Discharge: A Mother's Worry and a Guitarist's Resolve
Ha Suyeon's parents upon discharge were, surprisingly, good people. To be precise, the mom was a good person, and there was no dad. In Suyeon's memories, her father had been dead for a long time. Was that why she'd gone astray? Even if so, Myeongjeon thought, dying drunk on a kickboard didn't excuse it.
"Suyeon... you okay?"
"Yeah."
On the way out of the hospital, Lee Hyein—her 'mom'—asked that as Myeongjeon walked without any support. Myeongjeon gave a short reply and kept heading to the parking lot, then suddenly turned her head. What she saw was Lee Hyein's face, slightly shrunken, saying, "What?"
Just what was their mother-daughter relationship like... Myeongjeon scratched the back of her neck.
From the moment she'd woken up three days ago until now, this 'mom' had visited every day, chatting with her. If your comatose daughter recovered, visiting daily seemed natural enough. But going to work normally and barely squeezing in visits during visiting hours? By Myeongjeon's common sense, that was a bit off.
And the visits themselves had been weird. At first, she'd sobbed her heart out; then, upon hearing about the memory loss, her face grew complicated; later, she kept gauging Myeongjeon's reactions. The small talk, too—asking if her body was okay, if she felt bad... When Myeongjeon had no words and just said, "I don't remember," or stayed silent, or listened, the woman seemed a little pleased.
What the hell happened here? Myeongjeon kept rummaging through Ha Suyeon's memories, but found nothing useful. The one clue: Ha Suyeon hadn't liked her mom much, while 'mom' kept trying to accommodate that daughter. Beyond that... in Suyeon's memories, 'mom' wasn't much of a talker. She'd silently supported Suyeon, done whatever was asked, tried to understand her, and even after screw-ups, believed in her to the end. (Though Ha Suyeon apparently didn't see it that way—at least, not to Myeongjeon's eyes.)
Aigoo... Glancing sideways at Lee Hyein, who kept peeking at her nervously, Myeongjeon sighed inwardly. What kind of hillbilly drama was this? To Ha Suyeon, Lee Hyein was mom and elder, but from Myeongjeon's view, she was just a young woman. And keeping sane after losing a husband and having a wayward kid? That deserved praise. Sure, no one left to appreciate her efforts now that he was gone.
"I'm a bit tired."
With those thoughts, Myeongjeon spoke up. "...Huh? Oh? Y-Yeah! Mom'll help!" Lee Hyein looked like she'd misheard, then beamed and supported her.
Do I really need to go this far...? With so much ahead, Myeongjeon sighed inwardly once more.
The apartment was fine. About 800 square feet. Two bedrooms, living room, closet, kitchen, balcony, etc. Compared to his rundown two-room, it was luxurious. Fridge, washer, dryer... mystery appliances, water purifier, and more. It had everything.
His old place had no room to step amid instruments, amps, gear. Even using the master bedroom as storage, stuff overflowed into the living room.
Come to think of it, what happened to all that gear...? To outsiders, junk; sold for full value, it'd fetch tens of millions. Just the Dumble amp alone went for over fifty million won. But probably scrapped. No acquaintances would've taken it; they wouldn't even know where he lived. And the landlady grandma? Clueless.
Wonder if the guitars are still there. He'd check his old place sometime. With that, she opened the door marked
NO ENTRY
.
"...This is a bit..."
"Huh?? Suyeon, what's wrong?"
Lee Hyein peeked over Myeongjeon's stunned shoulder without entering. The room was a disaster. Crumbs scattered on the floor, wardrobe non-functional. Desk buried in cosmetics, brushes, junk. Bed crammed with unidentified stuff except a sleep spot.
"Suyeon..."
'Mom' stared piercingly after seeing it.
Hey, don't look at me like that—I didn't trash it. He'd heard girls mess up rooms, but even the ones he'd visited (prepped for sex, maybe) weren't this bad.
"Did I do this?"
"...Looks like it."
Myeongjeon sighed deeply, rummaged the kitchen for bags. Trash first. Windows blinded shut, room a pigsty— no wonder she'd lost it. People need light. Bright light, away from computers and phones. Run outside, kick balls, hike, walk. That's how you become human. But these kids... glued to phones indoors, shunning books. Instagram, TikTok, SNS ruining lives. No real reading—just cartoons, fantasy novels, webnovels from those foreigners. No wonder the world's a mess, and she died on a kickboard. Truly the end times.
After showering, staring at the misty mirror... Myeongjeon thought, This is my new body.
She'd glimpsed in hospital mirrors, but this was the first full, lingering look. Hair to shoulders, forehead exposed. Balanced shoulders, decent chest, toned body, wide hips. Flawless skin. Model-like physique—perfectly proportioned feminine form.
She clenched a fist, twisted it. Slender fingers formed a small fist, unlike before. It irked her.
Hands too small, fingers too thick.
No strict physical requirements for guitarist. Hands help, but even foot-players exist. Still, advantages: long, thin fingers; big hands. Hendrix, Gilbert, Vai—bigger hands mean wider reach.
But not all greats had big hands: Page, Clapton, BB King, SRV, Gilmour—average. The real issue: sleek, thin forearms. Grip strength matters for control. Hers looked weak. His old self could crush apples easily.
Now? Probably can't even grip a plastic bottle right...
She tied back the long hair, slipped into a white tee and microfiber pants, sat at the desk with a blank notebook. Grades seemed decent. How'd she study? Shaking off the thought, she scribbled with a pen.
The most important task, in his view. Couldn't do it in the hospital's three days—drugged or sifting incomplete memories.
I get the gist of her life... but that's not enough.
Memories are flawed, biased toward the good. Need witnesses, evidence: 'mom', 'friends', KakaoTalk, SNS, etc. Gather info to clearly understand who Ha Suyeon was.
Use that info to plan ahead. Won't repeat past life. But how? Seo Myeongjeon failed—live as Ha Suyeon? Scrape her memories, words, desires, recreate her? Or... what life then?
Stifled in the stuffy room, a song slipped from Myeongjeon's lips unbidden. Well, what to do? Felt like a drum fill incoming. Silent room, yet music plunged into her ears—a new sensation. Lured to match the head rhythm on guitar. Unusual; his old self only 'practiced' or 'performed'.
She sprang up, slung an air guitar. Left hand chords, right pick. Body here, neck that far. Eyes closed, she strummed imaginary strings.
Childhood, thinking she was the world's best guitarist. Pure joy, no jealousy or regret. That live house: leaking roof in drizzling rain. Buckets under drips, rest soaked by drunks. Some clapped and sang along, others dozed, arms crossed critiquing.
Following the memory, she played that era's guitar, sang. At climax, she ended clean, then upped an octave for flair. Now, guitar solo. Bluesy tone in mind, wild air shredding—
"Suyeon, dinner... uh...?"
Door opened; eyes met Lee Hyein's. Then, it slammed shut.
...Shouldn't she get a chance to explain?