Beyond Words
It had been the best.
"Huuung... sniff... I wanna keep living *here* with you and Yujin. I don't wanna move to Americaaa, waaaaah!"
Sora had cried herself hoarse, and I tried to dredge up my memories of my past life.
But they wouldn't come into focus. Apparently Future Sight didn't consider this particular future important enough to warn me about. Back before my regression, these were people I'd only ever known by name — there was no way for me to know what they were doing at this point in time.
Though Sora's English was basically native-level, wasn't it.
When she appeared in overseas films or OTT dramas, her English had been so fluent I'd assumed she'd grown up abroad. Comparing the present with the future I remembered, everything fit — the only problem was that Sora wouldn't be coming back anytime soon.
I hate that.
Months of doing broadcasts together and talking on the phone constantly had made us feel like real childhood friends, and I didn't want to say goodbye. Sora especially, since she liked me — it would be that much harder for her.
And Yujin, who'd started out fussing about "rivals" only to grow genuinely fond of me, would feel the same way.
"Mom says we might all live there together?"
"I don't know. But apparently Dad's going to shoot movies over there."
So Director Han Jae-ryong was breaking into Hollywood. He'd won Best Director at Cannes — the love calls must have been pouring in nonstop. And with his sick wife already over there, it made sense to relocate his base of operations now.
Which meant Sora would naturally be attending school there... I wouldn't get to see her for a long while.
It could end up longer than my own hiatus.
This was a family matter. There was nothing I could do about it.
Future Sight showed no reaction whatsoever. Let it flow, and let it go — that seemed to be the message.
So even our little circle gets a hiatus of its own, huh.
A sense of helplessness pressed down heavy on my body and my heart alike. All I could think was that I wanted to be an adult already.
Rumors began to circulate that Director Han Jae-ryong was headed for Hollywood. The source was murky enough that no articles were written, but word traveled through the film industry the way it always did — quietly, person to person — until it reached Director Kim Si-woon's ears.
"Cannes really does carry weight, huh. Hollywood's straight-up poaching Korean directors now."
"Should've gone ages ago. The Chinese kids have been crossing over one by one — why shouldn't we?"
"Fair point. Your sister-in-law's already over there anyway. All he has to do is show up."
"What about his daughter, though? Sora."
"How's a man supposed to leave a six-year-old behind? She goes with him, obviously."
"Ha. So now they're stealing our genius child actors off to America too."
"How would you know what he'll do over there?"
"I shot with her last year. She's five — that's the age when kids just want their mommy, right? But this kid held her emotional line perfectly while delivering her lines clearly into the camera. A born actress, through and through. You cast her yourself and you'll feel it right away. That's a child who will never, ever leave the film industry."
Director Kim Si-woon, who had been considering Sora for the child role in his next film, lit a cigarette with a look of genuine disappointment on his face.
True to his reputation for getting the most bang for the buck, Director Kim Si-woon shot his films fast — and Confession of a Pianist was no exception.
After the screenplay was locked, pre-production — casting, location scouting, assembling the crew, everything leading up to the shoot — took four months. With only a handful of the hundred scheduled shooting days left, we were on track to wrap the core production phase in just two months. Post-production — CGI, editing, marketing, the film print — would follow, and then my very first movie would be hanging in an actual theater.
"It's tight, but four months should do it. We finish shooting by the end of this week, so keep your heads in the game."
"Our side's fine, but when are we shooting the flashback scenes? Hajin's scenes are all wrapped up, aren't they?"
"I told him to come this afternoon. Says he'll play all four pieces in one go."
"Is that even possible? He has to play each one with a completely different feeling."
"He volunteered, so I left him to it. I don't direct Hajin's acting anyway. Hand the kid a script and he pulls everything that's in my head straight out of it — what more is there to say?"
"Honestly, he's like a vending machine. Tell him 'act this' and it pops right out, picture-perfect."
"Right. The acting vending machine."
That afternoon —
There were no lines to speak, only piano to play, which made the emotional acting more important than anything else. Trembling in fear, then erupting in rage, then settling back into calm, then burning with hatred for someone — each piece demanded a different emotion, and I'd said I'd shoot them all at once.
If aftereffects set in, my head would tangle itself into knots and the remaining shoots would suffer anyway. Whether it worked or not, powering straight through in one continuous session was the better call.
Maybe the aftereffects won't come at all.
Since these were piano performances rather than scripted scenes, I'd only received direction on which emotion each piece needed to carry. With no lines to anchor me, no one could predict what would happen once I immersed myself. If I couldn't climb back out of the acting the way I had before, this would be the hardest shoot of the whole production — because these were scenes with me alone in frame, no one there to share the aftermath with.
Starting with Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 — the Moonlight Sonata — the music director assigned me one piece at a time. Since this was where the young protagonist had practiced piano, the setlist leaned toward famous pieces that ordinary audiences would recognize.
"Think of it as rehearsal — you can keep practicing right up until we roll. At your level, these are all well within your ability to play. Honestly, I'm curious myself how you'll pour the emotion into them."
the assistant director said as he set out the sheet music.
Thank god I watched this film in my past life.
It was an early flop, so once Kim Si-woon became a master of his craft, he avoided mentioning it in public settings. That was how I'd only discovered it after becoming his fan, digging through his filmography on a wiki one day. It wasn't on IPTV or any streaming service, and I'd barely managed to track down a secondhand DVD.
Using the memories of my past life, I intended to build my image of the protagonist who had lost his humanity — the serial-killer protagonist that my own butterfly effect had erased from existence.
He had lost his humanity, but he was no indiscriminate killer who murdered without reason. He coveted only the deaths that would sever fate itself, and he killed only those who invited such deaths. But because those people were many and nameless — and because even his own flesh and blood numbered among them — he had become a slaughterer without discrimination.
"S-save me! Si-woon, why are you doing this to me?!"
"Why, you ask? Maybe you should've driven properly. Who takes a call while they've got their hands on the wheel?"
In the protagonist's eyes, he saw the uncle who had drifted across the center line mid-call — with the protagonist himself in the seat beside him.
"What... what are you... GYAAAAH!"
He stabbed him dozens of times, then flung the knife aside.
"Haah... haah... Now I feel a little better."
The emotion of this murder was rage.
The protagonist always poured an emotion into each kill, didn't he. If I play while holding that target in my mind, the feeling will come alive. And if the aftereffects come... then I'll just tell myself this is the last time.
Director Kim Si-woon could not take his eyes off him — off every single finger flowing across the keys, off the corners of the boy's eyes dancing with each emotion, off the faint tremor of his lips. Because before him stood the protagonist as he'd been before the script was overturned: a monster woven from every emotion tangled together at once.
That small creature is thrashing inside emotions too heavy for anyone to bear.
Every keystroke conjured the image of a blade sliding between ribs. Between the white and black keys — where no blood should ever appear — a dark crimson surged up.
The music sharpened into a strangled scream and clawed mercilessly at the ears. Shivers rolled through the room like waves, and a white-hot excitement coiled around the body and would not let go.
It was an emotion beyond all description. I'm angry. I'm scared. I'm going out of my mind. Kill him. KILL HIM. Everything the boy wanted to convey passed through the camera and branded itself into their eyes.
An invisible hand tightened around their throats second by second, until breathing became impossible. The fingers hammering the keys as if mad were so desperate, so piteous, they looked ready to snap. Gathering in the frayed tangle of feeling, hunting each note down with razor delicacy — slipping into a state of self-oblivion to draw out a cold clarity honed like a freshly sharpened blade, then slathering seething hatred over it like sunlight-wrapped peace.
Even the watching crew had stopped breathing. The taut tension wound itself around the room like a noose, sparing no one. An octave of despair, liable to detonate at any moment, embroidered itself across the keys.
How much time had passed?
The fingers that had been hammering the keys as if to shake the soul itself began, visibly, to slow. A single tear traced down his cheek, cutting through the sweat that had beaded there drop by drop.
It was a brutal finale — one that gathered up and sealed away every darkness that had been gnawing at his soul. And so the boy swung between the extremes of joy and sorrow, of love and fury, and burned every last emotion to ash.
I had layered the killer's emotions back onto the performance, one by one, replaying each murder in my mind.
The result? Well — the looks on their faces said enough. Every single person wore the expression of someone whose soul had briefly left their body.
Then a crushing helplessness crashed over me. My cochlea must have been rattled, because even sitting up straight my body kept listing to one side. It felt like the blood was draining out through my head; I couldn't find my balance at all.
So the aftereffects come even without a script.
My ragged, irregular breathing scattered what little voice I could force out into the air. Director Kim must have realized something was badly wrong, because he came running. I staggered to my feet and let myself fall into his arms.
"Haah... At this point, even if you swore up and down you didn't need a break, I couldn't put you in anything. Every time I watch you act, I can't breathe. It's killing me."
I had already told Director Kim Si-woon that I wouldn't be acting for a while.
"The moment you feel like you can control it again, come right back. Your roles will always be kept open for you."
It was the solution my teacher had recommended, so I couldn't argue — and he'd been terribly reluctant about it, though he'd given in in the end.
"How was it? Just now — the acting I did while playing the piano?"
Even with my body in this state, the actor in me spoke first. Maybe I really was becoming one after all.
The astonishment on Director Kim's face melted into a slow, wide grin.
"It was the best. Beyond anything words can say."