There was a man. Every day at dawn, the man would trudge down a steep slope, and at dusk he’d climb back up again. It was a grueling commute, but for those living in closely packed shanties and rundown hillside houses—often called “moon villages” or “tin-roof towns”—it was just part of everyday life.
Tap, tap—
In the middle of his climb, the man came to a halt. He slowly turned, gazing down the slope behind him. An expanse of ramshackle row houses sprawled out below—houses that looked about ready to collapse at any moment. One striking detail: there were quite a number of red neon crosses glowing in the dark.
He’d once had a thought.
Shortly after he’d been all but forced to move to this neighborhood—only a few days in—he found himself panting for breath, pausing on the slope to look back at that sea of rooftops. Just how many churches could one place possibly have?
By now, though, he understood. He himself, a nonbeliever, found himself invoking the name of God nearly every day. People who are struggling need someone to lean on. In a place like this, it’s natural that churches abound. So it went.
So the man prayed:
If You truly exist, please step in, just a little, and keep me from giving up on this dream stowed deep inside me. If You would, I swear I’ll believe in You. If by chance I ever start earning good money, I’ll tithe as generously as I can.
A short, and admittedly not very devout prayer. Then he carried on. The man’s long-held dream had been to become a writer. He’d submitted manuscripts to publishers time and again, failing repeatedly. After so many rejections, he had, by now, become the head of a household.
Now he had responsibilities.
Those responsibilities had, ironically, robbed him of the freedom to dream—some might call it an excuse, but that was reality. Children grow by the day, and his wife was sick.
She was a fragile woman who coughed incessantly—eventually diagnosed with asthma. She was the kind of wife who used to say, “I’ll handle the money, so just chase your dream,” but ended up wearing herself down with grueling work.
So to chase his dream further felt like madness.
He’d finished a manuscript and submitted it for what he called the “last time” to a newspaper. If that didn’t pan out, he’d decided once and for all to abandon his dream. Had his wife not talked him into it, he wouldn’t even have submitted it in the first place.
In truth, giving up on a dream is simpler than it sounds; anyone can do it. Don’t most people live that way—pursuing a grand, far-fetched dream, only to settle for something “practical,” feeding themselves meaningless platitudes?
Anyway, the biggest meaning left in his life was his family. And that was enough.
“Hey, I’m home.”
“You’re back already?”
“Daddy, look at this!”
Stepping inside, his wife and daughter greeted him.
“How’re you feeling today?” he asked his wife.
“Better, I think,” she said.
She always insisted she felt fine, no matter what doctors said. Meanwhile, his daughter tugged at his sleeve, wanting his attention.
“Dad, I got a 100 on my spelling quiz!”
Smiling, he set aside the old can of beer he’d saved in the fridge, then asked,
“Really? Let’s see your perfect score quiz!”
The girl started rattling off the story of how she confused “dae” and “dwae” but managed, after much deliberation, to choose the right form, securing full marks.
This was enough.
He’d already forced too many compromises onto his daughter. He didn’t want her to learn from him how to abandon her dreams. If his own dream had to die for that, so be it.
“You’re amazing,” he told her.
His wife chimed in, “Sweetie, time to wash up.”
“What? Already?”
“Yup, gotta get ready for bed.”
“Aww…”
She seemed disappointed, wanting more time to chat or play with him. But as he took in the sight of them—mother and daughter—he said:
“Well, you can always come hang out with me after your bath.”
“For real?”
“Sure thing. Hop to it.”
“Yay!”
She bustled off to the bathroom, quickly shedding her clothes, prompting his wife to follow, grumbling, “Honestly, the mess…” She went to pick up the scattered clothes and closed the door. The man opened his can of beer and powered on his laptop.
He was just back from hours of menial labor at a warehouse that started before daybreak. The 15- or 20-minute slot while his daughter bathed was like precious free time. He’d once have spent it writing, but now that he’d renounced his dream, the laptop had a new purpose.
He never again launched his word-processing software. He’d open the Internet, browse the day’s top headlines, cursing politicians like everybody else. So it went—like an ordinary person.
Yes, living like this.
He scrolled around, landing on the entertainment news and seeing the top headline. He clicked out of reflex, not because he truly cared, but because ordinary folks are curious about the latest gossip.
[Composer HS’s first-ever interview: “A career-staking duel with Jayble?”]
He recognized Jayble. Everyone did—he was that famous. It had to be some noisy marketing ploy, right? Clicking in, the article turned out to be typical trashy hype. A bit more scrolling at random, plus a peek at the comments:
⤷ “Challenging the god-tier Jayble to a chart war? Good luck. R.I.P. HS.”
⤷ “Jayble said to donate the loser’s money, not do a career bet. Read properly.”
⤷ “Dude’s come off a few hits and is super cocky, guess he’s about to get wrecked.”
⤷ “Actually I tried listening and got hooked. I found myself replaying it nonstop. The music’s legit.”
⤷ “The track is insane, every single track is a different vibe. He might actually be a genius.”
⤷ “But challenging Jayble to a retirement match is going too far. He’s a legendary senior.”
⤷ “Maybe he’s just that confident? If the music’s as good as people say, what’s wrong with that?”
He clicked out. Up-and-coming newcomer piggybacking on a top star for clout—he’d get slammed, obviously. Or so the man had assumed. But the net reaction seemed more mixed, stoking curiosity.
From the bathroom, his daughter’s playful squeal: “Kyaaa!” followed by the gentle scolding of his wife. She was soaping the child’s hair, presumably. Which meant he still had a few free minutes.
“What’s the big deal if I check out his track?” he muttered.
Moments later, he’d discovered HS was more famous than he thought—a rocketlike presence who’d penned the comeback hits for singers Seo Jini and Jung Arin. He must be raking in enormous royalties already. Why such an outlandish stunt, then?
“Huh,” he thought, scanning the feats of that composer. He realized he was now enjoying rummaging through the typical net hype, feeling oddly “ordinary.”
“Dear My Beethoven.”
He found the track in a few clicks. Lacking any musical knowledge, the title alone struck a chord—“To my dear Beethoven.” Intrigued, he clicked play.
Tap–
Soft piano notes flowed through the speakers: subdued, yet carrying a pulsing momentum. He wasn’t well versed in music, but it felt comforting—like someone was patting him on the back, pouring him a drink, telling him it’s all right. You’ve done well. You’ve done so well. A warm solace overcame him.
“We whispered ‘Let’s live on’ that night,
…the night,
…quiet as you,
…like your hush, so let’s live on, let’s survive.
…just live.”
The lyrics were moving. The man found himself thinking he envied the composer. Possibly someone who, like him, had once toiled away in a dingy corner, harboring secret hopes, or had to keep going for someone else’s sake.
Anyway, the composer made it. Probably well enough not to worry about dinner. Good for him, he thought, truly so. A swirl of emotion seized him.
He wanted to cry. If his wife and daughter hadn’t stepped out of the bathroom just then, maybe he would have. He inhaled sharply and blinked away tears. Meanwhile, the composer’s track played on.
“Dad, I’m done!”
“Go blow-dry your hair first.”
“‘Kay, be right back!”
“Take your time. Make sure it’s dry!”
While they busied themselves, the man scrolled through more reactions to the track, seeing all sorts of commentary. Possibly because it was so layered, fans debated its meaning. Most assumed it was a letter to a lost lover—pointless detail, he thought. All that mattered was the song was good. He planned to keep hitting “repeat.” On his commute downhill, on the bus to the warehouse, all day long.
Yes, starting now.
Just as he toggled “repeat,” a knock at the door, abrupt and hollow, cut through his reverie.
knock, knock
At this late hour? He stood with a frown, going to check. His wife, halfway out of the bathroom, looked startled.
“Did you order something?”
“No.”
“Maybe a delivery?”
“Can’t think of anything.”
He was too broke for deliveries, even. Possibly the landlord? But no—he’d paid rent in full this month. So who else?
He steadied himself, calling through the door, “Who is it?”
“Post office,” came the reply.
He rarely expected any official letters. Then a single thought jolted him. The results for that “new writer” contest from the big daily newspaper were due soon.
His heart thumped. Don’t get your hopes up, he told himself. He turned the handle, but his heart hammered fiercely.
“Are you Kim Jusung? Sign here, please.”
He scribbled the e-signature and took the envelope with both hands. Telling himself to stay calm, he glimpsed the newspaper’s name: “Segye Ilbo” on the envelope. He’d told himself not to get excited, but everything inside him was shaking.
Gulp-
Even so, he tore the envelope open with trembling hands.
“Mr. Kim Jusung, your manuscript has been chosen as a winner in the 22nd Segye Ilbo New Year’s Literary Contest. The winning piece is as follows…”
A garden in bloom at the end of the tunnel.
A fleeting daydream.
He’d often pictured it, then furiously shut it down. People supposedly rub their eyes or read the letter thrice in shock, but he just stood there, as though time had frozen.
“Honey…? Why are you standing there like that?”
“You didn’t… order something, did you?”
All she could see was an envelope, so maybe she thought it was a utility bill. He gave a stiff shake of his head. She exhaled, relieved. Over her face lay layers of burdens carried by a life of constant struggle.
“If not that, then what is it?” she asked.
He didn’t speak, just fell into an embrace with her. The woman who’d said he should chase his dream, that she’d earn the money. The woman who’d run herself ragged at menial jobs, jeopardizing her health to help them survive. He pressed her close, voice choking with tears:
“…We did it. Thank you… truly… thank you so much.”
He also grabbed the postman’s hands, repeatedly expressing thanks. The postman looked flustered, as though to say It’s just an envelope, sir, but the man didn’t care. He had to vent this overwhelming gratitude or his heart might burst.
“Wait, honey. So…?” she asked.
He nodded, voice trembling, tears brimming.
Catching sight of their father crying, the child froze, confused.
Sorry… Dad’s being so weird.
Overwhelmed, he wept harder. The three of them huddled close, hugging each other in tears, while in the background, the composer’s track soared into its climax on repeat.
“Let’s live, let’s survive.”
Yes, they would live. They would survive, fiercely if they had to. Let people judge them as they would. For him, that track had become the anthem of his life.
Art touches people differently, depending on their circumstances. For him, that composition was now forever etched in his soul—a piece surpassing all the world’s masterpieces, he believed.
And evidently, it wasn’t only this family that felt such a visceral impact:
From the moment the interview was published, Hyunseung’s track seized the public’s attention, laser-focused. Then:
— #17
— #15
— #11
— #8
At last, it had broken into the Top 10. A chart “climb back up,” or so-called “reverse run,” was underway.
T/N: Ngl, I became teary-eyed as I read this chapter. I hope you, dear reader, keep dreaming and reaching for your dreams.
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