Sarah Stewart felt not merely blank but light-headed for a moment.
What had that man just said?
He seemed to claim something in her song was strange…
‘Who on earth is he…?’
Seen from any angle, she had never met him. An unfamiliar East-Asian man whose pale skin contrasted with black hair, whose features were sharp to the point of severity—had he perhaps recognized her?
Yes, he had been acting oddly from the start…
‘Trying every weird move just to start a conversation.’
In fact, she was a singer-songwriter. True, still a rookie since her debut, nearly a faceless singer because her eccentric nature and blunt tongue made the company block her TV appearances, yet—
Her debut single had stayed on the Billboard chart for more than two months.
Right.
To her, the man was the strange one, not the major key. To say out of nowhere that someone’s creation was wrong—in what world was that not a pick-up attempt?
Just when she had grasped the situation and was about to protest—
“Were you trying to ruin it on purpose and I interrupted?” the man threw out an even more baffling question.
“What—?”
She blinked, unable to retort, only for a moment.
“Who would deliberately ruin their own song?”
She lifted her eyes in a glare and shot back.
Yet the man shrugged with a calm face.
“I thought maybe that’s what you were doing.”
Picking up the pencil that had rolled from her hand, he added,
“If not, you’d better set the direction again.”
“What are you doing?”
“It is a song you want done properly, isn’t it?”
Sarah Stewart looked him up and down.
“Are you even a composer?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then what would you do here?”
She tapped the spot he had pointed out a moment earlier.
“Go on, show me.”
And she offered the staff paper.
Truth be told…
She had spent the whole night stuck at that very passage the man had criticized. While jotting the notes herself she too disliked them, but—
Who expected to be scolded by a stranger?
His face suited a high-teen star more than a composer; she folded her arms, meaning to watch what kind of unbelievable notes he could write.
Presently the man set down his tray and took the pencil anew.
“Hmm…”
Contrary to the confidence he had shown, he merely tapped his cheek with the tip, lost in thought, with no sign of rewriting.
“You said the direction needed fixing, didn’t you?”
She let out a scoff and added in a jeering tone,
“Big words about something being wrong…”
For a while the man gave no reaction.
“Are you going to sing the song yourself?” he asked.
“What would you do with that information?”
“If you were, I would adjust it to your voice.”
She narrowed her eyes and answered half-heartedly,
“Assume something like that and try it.”
As if to say, prove it if this is not a ploy.
Scratch, scratch.
Even before her reply ended, he erased all the notes he had agonized over and wrote afresh on top. For once he truly looked like a composer.
‘No, at best he can probably read a score a little.’
Sarah glanced at his face as he filled the staff; the corners of his mouth had lifted, looking oddly joyous.
Soon the man laid down the pencil.
“If it were me, I’d do it like this.”
Sarah examined the staff with a grave expression. It had surely changed—or rather, the whole mood of the piece was different.
She had meant to switch to a bright teen-pop major key, but he had layered rich low minors and altered the song.
‘Hmm…’
She could not tell how it would sound.
“Well, you did draw the complete opposite. When it is actually played, it could be a mess.”
Feigning dissatisfaction, she filed the new sheet away. Since his writing had shown no clumsiness, the claim of being a composer was likely true; she would test it later.
“As for playing, you can check that yourself.”
Without expression he spoke opposite to his earlier excitement.
“May I have one spare sheet?”
She paused, then—
“Just do not use it as scrap.”
There were plenty spare, so she handed one over, mixing in sarcasm.
Slide.
Taking the sheet, the man returned to his seat without another word.
Was his sole purpose to correct her score and take staff paper?
‘Weird…’
Giving her head a shake, she ordered another iced coffee to settle herself and waited.
Yet her gaze kept drifting to him. He sat on the terrace with what looked like family, clutching the paper as if composing.
“Hmph, all appearance…” she muttered while picking up her drink.
Then—the man suddenly crushed his sheet and, frowning, threw it into the bin before leaving with the family.
“Knew it, using it as scrap.”
Clicking her tongue, Sarah stared after him.
But the discarded sheet nagged at her.
‘Maybe just have a look?’
An idle curiosity set her moving. Checking no one watched she plucked the crumpled paper from atop the bin.
Rustle.
She smoothed it flat.
“What in the world…”
In the brief time, he had filled the three sheets she’d given with dense notes.
Moreover, the structure looked fiendishly complex. She hated to admit, but the melody might be superb.
‘Is this even playable?’
Her hand trembled faintly as she held the score.
Straight from the café, Sarah Stewart dashed to the Unice Music Group building and found her private studio.
“Just assume I’m being fooled and play it once.”
Muttering as if casting a spell on herself, she first took out the sheet he had revised. The succession of minor keys was too deep for piano, so she opened her MIDI program and entered the notes.
Were the studio gear not top-class, she could hardly have realized the obsessively low frequencies that rolled on without end. As she input the chords an ominous tension rose.
Truly, whether looking at the score or the monitor, she could not grasp the flow.
“Hoo…”
She exhaled only after the track rendered. A peculiar habit: she always held her breath while working.
Tap.
She hit the space bar. The intro she had written flowed familiar and gloomy.
Then—a “Thunk” of minor plunged the piece into a darker, chilling realm.
Strange. Utterly strange.
She had planned the major shift to shake off past gloom; bright upbeat songs were in vogue.
Yet this track seemed to embody the negativity rooted in her past, so eerie it raised gooseflesh, as though the man had read her heart and laid its contents in notes.
A modulation of a form she had never seen or heard…
Oddly she kept wanting to cut and sing that part, humming rose unbidden.
“Mmh, mmh—”
Before long she added humming to the minor bass.
Thud. The track ended abruptly. She licked her lips and turned to the sheet he had thrown away.
Gulp.
With a dry swallow she picked it up.
Yes.
Just one look, at least.
David Austin arrived punctually at 1 p.m. as always. He smiled with satisfaction at the huge “Unice Music Group” logo in the lobby—one of his fixed routines—then headed for Sarah Stewart’s studio.
White hair swept back with volume, a trendy wine-colored suit despite his years, and the handkerchief he disinfected daily in his inner pocket…
“Good afternoon.”
Everyone passing bowed to him.
He was the CEO of Unice Music Group.
“Yes.”
With that simple reply, he reached Sarah’s door, wrapped his handkerchief round the handle and knocked lightly.
…
There was no answer.
“She isn’t out yet.”
Unease pricked him. His visits were partly surveillance: inside the company, she was called a troublemaker, the CEO’s sore thumb.
It fit. He had scouted her busking on a street, a musical genius.
But geniuses are often crazy, they say; her tongue was blunt, behavior unpredictable.
Still, in music she was perfect, which only attracted him more.
As long as she stayed off broadcast.
Recently she’d moaned of being stuck writing a new song. Was she collapsed from sleeplessness? When immersed, she forgot everything.
Creak.
With that thought, he opened the heavy soundproof door.
“Hmm?”
A bass beat pounded like a heart. What song was this? He had never heard it.
Inside, he spotted Sarah sitting blank at the console, and his lips curled.
‘No wonder she didn’t answer, making such a masterpiece.’
He already pictured a Billboard conquest; even her back looked praiseworthy.
“You complain it won’t come, yet you achieve this?”
She was so absorbed she did not hear until his shoes tapped the floor. Her shoulders jerked and she looked up.
“Ah—when did you come?”
“Just now.”
“Please wait a moment.”
“No, why?”
He stopped her from pausing the track.
“Let it play. It’s excellent.”
“Right, it is good, isn’t it?”
“This is the new piece you said you were making?”
“If only.”
Disappointment clouded him.
Years in music, running the world-leading label, listening to untold numbers—he prided himself on sensing hits.
This was not merely good; it screamed smash hit.
“Then whose song is it?”
“I do not know…”
“From SoundCloud?”
“No.”
“An acquaintance’s work?”
“No.”
He could have torn his hair. A masterpiece before him yet she couldn’t explain—
“You mean you do not know the composer?”
“Yes…”
He clicked his heel, sinking into thought.
Surely such a song had not been released then buried; so it was unpublished.
“Where did you find it?”
“In a café, by chance…”
“You picked it up?”
“Not exactly, a man threw it away.”
He could not fathom it. “Threw away?”
“He borrowed my staff paper, wrote, then crumpled it. I took it and entered the code.”
“Any contact for him?”
“No.”
He wiped sweat from his handkerchief-wrapped hand.
“Hmmm.”
No matter how great, they could not use a piece without proper rights. Their spotless record was the reason Unice led world distribution.
Decision made, he folded the cloth and asked,
“Where did you meet that man?”
“Pardon?”
“Bring him in.”
Seeing the obsession in his pupils, Sarah recalled the day he scouted her.
That look appeared only when he found something he must possess.
Hyunseung took his family to a famed restaurant for an early supper.
Ting, Ting, Ting—
His phone buzzed nonstop.
“What now.”
He scowled at the messages.
[ Are you awake..? ]
[ Awake..? ]
[ Sleep well… ]
[ Isn’t it still daytime there? ]
[ Hyunseung what are you doing, are you happy..? ]
Such clingy messages.
[ Why are you texting like an ex-girlfriend? ]
He sent back.
Ting.
[ I don’t know, you wicked brat…. ]
Why was he like this today?
‘Did he eat something bad…’
He set the phone to silent just as another message arrived.
Ting.
[ You’re not out there flirting again, right? ]
[ Say weird things and I won’t reply. ]
[ I had a nightmare… ]
[ What nightmare? ]
[ I begged you on my knees to renew your contract. ]
[ Sounds prophetic. ]
[ Don’t say such scary things.. ]
[ Anyway? ]
After a pause several replies.
[ You stepped on my outstretched hand and walked past..? ]
[ It hurt even though it was a dream ]
[ My hand, and my heart…. ]
“What a nonsensical dream.”
Muttering, Hyunseung pocketed the muted phone.
“Tastes good,” he said, continuing the meal with his family as if nothing had happened.
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