Chapter 66: Running to the Edge of the Sky (3)

The cool rooftop night air brushed against my cheek.

In my hands, the sheet music for Letter to the Sky.

I could feel Yoon Ha-yeon’s quiet gaze.

I sang the first note.

My voice layered itself over the city’s hum.

The softly starting melody gradually spread into the night sky.

At first, Ha-yeon’s expression was simply focused—

but as the song went on, line by line,

her features slowly froze in disbelief.

Like fragile glass about to shatter,

her eyes trembled with each breath.

Why?

It was my first time seeing this sheet music, yet it felt so familiar.

What emotion to carry, how to breathe through each phrase—

it all came so naturally, like I’d known it forever.

My only music background was some Czerny pieces in childhood piano lessons—

but each note held sorrow and longing.

Bittersweet emotion.

I could feel all of it pouring out through my voice.

Maybe this was the power of the song.

It wasn’t me singing the song.

It was the song, using my voice to sing itself.

It felt different from usual.

Normally, when I heard a song, I noticed gaps.

Not the kind of artistic pauses you appreciate, but empty spaces. Incompletion.

My job was to fill in those gaps, make the song richer.

That made it more complete, more full.

At first, I thought I was imagining it—

but through Raidel’s broadcasts—through Kim Ha-yoon—I realized it wasn’t just me.

This song, though—this one was different.

Perfectly composed.

Even its seemingly awkward parts were purposeful dissonance to heighten emotion.

I couldn’t rearrange or improve on it.

It didn’t need to be better.

Maybe that perfection is what drew me to it so instinctively.

As the chorus approached, my feelings deepened.

It was a song of longing.

The lyrics suggested yearning for a loved one—

but there was a nuance, something beyond a simple love song.

Whatever it was—it felt beautiful.

My job was to breathe life into this sheet music, turn it into sound.

The tenderness in my voice rode the night wind.

Like a desperate letter to someone far away…

Finally, the last note faded.

A still silence fell.

On the rooftop of the goshiwon,

(TL note:  A “goshiwon” (고시원) is a type of single-room occupancy accommodation in South Korea, primarily designed for students preparing for exams.)

only the wind and the distant thrum of the city could be heard.

“……”

Yoon Ha-yeon didn’t say a word.

She simply stared at me, as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes.

Clear droplets, clinging precariously.

“……”

The silence felt awkward, so I scratched my head.

Asking, “So how was it?” would’ve felt a bit cringey.

I wasn’t sure how long the quiet lasted.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, Yoon Ha-yeon finally spoke.

Her voice trembled with emotion.

“Seo-yeon…”

She paused to steady her breath.

“It was… beautiful.”

Simple words.

But her voice still shook.

“Everything I wanted to express in that song—everything I couldn’t manage to convey myself—you delivered it more clearly, more deeply than I ever could.”

She took a deep breath, trying to settle her excitement—

yet she looked rushed, like she had to act immediately.

“Recording. We have to record it. Capture this exact feeling. No, wait. The arrangement—how should I preserve this nuance… Agh, really.”

Sniffling,

she mumbled in confusion, then looked at me again.

“Anyway—your voice makes my song complete.”

Then suddenly, as if realizing something important—

she gave me a long, thoughtful look.

“…Sorry, but if you don’t mind me asking… Who are you, really?”

She asked cautiously.

“Someone who can sing like that… are you a singer? Or maybe a vocal or classical major…?”

An awkward silence fell.

I scratched the back of my head, avoiding her eyes.

Uh… what should I say?

“I, uh… I’m not a singer or anything.”

I had to be honest.

“I’m just… a streamer. Or, well, aspiring streamer.”

Her eyes went wide.

---

“An aspiring… streamer?”

Yoon Ha-yeon’s eyes were the widest I’d seen. She looked even more shocked than when I’d started singing.

Well, she had just guessed I was a pro singer or music major, so… fair enough.

I gave an awkward smile and nodded.

“Yeah… I haven’t even debuted yet. I’m still waiting for platform approval.”

I felt embarrassed.

Calling myself a “streamer in training” just sounded… lame.

If I had already debuted, I could say I did music streams (sometimes!)—

and dress it up with a white lie or two.

That’d at least make me sound slightly credible.

But my platform had basically ghosted me. Like they all went on vacation together.

So all I had was the humble title of “streamer hopeful.”

“I-I see. Ah, I watch internet streams sometimes too.”

She must’ve noticed how I shrank back, because she quickly added that.

“So, were you planning to sing my song in a broadcast? Or… was it for something else…?”

Thankfully, she didn’t seem disappointed.

Her voice carried genuine curiosity.

And she said she watched streams sometimes. That helped.

I explained carefully.

“Actually, in a month… there’s going to be a ‘Finale Concert’ in the Pixelwars streamer server. I got invited to participate…”

A big event in a streamer server.

Lots of popular streamers. I’d be performing in the closing concert.

As I said it, I felt weirdly anxious.

Even if it was a big event full of major streamers—

it wasn’t a real concert hall, just a performance inside a game’s event server.

Wouldn’t that sound disappointing to her?

Having her precious song sung in some game event…

“There’s even a streamer with over a million YouTube subscribers participating…”

I tried to hype it up, but somehow that made it sound even lamer…

I started to worry—

but her reaction completely defied expectations.

“The Pixelwars streamer server concert?!”

Her calm face suddenly lit up.

“Wow! I’ve been watching that a ton! I always fall asleep to those streams at night!”

“Huh? Really?”

Now I was the one surprised.

Her earlier “I watch streams sometimes” wasn’t a lie at all.

Her face lit up with genuine excitement.

And anyone who’d been following streaming lately would have heard of the Pixelwars server.

All the top streamers had gathered, and the chaos was constant—it was impossible to miss.

“Yeah! There’s so much going on with all the streamers together. Drama every day… That golem bug? When they beat the boss with that—super fun to watch.”

Wait, was that about me?

I remembered using the Aegis golem to defeat the raid boss, Azranox.

‘It wasn’t a bug. It was strategic use of the system…’

I was going to say that, but I kept quiet.

“Oh! Maybe that’s why your voice felt familiar…”

Ha-yeon tilted her head, studying me as if trying to recall something.

“I knew I’d heard it somewhere before… Are you… by any chance…”

Her eyes widened again. She clapped her hands together.

“You’re Silverhair, aren’t you?!”

“Ah.”

Well…

Embarrassed, I covered my face with my long silver hair.

Honestly, I’d expected this.

During the server event, I’d basically become a regular on Raidel’s stream.

Tons of people had heard my voice.

And she was a singer-songwriter.

Sensitive to tone and voice.

I hadn’t just spoken to her—I sang.

Of course she recognized it.

“Yeah, that’s me. I’m… Silverhair.”

There was no point in hiding it, so I admitted it.

“Wow. I thought your voice was lovely, but I didn’t expect you to be this cute.”

Gone was the gloom from earlier.

Her face was bright.

Like she’d just met a celebrity from her favorite show… which, technically, was true.

“But… how did you recognize me?”

Was she a Raidel viewer?

Could’ve been someone else’s stream. I’d had a few crossovers.

She giggled a little and replied shyly.

“Hehe, I watch Argon’s stream. I saw you there.”

Former pro gamer.

The Rune Slayer.

Argon.

I’d unexpectedly run into one of his fans.