up discarded, that name on the letter would always be Kang Yeoul.
