Episode 1
I stared blankly at the piano.
Once upon a time, I played until white powder clung to my fingertips.
Now, I can hardly remember that such a time even existed.
I am a pianist with broken hands.
The cause: a drunk-driving accident.
Whatever grudge the man held, he even reversed after hitting me — crushing every nerve in my wrist.
When I awoke from a coma fifteen days later, I was in a hospital.
“The surgery went well,”
the doctor had said with a bright smile, believing he had saved my life.
“You’ll be able to live normally.”
And just like that, he sentenced me to death.
Live normally?
My “normal life” was the piano.
For years afterward, I devoted myself solely to rehabilitation — trembling fingers hammering the keys, desperate to believe that my brilliant days would somehow return.
And the result?
A piano instructor in a rural town.
No miracle ever came for me.
If only I’d injured my head instead…
Better that than to live as a half-pianist who can only use his left hand.
“Sir!”
I exhaled a weary sigh as the lesson room door opened.
“Finished cleaning up?”
“Yes.”
I hurriedly closed the piano lid.
Yoon Ah-young motioned for me to come out.
“Everyone’s waiting out front.”
<001>
Late evening, in front of the academy — a small bar.
“Your wrist hurts?”
I looked up from massaging it.
My aunt — and the piano academy’s director — Kang Mi-ryeo, spoke with concern.
“If it hurts, you should see a doctor.”
“I’m fine.”
“Might be tendinitis. Leave it untreated and it’ll become chronic. I had to quit piano because of that.”
If only mine were just tendinitis.
No one — not Mi-ryeo, not even my mother — knew that my wrist had been shattered into several pieces.
I never told them because… I lacked the courage.
My mother had spent her whole life supporting my dream — what face would she make if she knew it had all crumbled?
I couldn’t even face my own despair, let alone hers.
I sat quietly, drinking, when suddenly Yoon Ah-young’s gaze found me.
“Looks like we’re the only ones talking.”
“Haha, really?”
Gong Seok-hyun, one of the few male teachers at the academy, turned his eyes toward me.
“Mr. Kim, which university did you attend?”
“Why the sudden question?”
“Oh, nothing special. We were just talking about universities. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
He bowed politely — and somehow, I became the awkward one.
I almost stayed silent but, swept by the mood, I spoke.
“I went to Eastman.”
Their eyes blinked in disbelief, as if they’d misheard.
Then came the reaction I’d fully expected.
“No way!”
“You? From Eastman?”
“Where even is Eastman? Abroad somewhere?”
Park Man-seok, the academy’s bus driver, looked puzzled.
Gong Seok-hyun smiled knowingly.
“Yeah, it’s a music school in New York. One of the top in the world.”
“Wow, so you were a big shot, huh?”
Park Cheol-jung laughed innocently.
I almost confessed it was a joke — but just then, the TV in the bar filled with a familiar voice.
[We’re joined today by pianist Yang Se-jin! Welcome!]
[Hello, I’m pianist Yang Se-jin.]
Yang Se-jin.
No one in the world sounded more familiar to me.
I froze, forgetting even to respond, eyes fixed on the screen.
[You’ve just won the Tchaikovsky International Competition — the first Korean ever in the piano division, is that right?]
[Yes, that’s what they tell me. I didn’t even know until after I won.]
Yang Se-jin laughed shyly.
My vision blurred. I wiped my eyes.
“You really did it, huh…”
“Sir, are you a fan of Yang Se-jin too?” Yoon Ah-young asked, surprised.
I forgot to lie, simply nodded.
“We shared a dorm room.”
“With Yang Se-jin, the pianist?”
“Yes. He was kind and warm. We relied on each other a lot — being the only Koreans there.”
I smiled faintly at the screen.
Their expressions grew complicated, but I didn’t notice — I was too lost watching Se-jin’s smile.
I staggered into the alley.
It had been ages since I’d drunk this much.
Under a streetlight, I lit a cigarette — then froze at the sound of familiar voices from around the corner.
“Don’t you think he’s a bit arrogant?”
“Mr. Kim Do-yoon?”
“You can just tell, right? Never talks to us, acts all superior. Remember when I asked him to play once? You should’ve seen the look he gave me.”
Lies.
Or rather — distorted memory.
It was about a week after I’d joined.
Im Soo-hye had asked me to play in front of all the students — like some circus act.
I refused. That was all.
“And Eastman? What a joke. Total Ripley Syndrome.”
“What’s that?”
“When someone lies so much they start believing it themselves.”
I sighed against the wall.
“Maybe he thinks Eastman’s somewhere in the provinces.”
“Haha, no way. Still, he’s supposed to be a piano major.”
“Did you see his face when Yang Se-jin came on TV? Gave me chills — like he really believed they were friends.”
Im Soo-hye’s disgusted tone was followed by Gong Seok-hyun’s smug laughter.
So that’s how they saw me.
“You ever heard him play?”
“Only when he’s teaching.”
“He can’t even play Tempest.”
Gong Seok-hyun gasped.
Tempest — Beethoven’s Sonata No.17.
A storm trapped inside the keys — especially the third movement, a torrent of fury and sorrow.
Im Soo-hye snickered.
“His right hand trembles so bad it’s like he’s playing in the rain.”
“Haha, harsh!”
“That was my audition piece, you know. I didn’t think it was that hard.”
“Guess they don’t teach Tempest at Eastman.”
“Ha!”
I raked a hand through my hair.
I wanted to walk away — but I couldn’t deny it.
They were right.
I couldn’t play the Tempest anymore.
Once, I could play it blindfolded.
Now my ruined wrist could barely mimic its rhythm.
When their footsteps finally faded, I emerged from the alley.
Moments ago, watching Se-jin’s interview, my chest had swelled with pride.
Now, it felt hollow — as though something inside had collapsed.
I trudged back into the bar.
Yoon Ah-young looked up, puzzled.
“Where were you?”
“Convenience store. Needed something.”
“Aww, you should’ve brought us ice cream!”
Im Soo-hye laughed brightly.
I could only return a faint smile.
“Sorry, I should’ve.”
I kept drinking — again and again.
For Se-jin’s success.
For my useless right hand.
For everything I’d lost.
Even when Ah-young tried to speak to me, I ignored her and drank on.
Around midnight, Mi-ryeo stood.
“Drink moderately and head home.”
“Leaving already?”
“I’ve got an early lesson tomorrow.”
“…I should go too.”
I rose, swaying.
“Need a ride?” she offered kindly. “I called a driver. I’ll drop you off.”
“It’s fine.”
I bowed and left first.
Their gazes stabbed at my back, but I ignored them and stepped out into the cold air.
I walked for a long time — without direction.
Half-asleep, half-drunk, I nearly stumbled more than once before stopping at a familiar staircase.
[Cantabile Piano Academy]
Why here?
I stared up blankly.
Like a bee to a flower, my body must have followed instinct — drawn to the piano.
Maybe I should just go home.
But instead, I pulled out my wallet, tapped my access card.
Beep.
The door unlocked.
I staggered through the hallway into the lesson room.
Empty, silent — filled only with chill air.
“So quiet…”
I looked around, then sat before the piano.
I’d never played drunk before.
But tonight, I felt like I’d suffocate if I didn’t press a single key.
I laid my fingers on the keyboard.
Ding—
A clear note rang out.
Ding—
Another.
After a few scattered notes, I set both hands upon the keys.
“That guy can’t even play the Tempest.”
Im Soo-hye’s voice echoed like a curse.
“…I can’t play the Tempest, huh?”
I pressed down hard.
Like forcing a frozen car to start, my right hand creaked painfully.
“…Again.”
The unstable sound filled the room.
I clenched my teeth, hammering the keys — but the trembling wouldn’t stop.
Beethoven’s Tempest was breath-stealingly beautiful — but for me, it was agony.
At that moment, I hated the man who had run over my hands —
for not destroying them completely.
If only he’d left no trace of hope.
Tarararan— tarararan—
Crash!
The third movement collapsed into dissonance.
No good.
An invisible wall — immense, immovable — stood between me and the music.
Every time I placed my hands on the piano, that wall crushed me anew.
“Why…”
When your whole life is the piano —
and you lose the piano —
what remains of your life?
“Why won’t it work…?”
My anger finally spilled over as tears.
I wanted to play so desperately I could die —
and yet, playing made me feel like I would die.
Head bowed, I sat silently.
I knew it already — no matter how I begged this broken hand, I’d never play like before.
But I couldn’t let go either.
Unless someone killed me — or I cut this hand off myself —
I would keep sitting here, again and again, repeating the same despair.
After a long while, I stood.
But as I turned to leave, my right hand suddenly caught the piano cover.
“…What the…?”
Was I still drunk?
I tried again — and again, the hand grabbed the cover.
Startled, I shook it violently.
“Wh-what the hell?!”
Anyone watching would think a cockroach had crawled onto my palm.
Panicking, I started to flee —
Slap!
My right hand struck my cheek.
I froze, speechless.
Had… my own hand just hit me?
Before I could react, the hand reached out, opened the piano score, and grabbed a pencil.
Then, scrawled across the page:
[You play like shit.]
Was that… aimed at me?
Another line appeared:
[Sit down.]
The pencil dropped with a clack.
Half-dazed, I sat again before the piano.
It all felt like a dream.
My right hand moved on its own, resting on the keys —
then pressed lightly, like signaling me.
Tarararan—! Tarararan—!
Just from those eight notes, I understood what it wanted.
I stared at it, entranced.
“You want me to play Tempest again?”
