Hyunseung, just as he had vowed during his trip to Japan, decided to release a song conveying his personal story without obsessing over commercial appeal.
“Wait, don’t tell me you’re planning…?”
Manager Kim squinted suspiciously.
“You’re not about to ignore all those efficient, hit-churning singers and resurrect some has-been, right?”
Jung Arin suddenly interjected:
“Manager Kim, so I was… a has-been, too?”
“Uh, that’s not what I meant—”
“But at least I ended up ‘recycled’ successfully, right?”
“Yes, yes, you’ve been fully reborn…”
Caught forgetting Arin’s presence, Manager Kim scratched his head, looking sheepish. Meanwhile:
“Right now, I’m thinking maybe Moon Beom-jae, Yoon Ha-jae, and Oh Do-hyeon…”
Hyunseung casually listed out a few names. Each one belonged to LS’s most renowned vocalists.
“That’s an impressive lineup. What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing’s set in stone; I’m just sketching out ideas.”
They were the kind of vocalists any composer would drool over. And yet Manager Kim didn’t think Hyunseung’s proposal sounded unrealistic or impossible.
If it’s Hyunseung…
Lately, Hyunseung’s name popped up constantly, both in the company and throughout the industry, as a rising composer. Though still labeled a “rookie,” he’d already produced two major hits that had drastically extended artists’ careers.
He’s hardly lacking in credibility.
Additionally, if you considered Seo Jini’s achievements—escaping her slump thanks to his work and successfully breaking into Japan—no one would necessarily reject Hyunseung just because he was “new.”
Above all, when artists agreed to feature on a track, it often worked like a give-and-take favor, promising future collaborations—so some might happily oblige.
The tricky part was that composers’ personal albums rarely succeeded. The higher-ups might veto it straight away.
“I doubt getting approval will be easy this time.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s tough for a composer’s solo album to succeed…”
Hyunseung narrowed his eyes.
“You’re saying it’s tough to succeed?”
“Uh… yes?”
“You’re worried I might fail?”
He spoke as though he never even considered the possibility of failure.
“I don’t do losing battles,” he added.
Though he intended to pour his heart into this non-commercial project, he never planned to fail.
“Trust me—none of my songs will give you reason to worry about success or failure in the future.”
“Huh?”
“My songs will succeed, all of them—no exceptions. The only question is… how big a success they’ll be.”
Considering everything he’d accomplished so far, it was hard to dispute him.
“Ugh… fine.”
Manager Kim waved a hand in resignation.
“So you’re serious about this?”
“Yes, I am.”
“All right. I’ll handle it.”
“Are you sure?”
Manager Kim glanced at the watch on his wrist.
“You told me to work hard, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll pry that approval out of them somehow.”
He felt relieved that Hyunseung at least had a list of strong vocalists in mind, then stood up. After all, even with only two artists, Hyunseung had orchestrated extremely successful comebacks before.
“Let’s eat. You bought me this watch, so I’ll treat you at the cafeteria.”
“That hardly makes us even.”
“I’d love to go out for dinner, but I have a meeting tonight…”
He paused.
“How about tomorrow night, then?”
Hyunseung shook his head.
“I can’t tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I have to go look after the old man.”
Manager Kim blinked in surprise.
“Old man? You doing volunteer work or something?”
“Huh? Me? No.”
Hyunseung explained,
“I’m going to play Go with Master Lee Du-seok.”
“So that’s the ‘old man’ you’re looking after…?”
“He’s been a bit lonely lately.”
With that, Hyunseung called out to Jung Arin—“What’re you doing? Let’s go eat”—and walked out, Arin trotting behind him like a baby chick.
“Sheesh…”
Left alone, Manager Kim gave a hollow laugh.
He’s impossible to figure out…
No one else in showbiz would call the legendary Lee Du-seok “Old Man.” Yet here was Hyunseung, probably the only one who did so.
* * *
“Long time no see, sir.”
Upon arriving at Lee Du-seok’s house, Hyunseung found the older man already at the door to greet him.
“You must be tired, coming all this way. The weather’s lovely; how about we sit outside for a match?”
Watching them walk away, the butler looked shocked. He’d been with Lee Du-seok for a long time, priding himself on knowing his character. Though Mr. Lee was easygoing and hated formalities, he was never quick to become close with anyone. In his prime, his fiery temper scared people away. Even after retirement, he’d become more reclusive, so most who showed up with gifts were turned away at the door.
“I already prepared everything.”
They headed to a little open pavilion on the grounds, where they set up the Go board between them.
“I won’t lose as easily this time,” said Hyunseung.
“Ah, so you’re still toying with your elders,” joked the old man.
They both smiled, sorting their stones. This time, Lee Du-seok took black, and Hyunseung took white. The game began.
Clack, clack.
Moves followed—Outer corner, double rank, huaguo, unformed shape, net capturing, large enclosure…
“Whoops! I’ve been trapped!”
Lee Du-seok’s hand hovered indecisively.
“Yeah, I’m stuck.”
Shaking his head, he mumbled, and Hyunseung asked,
“Are you conceding?”
“There’s gotta be a way out.”
“Doesn’t look like it to me.”
“When that happens,” Lee Du-seok said, laying his stone down, “you put the stones aside and look at the bigger picture.”
He shifted his gaze to the garden.
“Why fuss over a tiny board when there’s a wide world out here?”
“There’s a moral to that,” Hyunseung observed.
“Yes, there is. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I used to be like that—kept viewing ‘life’ as a battle to win or lose.”
He nodded toward the board.
“I like Go because it resembles life—some stones capture, some get captured. I used to think living meant winning and losing fights. I thought that was all that mattered.”
Hyunseung narrowed his eyes.
“But I sense you no longer think that’s everything.”
“Right—it wasn’t. Looking back, life is hardly about winning or losing.”
“Could you elaborate?”
“Even if you win the board, building big territory and beating everyone, it might not necessarily be an honorable game. And if you compare it to the world outside the board… it’s just a small matter.”
Hyunseung placed another stone.
Clack.
He mused. It sounded like Mr. Lee was likening the entire entertainment industry or broadcast world to the small confines of a Go board. Someone like him would have fought countless battles there. But as he said, in the broader scheme of life, how big a deal was it, really?
“So what should one do?” Hyunseung asked for advice.
“Well, my perspective as an old man may not be the answer, but…” He folded his arms, staring down at the board.
“In the end, it’s all about making a living, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I assume you’re not trying to hog everything for yourself.”
“Definitely not.”
Lee Du-seok gave a wry grin.
“Then maybe you should get in the habit of pausing, putting your stones aside, and looking around. When you rush forward blindly, you miss out on the flowers blooming by the roadside.”
The words resonated strongly with Hyunseung. If only I’d done that in my past life… he thought.
At that point, Lee Du-seok asked,
“What do you think is lacking in my style of Go?”
Hyunseung hesitated, then answered:
“You pass up easy captures and go for detours—your play feels too soft and gentle.”
Lee Du-seok nodded.
“But sometimes, if I follow that slow path, I end up creating a beautiful record—like a work of art in black and white.”
He looked up at Hyunseung.
“Then, as a lesser player, mind if I speak frankly about your style?”
“By all means.”
Silence for a moment.
“It’s sharp, edgy, and you seem very angry. Sometimes you look awfully impatient.”
“Really?”
“You try to hide it, but whenever you go in for a kill—like a wolf chasing sheep—it’s obvious. Believe me, living is not about winning or losing.”
“Then what do you call it?”
Toying with the Go stone in his hand, Lee Du-seok chuckled.
“In my opinion… living is simply living.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Life is just life, that’s all.”
With an air of serenity, he added,
“So loosen up a bit.”
“Just living, huh…?”
It made sense to Hyunseung. Why had he always been so tense, anxious, urgent? He nodded.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Another hush fell.
Clack, clack.
Lee Du-seok fiddled with a stone.
“That’s all there is to it—life is just living. People fuss and fight to live comfortably, but at heart, it’s about being happy, right?”
He locked eyes with Hyunseung.
“You seem troubled, but when you are, set aside the board, breathe, and find your calm.”
Hyunseung cut in,
“I appreciate your insight, sir, but…”
“Yes?”
“My countdown clock is almost done.”
At that, Lee Du-seok clicked his tongue.
“You’re hopeless.”
“Indeed, I am.”
“Didn’t think you’d be this stubborn.”
“No, sir, not budging at all.”
They both snickered.
“If it’s not about winning or losing, isn’t that cheating?” Hyunseung teased.
“Everyone wants to win sometimes,” Lee Du-seok returned, amused.
“So cheating is fine?”
“If it gets you a win, why not break a few rules? Do I have to spell everything out for you? You’re such a frustrating kid…!”
Hyunseung realized he wanted to visit more often. He found these Go matches with Lee Du-seok profoundly meaningful and fun.
Afterward, Hyunseung returned to his studio, lights off except for one desk lamp, head resting on the console. Next to him were piles of crushed high-caffeine energy drink cans.
Damn…
He’d been struggling for ages.
Why won’t anything come together…?
He had vowed to pour out his personal story into this new solo album, unconcerned with commercial success. He wanted to reflect on all he’d gone through in his past life. But he had so much to say, he wasn’t sure where to begin. By the time dawn broke, he still hadn’t formed the central melody. The numerous track sections remained empty, as he’d kept drafting and discarding them.
Now that I think of it…
All the songs he’d ever written—both in his previous life and recently—were “easy-listening hits” built around “money codes.” He had never tried crafting a track that carried a real message, let alone one that told his own story. So feeling stuck was understandable.
“Hmm.”
He’d decided the album’s theme would be his past life as a whole, with each track’s progression shifting its perspective and emotion. Early tracks would capture the excitement of a young composer newly discovering success, swimming in unimaginable royalty checks, pulling all-nighters while high on praise from everyone. Proud, maybe even arrogant, but sweetly so.
Then, from the mid-section on, the plan was to delve into the brutal boredom and stagnation that crept in after success, the mechanical production of hook songs, and the indescribable feelings that came from turning one’s beloved hobby into a tedious job.
“Finally…”
The album’s last theme would be regret. Because at the end of his past life, Hyunseung had been consumed by regret.
He regretted everything.
Why had he spoken so harshly, acted so viciously, turned so many people away? In hindsight, he hadn’t been “good” to anyone—fans, coworkers, family. He was always tense, always in a hurry.
He never committed some big crime worthy of public disgrace—no draft-dodging, DUIs, assaults, or drug charges. But he’d made everyone hate him, wishing for his downfall. Because of that, he could no longer compose. Everyone turned their backs. His father passed away alone in a hospital bed.
He remembered it: how his father’s entire life boiled down to a small moving box containing battered clothes… and a stack of Hyunseung’s tattered sheet music, edges worn thin. Unable to hear, his father must have stared at those scores again and again, imagining the melodies he couldn’t recall.
“Okay, let’s try again.”
Hyunseung straightened in his seat.
“Start with the toughest track—the title song…”
To break free from creative agony, he needed patience and perseverance. Methodically, though slowly, he began assembling the title track precisely as he wanted.
Click.
Unlike most albums, he wanted the title song as the final track, carrying the theme of the regret he felt near life’s end—his father, in particular. As he worked, he asked himself: What do I regret most? Hurting people, losing popularity? No. He regretted his father the most: those well-worn, ragged pages. The lonely time his father spent. The sorrow of a father he’d pushed away.
Click, click.
He laid a subdued piano intro as the foundation. Then tried layering instruments over it.
Click, click.
A rough melody jabbed at his ears. But he pressed on, pouring his pent-up emotions into each section.
“Again.”
He forgot to eat or sleep, obsessing over the track. He’d finish a version of the title song, then delete it again and again.
“Hmm, that was close…”
He’d keep rewriting until he extracted the elusive melody from his mind, no matter how painful the process. Eventually…
Hyunseung replayed the umpteenth version of the title track he’d just finished.
Thump.
It began with a dark, night-walking atmosphere: piano, a heavy contrabass line—paradoxically both intense and calm, brimming with the regrets of his old life. Then, as it ended, rather than a predictable somber fade-out, a sudden shift brought a bright, hopeful flourish, representing his “return in time”—a miracle that let him fix everything he’d done wrong.
“Yes… got it.”
In just four minutes, he’d poured in everything he wanted to say: his rise, his fall, the regrets he realized too late, and the longing to do it over. It felt perfect for his title song.
Now all that remained was choosing a name.
“Hmm.”
He wanted a title reflecting regret over his life as a whole, especially “Father,” yet none of the placeholders—“Dear Father,” etc.—felt right. He typed and erased several. Finally, he snapped his fingers and typed a title into the file name.
Satisfied, he saved it, then stopped his timer.
37 hours, 32 minutes, 8 seconds…
That was how long it had taken to complete a single track—the album’s title song.
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