CHAPTER 29
“When did you learn to do that?”
When Jo Yoon-jae was little and someone asked him that, he would answer back instead.
“Why can’t you?”
Then the kid who had asked would turn away with an annoyed look. Yoon-jae would just stand there, confused, not understanding what part of his answer had upset them.
Because he truly meant it.
It was so easy for him. Why did everyone else struggle so much with it?
“That’s stupid.”
When he said that out loud once, his mother smiled proudly and said,
“That’s because our Yoon-jae is a genius.”
“A genius?”
“Yes. You’re different from those other kids.”
I see. So I couldn’t understand them because I was a genius.
Once he found that answer, he felt at ease.
Competitions, gifted classes, and even a few TV shows looking for prodigies. Everywhere he went, adults adored him.
People said he had talent. Every time he performed, they gasped in admiration.
At some point, that reaction became normal.
Following sheet music exactly as written wasn’t hard for him. He had won so many competitions that he had lost count.
But when did it start?
He began to feel suffocated.
When applying to Korea University’s music department, he secretly applied to the composition department instead of piano. It was the first act of rebellion in Jo Yoon-jae’s life.
Only after the acceptance results were out did his mother realize. At first, she was furious. But when congratulatory messages poured in about his admission to Korea University’s music department, she seemed to forget about it.
And so, Jo Yoon-jae stepped into composition.
The freedom, so different from before, was appealing. But at some point, criticism began to follow him.
— Perfectionist.
— Boring.
— Not creative enough.
Creation had no fixed path.
Until now, he had always just followed what others set for him. But in composition, they kept telling him to express himself.
What does that even mean?
Yoon-jae grumbled inwardly but kept smiling brightly on the outside.
To him, the music he brought in was perfect. He genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was.
Filled with only questions, he became a second-year.
One day, Professor Jung Tae-sung casually mentioned,
“A transfer student joined recently. Her ears seem as good as yours, Yoon-jae.”
His exceptional ear was one of his prides. Maybe not in composition, but in ear training, no one could beat him.
Suppressing the emotion rising inside him, he replied calmly,
“Oh, really? I’m looking forward to it.”
Not long after, he met her.
Yoon Seol.
A name that was hard to forget, and a girl who wore an indifferent expression no matter what.
Moon Ah-rin was always stuck to her side, as if guarding her. Just seeing her stick with that sly girl was enough to guess what kind of person she was.
“Yoon-jae! Come up and give us a demonstration.”
At Jung Tae-sung’s call, he walked to the front of the classroom. After showing all his arrangements, the students looked at him with awe and admiration.
See? The wall of the composition department is high.
Feeling smug, he glanced at Yoon Seol.
“…What.”
That look.
Her eyes barely wavered. She looked completely unimpressed.
His pride shattered instantly.
So you’re a genius too, huh?
Sure enough, Jung Tae-sung called Yoon Seol next. Yoon-jae watched, determined to see how good she really was.
♩♪♩♬
The moment he heard her music, he had to admit it.
She’s a genius.
Suddenly, anxiety surged.
What if she was the real genius, and he was just an average person pretending to be one?
That couldn’t be.
Then what makes me different from everyone else?
He had always believed he was a genius. If he wasn’t, then what was he? Just a weirdo?
He couldn’t accept that.
He didn’t want to.
Ignoring the hostility rising inside him, Yoon-jae smiled as usual.
“I’m Jo Yoon-jae. I think we’ll be seeing each other often. I figured I’d introduce myself in advance.”
That was his fragile pride.
At least on the surface, he would act relaxed.
Yoon Seol had looked puzzled, but Yoon-jae felt certain.
He would see her again in the scholarship group.
And sure enough.
The moment he entered the professor’s office and saw Yoon Seol there, he thought, Of course.
When they agreed to present a trilogy of original compositions, something sparked inside him.
This time, he had to do well, no matter what.
Whether she knew it or not, Yoon Seol looked completely calm.
“Which one do you want? I’m fine with anything.”
“Death.”
She even chose “Death,” the most difficult theme, without hesitation.
Was she stupid?
If she picked such a disadvantageous topic and failed, she would fall behind in the scholarship group. She had to stand out to the sponsors if she wanted opportunities after graduation.
Well, good for me, I guess.
Even thinking that, he couldn’t shake his doubts. So as soon as they left the office, he tested her.
“By the way, that was unexpected. You are choosing Death.”
After explaining why Death was difficult, Yoon Seol let out a small laugh.
The way her expression changed when she smiled made his eyes widen without him realizing.
As if sensing what he was thinking, she continued.
“Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean what you said was funny. It’s just…”
She paused briefly.
“In that sense, I think I chose well.”
Death.
She said she chose it well.
Those words sent chills down his spine.
There was certainty in her voice. Her tone was low and steady. Her eyes didn’t waver.
She seemed like a solid fortress—but beyond it, he caught a glimpse of emptiness.
What had she experienced?
What kind of things had she gone through to say, at this age, that she knew death?
He couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Jo Yoon-jae had sharp eyes as well as sharp ears. He was usually good at reading people.
But Yoon Seol was unlike anyone he had ever met.
“I’ll go first. See you.”
While he was lost in thought, Yoon Seol slipped past him.
As he watched her back, many emotions boiled inside him.
Curiosity. Wariness. And a bit of jealousy.
Experience often becomes nourishment for music.
For years, Yoon-jae had only imitated “understanding.” Through books, analysis, and quotations.
But Yoon Seol simply knew.
He knew how great an asset that was. Even knowing the pain that came with it, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of envy.
He lifted the corners of his lips again to hide his feelings.
Still… I’m looking forward to it.
What kind of death would Yoon Seol paint?
***
Knock, knock.
Jung Tae-sung turned his head at the sudden sound.
“Who is it?”
There was no answer.
Ah, maybe the scholarship students?
Since they had just left, maybe they forgot something or had something else to say.
He walked toward the door and opened it casually.
“Did you forget something—huh?”
His expression changed in surprise when he saw who it was.
“Ah-rin? What brings you here?”
Moon Ah-rin looked up at him with pitiful eyes.
“Professor. I’m sorry for coming without notice. Did Seol leave already?”
“Hm? Yoon Seol? She left a little while ago.”
“Really?”
Moon Ah-rin looked as if she might burst into tears.
“I told her I’d wait for her… and she just left without saying anything…”
It sounded as if Yoon Seol had deliberately abandoned her.
That doesn’t seem like something Yoon Seol would do…
Jung Tae-sung tilted his head but tried to comfort her.
“Oh dear. Really? Maybe you just missed each other. Why don’t you call her?”
“No. She’s probably already left campus.”
Moon Ah-rin murmured sadly. Her eyes were slightly red. Anyone would feel the urge to comfort her.
“Professor.”
Just as Jung Tae-sung was feeling awkward, Moon Ah-rin suddenly lifted her head and asked carefully,
“Did you call Seol in today because of the scholarship?”
