The office was bustling.
Keys clacked away on keyboards from all corners, telephones were picked up and slammed down, and here and there, voices shouted urgently or rose in frustration, creating a chaotic din.
“Hmph—”
At the center of this noisy scene sat Gye Jin-seong, a sixth-year reporter in the entertainment section. Despite the surrounding uproar, he kept calm and chewed on the end of a pen, lost in thought.
The Entertainment Desk.
Most people regard the entertainment section as the graveyard of journalism. The workload isn’t necessarily less intense than other departments, but the public’s perception is pretty dire. The so-called “giregi” (a derogatory term for reporters, especially those seen as sensationalist) largely hail from the entertainment desk.
That’s not the only headache: an entertainment reporter often has to maintain relationships with so-called “sources” and “insiders,” which means countless drinking sessions. There’s even a saying that “a reporter’s tolerance equals his information.” Worse yet, once you get placed on the entertainment desk, your career path for promotion more or less evaporates.
Why? Because if you aim for a position like editor-in-chief or editorial writer, you need to be in politics or general news.
Hardly anyone volunteering for the entertainment beat actually wanted to chase celebrities around or publish recaps of variety shows after finishing the day’s newscasts, let alone write shallow clickbait about bikini photo shoots and face the “giregi” slur.
But there was one person who did want that job: Gye Jin-seong.
He was thriving at the entertainment desk precisely because he’d chosen it freely. He had wanted to be the first to catch developments in the entertainment world. For years he consumed everything: variety shows, celebrity news, web articles, every community post.
When he became an adult— well, at least the kind of adult who sets out his own dinner and does his own dishes— he resolved that if he ever became an entertainment reporter, he’d deliver breaking news to those hungry for the latest gossip, just like he used to be.
And now, Gye Jin-seong indeed was an entertainment reporter. Nicknamed “Gae-Jinsang” (roughly “Dog-Annoyance”), “Poongsange,” “Pitiless,” he’d earned all sorts of epithets that ironically bolstered his confidence as a tough entertainment journalist.
“This is driving me crazy…”
He was deep in worry.
“Why can’t I find any info on this guy, no matter how hard I dig…?”
He was talking about a mystery composer he’d been researching.
HS.
This year, he’d appeared like a comet, breathing new life into the fading star Seo Jini, granting her a second heyday, and—so it was claimed—turning the “washout” trainee Jung Arin into a star.
A blazing up-and-coming hit-maker.
And he apparently had enough nerve to go head-to-head in the charts with none other than Jayble, widely considered the top figure in the industry.
If their release dates had just happened to collide, Gye Jin-seong might have shrugged and said, “Bad luck for that kid,” and moved on. But no—HS had deliberately postponed his own album just so he could challenge Jayble’s release date. That piqued his interest. He listened to all of HS’s music and found it… good. Good enough not to lose against Jayble’s album.
And his journalistic instincts—vague though “instincts” may be—had never betrayed him when it came to big scoops. That sense kept whispering: Maybe HS might actually beat Jayble. If I keep digging, if I can land an interview or build a relationship—there might be a golden opportunity.
But so far… nothing. The data on HS was far too sparse.
- He’s supposedly super into “mu-tech” (buying and selling radishes for speculative profit).
- He practices “dolphin sleeping”—sleeping in micro-bursts, reminiscent of how dolphins rest one hemisphere of the brain at a time.
- He’s said to be on first-name terms with the LS Entertainment CEO, who’s known for strict boundaries.
- He apparently enjoys boat fishing on some remote island.
- He’s rumored to be extremely handsome.
That was it. All gleaned from the “source” he’d cultivated at LS Entertainment. Ridiculous tidbits.
Who on earth invests in radishes for profit, as if that’s a stock or real estate transaction? That was the first bit of “information,” which he immediately crossed out in red pen. Next: “dolphin sleeping”? Dolphins are said to do something like a five-minute left-brain/right-brain cycle, but it’s insane to claim that. Even historical figures like Marie Curie or Napoleon probably hadn’t literally lived that way.
And the CEO of LS Entertainment was known in the industry for strict “public-private separation.” He wouldn’t buddy up so casually with some rookie composer who’d only churned out a few hits. Obviously bogus.
“Could it at least be true that he’s a good-looking guy who fishes on an island…?”
Maybe #4 (“island boat fishing”) and #5 (“unbelievably handsome”) had some credibility.
“Hmm…”
He gave up.
“I’m heading out on assignment.”
He sprang from his seat.
Tap—
As he rose, his mouse bumped, turning off the screensaver. On the now-visible desktop was his personal motto:
“No one who merely sits around can change the world.”
He believed in that. When in doubt, go out in person.
Hyunseung’s father, Min Jun-seok, felt especially sleepy today.
The previous night, he’d stayed up reading article after article, plus their comments, about his son’s album release. Complete strangers wrote barbed remarks. He worried whether such words might wound his boy.
I’m worried…
He read and re-read them until dawn, finally dozing off when morning had nearly broken. Now, with the sun shining through the window, it was near midday.
Sleeping in at my age…
He hurried to the living room—and there, on the table, lay a CD.
『告解聖事』 (Confession)
That was the title of his son’s first album.
He recalled hearing that they wouldn’t officially distribute physical CDs but would press a small batch for commemorative purposes. So maybe Hyunseung had just brought one home.
That rascal…
He couldn’t hear the melody, but from the cover design alone, it looked nicely done: a deep black background with luminous stars glimmering in a night sky, plus a single shooting star. The words “告解聖事” were stamped in shiny silver, engraved on the black. Tidy and stylish.
Proud of him.
Min Jun-seok had been so wrapped up in scraping by that he never realized his son was truly into music. He never once took a proper look at what Hyunseung was doing under the excuse of being too busy.
But overnight, that “idle, post-military kid” had become a composer and—now, unbelievably—had put out his own album. It still felt unreal.
He opened the jewel case, took out the small lyric booklet. He found lyrics and sheet music for each track.
He recalled:
“—Dad, you’re looking at my sheet music?” (They are signing to each other)
“—Just wanted to see if I might understand a bit from it.”
Yes, it seemed Hyunseung had inserted the scores as a gesture of thoughtfulness, a father who couldn’t hear but might glean some idea from reading. Min Jun-seok’s chest tightened at such attention.
So my “taciturn” son can show real care, he thought.
He eyed the disc. I can’t hear anyway… but for some reason, his hand reached for it.
Nobody’s home, he realized. Hyuna was at school, Hyunseung at the office. Perhaps they’d worry if they saw him do this. But he wanted to “listen,” at least in pretense.
In his earliest childhood, he’d enjoyed music—before that illness robbed him of hearing. He had vague memories of humming songs. Now he hardly remembered the exact melodies. But still, a faint longing.
Click—
He pressed the button on the audio player next to the TV stand, slipped in the album CD, and watched the display light up with track numbers.
Is it playing now…?
He turned the volume dial upward. Silence. His world stayed quiet. He guessed the music was indeed playing.
Swallowing hard, he opened the lyric booklet, hoping by reading the words or glimpsing the sheet music he might sense the track’s “mood.”
He paused at the track list, eyes on the title track. The song name gave him pause, sending his heart pounding.
Could this be for me…? he wondered. If so, it might be heartbreakingly sad. The thought tightened his chest.
Thump, thump—
His heart drummed.
What if Hyunseung wrote it about me…? He pressed a trembling hand to the page and began reading the lyrics.
“It’s such a loud, raucous world,
But I imagine yours is always quiet.”
His suspicion became certainty: This was definitely for him.
“Sometimes I even thought it was a relief.
On days I wanted to sob,
I hid under blankets and cried all I wanted.”
His son must have poured out these words in an all-nighter. So he read each line slowly, not skipping a word.
“Maybe you never knew—
Yes, I resented you.
Even though it was all the world’s fault, really.”
His vision blurred; the text grew hazy. Tears pooled in his wrinkled eyes.
“On those nights, we vowed to live on.
Nights as quiet as you.
I heard you…”
He couldn’t bear it. He recalled the night he’d carried back a load of briquettes from the factory, thinking monstrous thoughts about “ending it all.” The night he had wept silently, repeating “I’m sorry” as he looked at his sleeping children.
“Your sobbing voice, heartbreakingly quiet.
I pretended not to notice.
Turned away, closed my eyes, and faked sleep.”
So the boy had always known. He’d been so grown-up, letting him hide it.
“I should have said something, even though I knew you wouldn’t hear.
I should have come and said sorry, I’m sorry…”
He groped blindly around, tears flooding. He read on:
“Let’s live, keep living.
Cry less if we can,
And try to smile more.
Let’s live, you and me…”
He wanted so desperately to hear it. He raised the volume more, though he couldn’t hear a note. All he felt was the fierce vibration thrumming the speaker, making his heart pound. Then tears he’d held back burst free.
He wept, a quiet, sorrowful sound like icebergs melting. Alone in front of the speakers, he cried his heart out.
The track was titled “Dear My Beethoven.”
That is, “To my dear Beethoven.”
In this noisy, clamorous world— someone living in silent deafness.
Min Jun-seok wept and wept like a child.
Yet his world stayed silent.
Meanwhile:
“Oppa, do you think Dad’ll like it?”
“Probably?”
Hyunseung was heading home with Hyuna after her short day at school, carrying groceries for dinner.
“Yes! Today’s going to be great!”
As they exited the elevator on their floor:
Boom… Boom… Boom…!
The second the doors slid open, a heavy bass thud rattled them.
“What the—? Our neighbor nuts or something? Who blasts music like that?”
Hyuna frowned. Hyunseung answered:
“Doesn’t seem like it’s coming from next door.”
“Huh?”
“It’s from our place.”
Nobody was home except Dad.
“Wait, you’re saying Dad is listening to music?”
He bit his lip:
“So it seems.”
“Dad… listening to music…?” Hyuna mumbled in disbelief.
She tapped in the door code.
“What on earth—?”
They opened the door, and Hyuna’s eyes went wide. Indeed, music was blaring from inside their home.
“Dad! Dad—!”
Hyuna pressed her palms to her ears, wincing at the booming noise. Astoundingly, the culprit was their father, with the volume cranked so high the walls shook.
“Dad’s crying…?”
He was wailing, heartbreakingly. A raw, agonizing sob. Hyuna teared up too.
“D-Dad, what’s wrong?” She tried to wipe her eyes:
“Dad…why are you crying?”
Memory overlapped with their childhood. Back then, too, they’d pretended not to notice. Hyunseung forced a casual note:
“Adults cry sometimes.”
It was sad but also a relief. He’s alive. Struggling on, battered, and yet…
He felt a bittersweet wave of gratitude: We’re living like this—
“When grown-ups cry,” Hyunseung said, “kids should just pretend they don’t see it
It was contradictory. Heart-wrenching sadness but also overwhelming gratitude.
Yes, that’s how it felt.
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