episode_0000

*This work is fiction, and any resemblance to actual persons, organizations, or locations is purely coincidental.

Insisting that it had to be today, the professor made me stay for lessons until late in the evening.

On my way back home, I was disguised as a senior piano major.

My empty stomach felt not just hungry but almost like experiencing starvation.

“Sorry for keeping you so late. Make sure to grab dinner yourself. It’s an important commitment. You know, right? Im—portant commitment.”

There might suddenly be an important commitment tomorrow.

Whether it’s academic connections, blood ties, or surviving in unforgiving Korea.

Even though he was a respected professor, there were occasions where he had to show his face. I understood that much.

Of course, using the excuse of an important commitment to reschedule the lesson earlier was not uncommon.

There had been several instances where he secretly held lonely drinking sessions.

So, despite respecting him, I couldn’t help but have doubts. Especially when forcibly thrown into a crowded bus like a bean sprout.

It was still spring, yet the bus interior felt suffocatingly hot.

I understand the struggles of bus drivers needing to accommodate more passengers, but the density inside felt almost like being sprayed with high-pressure water.

Ah, so when pressure increases, temperature rises too. Discovering chemical insights while studying art history. The world is truly surprising.

Even as I pondered, the bag of the person in front pressed against my stomach, the elbow of the person beside me nudged my shoulder, and the chest of the person behind me leaned on my back.

They should introduce passenger limits on city buses too!

…I silently shouted out my usual futile demands in my mind.

Thinking of friends enduring even worse commutes than mine, I found some small joy in finishing the day more effortlessly than others.

Except for top students, dormitory spots at our university were so limited that they were almost impossible to secure. Attending there, I felt quite ordinary compared to other geniuses.

Having attended the university for four years, I could say it confidently.

Until enrollment, everyone from the same prep school who used to bless my life had gradually faded away since I entered the university.

I can’t eloquently describe the feeling of going from thinking I was special to feeling like an average person.

If I combined all the complaints I’ve had over the past three years, it might amount to a novel’s length.

Watching talented friends, aside from top students, worry about their livelihoods and consider paths other than art before graduation,

I often consoled myself, “Isn’t it quite an achievement for someone like me to have come this far?”

Having ignorantly dug only one well, I didn’t realize it would become my grave.

Among observant seniors, many who gave up art surprisingly thrived afterward.

Redirecting the focus I put into practice elsewhere unexpectedly turned out not so bad.

Some suddenly took exams right after graduating and joined large corporations normally. Others secretly studied and disguised themselves as law school students. There were even friends who debuted as successful new YouTubers.

Despite relentlessly pushing myself for three years, unable to give up the piano due to what felt like a fateful connection,

Perhaps, in reality, I wasn’t defeated in the competition for survival.

Becoming a pianist like Song Seong-hyuk, ruling the world, was that dream too fanciful?

Yet, letting go of regrets wasn’t easy.

From clumsily playing a piece called “Heavenly Bells” in middle school, my life had been filled with the piano irreversibly.

Having carried the piano for over half of my life, living without touching anything other than keys seemed alien.

Though I drifted far from my dream, I didn’t want to escape this world of black and white.

In pursuit of my dream, I’ve reached the end of the line in life.

In the end, I turned my eyes towards the small sense of fulfillment that awaited me.

Even a small recital would be nice.

If I could communicate with people who appreciate my music there.

If I could gather a decent number of fans, even if I couldn’t get on stage, and occasionally hold recitals in small venues.

I could find happiness in just that.

That’s what I thought.

It was a compromise with reality.

If I couldn’t become a top-tier musician by sacrificing everything.

I might as well remain a mediocre third-rate one.

And amidst it all, there was a woman named Min Chaewon.

“So… are you going back?”

“Yeah.”

“When will you be back in Korea?”

Spring two years ago. The conversation we had while crossing the Han River on a bus, feeling regretful about parting ways, shattered into pieces today.

“Even if it’s late, won’t you come back before you graduate?”

The bus entered the bridge.

Cherry blossom petals scattered along the Han River like snowflakes.

“Oh no!”

Sensitive ears caught the bus driver’s scream.

With a massive crash, people’s heads hit the bus ceiling.

As bodies flipped over, the world made of rectangular shapes crossed over the railing and plummeted.

Screams.

Cracking sounds.

Something breaking.

Sensations dulled.

The pain that was felt only when the bus collided with something also disappeared.

As cold water rushed in, blocking my nose and lungs, instead of feeling suffocated, I felt at ease.

Although my eyes were open, there was nothing to see in the darkness.

I was quietly dying among the unconscious people.

“When I come back, I’ll make sure to play a perfect performance for you.”

It was the final dream I had dreamed while settling for reality.

A recital prepared for my first love in Korea, to be performed upon my return someday.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

A choked, nostalgic voice echoed.

“Can I play it now?”

Without answering, I closed my eyes.

“Ah!”

I screamed as I opened my eyes.

It was the hospital emergency room.

“Doctor! This patient has woken up!!”

Nurses holding IV bags ran around in a frenzy.

Doctors working overtime leaped over fallen patients like obstacle course athletes, moving back and forth between beds.

Looking around, it was a hospital ward.

But strangely, apart from us, not a single passenger who had been on the bus was visible.

The middle-aged man and woman carrying hiking bags. The musicians and seniors who boarded at the same bus stop as me were nowhere to be seen.

What happened? Were we transferred to different hospitals?

Or were there many more people involved in the accident besides us?

Could it be that I’m the only one who survived in that hell?

“Do you remember anything?”

To prove that I was alive, I immediately responded to the doctor’s question.

“The… bus got into an accident—.”

A mesmerizingly beautiful voice suddenly sprang out of my vocal cords.

It was so lovely that I wanted to ask someone to accompany me on the piano and sing a song.

“…Huh?”

However, the owner of that voice was me.

Confused, I touched my throat.

The slender neck and smooth skin.

No matter how much I touched it, it wasn’t my neck.

“Huh?”

As I looked around in confusion, I found a hand mirror placed on the emergency room desk.

I rushed over and grabbed the mirror.

“Wow!”

I was shocked.

Skin as rare to Koreans as pure white cherry blossoms.

Slightly dark green hair and irises like sprouting seedlings.

Beautifully trimmed but disheveled bangs due to the accident.

My first love, whom I had parted ways with years ago, was screaming inside the small mirror with wide-open eyes.

The man lying on the bed opposite, or rather, my body, muttered on its own.

“A hospital…?”

Though I was bewildered by the fact that I, who was thought to be dead, had inexplicably entered my first love’s body.

“This is bad. I have to go to my lesson…!”

This situation was all too familiar.

Me, with a plump face devoid of dark circles.

A few years after parting ways, Min Chaewon suddenly found herself in the hospital today without having met again.

The nurse tried to stop me from getting up hastily.

“No, patient. If you move right now…!”

I realized belatedly that my ribs hurt from making excuses about being late for a lesson.

“I’m late… Ah!”

Next, I say to Chaewon.

I’m sorry, but could you please call the professor on my behalf?

“Ch-Chaewon. I’m sorry, but could you call the professor with my phone…?”

Although the perspective has changed, each conversation is just like it was on that spring day three years ago.

As I move around uncontrollably before me, I am the immature version of myself who used to tremble at the thought of being late for a lesson with the professor.

To confirm whether it’s a dream or not, I pushed aside the nurse’s objections and banged my head against the wall.

Thud!

“Ah! Patient!”

My head felt like it was splitting in two.

“Ahhhh…!”

It wasn’t a dream.

“Yeah. Let’s meet again. Around the time when cherry blossoms fall.”

First love did come back as promised, but why on earth are you inside the mirror?