Prologue: "Myeongjeon, Do You Know What Your Problem Is?"
"Myeongjeon. Do you know what your problem is?"
At the wrap-up party after the tour, amid the rowdy chatter, the middle-aged singer who fronted the tour—sloshed beyond belief—hurled the question at Myeongjeon.
"What is it?"
Myeongjeon knew what answer would come spilling out of the guy's mouth. It was the same story countless people had pointed out to him over the years, the flaw he could never fix.
"Myeongjeon, you play guitar so damn well. I'm talking fucking insanely well. You're famous for it. But you're just a session guy. Know why? 'Cause you play so goddamn perfectly, that's why. It's fake as hell. You got no you in it. No originality..."
The singer slammed the table, yelling that he needed to create something his own! The restaurant fell silent for a beat, then erupted back into noise.
"I've heard that one plenty."
"You've heard it plenty, so why the hell can't you fix it? I'm telling you, it kills me, big bro Myeongjeon. You're not meant to rot away here in Korea. You're way better than that whosiwhatsit guitarist, whoever the hell he is."
Young punk's got no filter, Myeongjeon thought. He said nothing, just knocked back his drink.
Yeah, that happened.
Thoroughly hammered himself, Myeongjeon sat on the bench, lost in reminiscence. Was it the booze making him all sentimental? Or that singer's words, popping into his head after wrapping a church CCM session and knocking back drinks alone? Or maybe just his own pathetic lot in life?
If I could've done it, I would've by now.
He'd been hearing how great he was on guitar for decades. He'd sessioned for legendary bands, laid tracks on albums whose names alone commanded respect. His skills had earned him a name, even a few juniors who looked up to him. But despite all that...
He'd never once been the star of the show. Incredible chops, and yet he'd always lurked in the shadows, quietly propping up the leads.
Because deep down, he was the guy who couldn't create anything of his own.
He recalled the review of his one and only album, the fruit of near-starvation-level obsession.
If you've got truffles, caviar, and saffron boiling away in kimchi jjigae, why the hell eat it? The technique is flawless, but everything else is borrowed straight-up—no originality anywhere.
That was the payoff for his efforts. "Can't create his own thing." And it stayed that way after.
"Feels like I've seen this before." "No originality."
He was just that kind of guy—fated for it. Decades of grinding guitar, dissecting countless masterpieces, living a life of nothing but strings and frets...
And still, no talent for it. He'd have to accept this dead-end life.
Myeongjeon slung his guitar over his shoulder and stood from the bench. He was way past the age for moping, but music had a way of making him forget his years and act like a kid again.
Pathetic old man...
No time for maudlin crap. At his age, you owned what you had to own. He'd ditched the envy and ugliness of pining for lost talent back around twenty years ago.
About three minutes into his walk from the bench, he realized he'd left his pedalboard behind.
And then, out of nowhere, his legs gave way, and he crumpled to the ground.
Thud-thud-clang! His guitar case tumbled across the pavement.
"A-Are you okay???"
Through his blurring vision, he saw someone rushing over, yelling if he was alright.
Of course he wasn't. Was this it? He wanted more time... Struggling to breathe, to stand, to hold on.
Then, like a weight lifting from his chest, a thought bubbled up from deep inside.
Wouldn't it be better to just die like this? What's the point of dragging it out? A life crushed by unfulfilled dreams, day after day of gloom.
No parents. No kids. No wife. No friends. Just a handful of music acquaintances from back in the day. What a miserable excuse for existence—clinging on pathetically, reminded every damn day of his lack of talent. What reason did he have to keep going?
Letting go would be a relief.
As the thought settled, strength drained from his body. A faint buoyancy enveloped him, bringing an odd peace.
Just let it happen. No one would really grieve. Sorry to those few who might, but he couldn't hold on anymore. Just a single flower on the grave.
Feeling his consciousness fade, Myeongjeon slowly closed his eyes.
...
But just once in his life, he'd wanted to hear the crowd's genuine cheers for him.
"...Her eyes are opening."
"...Get the guardian ready. ...Suyeon!"
And with the clamor around him, Myeongjeon cracked his eyes open bit by bit.
Didn't die, huh. Better if he had. No death meant hospital bills. Meant dragging out the pathetic slog.
Did he really have to keep enduring this stubborn, sorrowful life?
"Ha Suyeon!"
"...Yes?"
But the name called by the doctor-looking guy in front of him... wasn't his at all.
"Ha Suyeon? Can you hear me?"
Ha Suyeon... who's that?