At the words he recited,
“On the peak of lofty Cheolryeong,”
Lee Ga-hui, her heart stirred, nodded willingly.
“Then, let me hear it.”
Instead of playing the audio file, Hyunseung showed her the video of the New York Philharmonic performing his piece.
“Hmm.”
With a complicated expression she replayed the two-minute video several times.
What was she thinking?
A twinge of nervousness crept over him, and when the clip ended, he spoke.
“What you just watched is the New York Philharmonic playing a piece I composed.”
“Their level is indeed superb, as one would expect of a world orchestra.”
“I want to layer your gayageum over that performance and create a cross-cultural new-age track.”
“Whatever sorrow a young man like you may carry, the melody is truly mournful. Could I see it once more?”
“Of course.”
After another careful viewing, she nodded with a grave face.
“Wait here a moment.”
She rose and walked off somewhere.
He watched her uncertainly, unable to tell if her answer was yes or no.
One thing, though, was clear: even in old age her back was perfectly straight, proof of the posture and devotion with which she had faced the gayageum all her life.
Soon she returned to the pavilion, carrying a pungnyu-gayageum almost as tall as herself.
“Master…”
Adjusting her neatly coiled hair, she held the instrument in her arms and began in an even voice.
“These days, every night, I dress myself in my shroud and lie down alone, simply waiting for death.”
Her tone resembled an ancient sijo1.
“Yet I am not afraid in the least, because I shall see my late husband and son again.”
Even her voice contained a lifetime of joy and grief.
“I do not know what tale or feeling your piece holds, but I will try to pour my own story and emotion into it.”
“Please do. The music is yours to use.”
“So be it.”
No sooner had he spoken than she set her hands gently on the strings.
Fingers scarred and calloused from decades of playing plucked the heavy bass string, letting a low tone drift on the breeze.
♪ ♪ ♪
Was it because he knew her story? No—any listener would have felt the same. Her sorrow-filled playing swallowed him like the calm eye of a typhoon.
Even hearing it again after a lifetime, the chill settled like snow in midsummer; gooseflesh rose and his fingertips tingled.
A memory surfaced of what she had confessed in his former life: how she missed the son who had gone to the sky, how even looking at the blue above pained her, how plunging madly into performance to vomit out the agony of losing that child had led people to hail her as a master, and how, after losing her husband too, Heaven wept blood as she finally laid her beloved instrument aside.
Now, just as then, the piece ended—
thunk.
—with the final note.
“It has been so long my fingers feel rusty,” she said, hiding her mouth in modesty. The word “long” was surely a lie; perhaps each night she had played similar strains, yearning for her child and husband.
She was a woman who loved the gayageum, loved music, and poured out her feelings through sound instead of tears.
“No, it was perfect.”
“Was it?”
“May I record exactly as you just played?”
“By all means.”
Even Hyunseung could not meddle with her performance. Whatever the intention, it embodied sorrow, matching the meaning of the work.
Truly, next to the deep scars she bore, his own grief was a mere scratch.
“Thank you from my heart. I will finish the song well.”
“I only hope many people will listen and weep as they wish.”
“Then I must carve those words into the album notes.”
Indeed, braving rudeness to seek out Master Lee had been the right choice.
From the day he met her, Hyunseung holed up in the studio for three straight days.
Now that he held the New York Philharmonic and Master Lee Ga-hui in his hands, he could not tolerate a single discord.
Above all, he remembered her wish:
“I only hope many people will listen and weep.”
In his past life, he had pretended not to know his own depths, nibbling at himself.
Who coined the phrase “Smile and fortune comes”?
It felt downright violent.
If someone spent a day without smiling and exhausted themself in despair because of his music, that would be fine.
With that resolve pressed deep inside, he finally finished, then stared at the track list.
out to sea.
It had no lyrics or voice, just an intro, yet he felt a particular attachment to it.
Tap, tap, tap.
Drumming his fingers on the console, he hesitated—then
“All right.”
He stood, called Manager Kim.
“Where are you?”
“In the office.”
“I’m done.”
“I’ll tell the distribution team.”
“Come with me.”
“Oh. Okay, wait there.”
Walking with him to meet the distribution manager, Kim asked,
“You sure are attached to this album.”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Like picking a good release date?”
“Something like that.”
Kim glanced at the gaunt face beside him. It looked as if the kid might do something reckless.
Nah, surely not.
Before they reached the office, the manager came out to greet them.
“I heard the solo album is top secret, so I came to escort you.”
“Always sharp. Want to switch to management?”
“Oh please, don’t joke.”
After brief talk about the simultaneous Korea–Japan release of Seo Jini’s single, the manager added,
“For Choi Jihyun’s album, we’ll set a date with some gap from HS’s single.”
“Thanks as always.”
Everything was smooth until –
“Wait a moment,” said Hyunseung.
“Make the first track a double title, please.”
“Double title?”
“And release it exactly one week after Seo Jini’s song.”
“Hey, Hyunseung!”
Yes, that face had looked like trouble.
“Please handle it,” he repeated to the manager.
Apparently releasing another track under the name HS was not a cheat card but simply to make things more interesting.
Head of PR Gwak and the entire publicity office were on emergency footing.
“The desk needs copy by one o’clock!”
“S-sorry!”
“Call them, apologize, and send it right away!”
Not only was Seo Jini’s Korea-Japan digital single imminent, but the sudden, tight schedule for the solo album piled on.
“The PR team gets no consideration at all …”
Worse, with the use of two pen names HS and Choi Jihyun, Gwak—one of the few people in the know—was confused, double-checking every article so the names wouldn’t get swapped.
At the same time, they were preparing materials for Yoon Jaeyi’s “Street Again,” which was about to air, leaving hardly time for bathroom breaks.
A foreign YouTuber’s busking clip of Yoon Jaeyi had gone viral abroad, now spreading in Korea; her “To You, Who Had Only Me” still sat at number one, and The Moon hovered around the top ten.
All of them, Gwak noted, were singing songs by Hyunseung. Should he thank him or resent him?
An employee asked, “Is Choi Jihyun another rookie composer Manager Kim scouted?”
“Uh, yes…”
“Must be talented, getting a solo album right away and pushed alongside HS.”
“Apparently so.”
“How does Manager Kim keep finding geniuses? He should move to A&R.”
“Haha, maybe…”
It was top secret, so the staff assumed Choi Jihyun was a super-rookie like HS.
“Do you think Choi Jihyun can beat HS?”
The typing around the room stopped, then chatter erupted.
“Who knows? The guest and session lineup is insane, I can’t predict anything.”
“I bet HS still wins. Who can defeat that prodigy? My money’s on HS.”
The debate turned into a wager.
“Let’s bet?”
“I’m in!”
“Count me too!”
“Ten thousand won each? I back HS!”
“Then I’m on Choi Jihyun.”
Listening, Team Head Gwak hesitated. He prided himself on sensing what would hit, but this time he had no clue.
Smack.
He slapped the approval folder.
“Quiet down!”
“Yes, sir…”
Then, grinning, he pulled out his wallet.
“Fifty thousand on HS.”
“Ooh, big spender!”
“Longest-running number one decides the winner!”
Inside, Gwak felt excitement.
The unpredictable showdown of HS versus Choi Jihyun had begun.
- The sijo is a three-line Korean poetic form, traditionally meant to be sung and recited, dealing with various themes ↩︎
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