51 – Da Capo(3)
51 – Da Capo(3)
51.
‘We named you Goyo because we wanted you to be quiet. It’s annoying when kids make noise or cry.’
She could barely remember her parents’ faces, yet for some reason, that sentence remained etched in her memory with disturbing clarity. You would think—is that something parents should ever say to their child?—but Han Goyo’s parents had always been that kind of people.
They had no interest in their child. To the point where it made you wonder why they had one at all.
Even when she was barely old enough to start kindergarten, they didn’t bother feeding her properly. Instead, they shoved pocket money into her hand and told her to take care of herself.
Unable to keep watching that any longer, her mother’s younger sister finally said she would raise Goyo herself and took her in.
Her aunt—now her legal guardian—was, by any objective standard, a good person. She treated Goyo, who wasn’t even her biological child, as if she were her own. Even when her real daughter began to go astray because of Goyo, she never once abandoned either of them.
And yet, that kindness tormented Han Goyo.
If only her aunt had blamed her, resented her, or even shown discomfort—ironically, that would have been easier to bear. But she never did. She always greeted Goyo with a smile that felt twisted, strained, forced.
It made her feel suffocated.
Honestly, Han Goyo preferred her uncle, who ignored her completely, over her aunt who tried so hard to be considerate. That was her true feeling.
From that point on, her aunt’s house—once the only place that had felt safe—began to resemble a prison. Every time she saw her cousin, who had gone off the rails because of her, and every time she saw her aunt smiling at her, it felt as though someone was tightening a grip around her throat.
But she couldn’t say any of it out loud.
So Han Goyo began killing her emotions.
She stopped wanting things.
Stopped expecting anything.
Quietly.
Just breathing.
Before she realized it, she was living exactly the way her parents had wanted her to live. She was living up to her name.
Goyo. Quiet.
That was when she heard that song.
“Blame (탓).”
A song that sounded as if it were telling her that the reason her world had become warped was her own fault. The moment she heard it, it stole her heart.
This is my song.
Not anyone else’s. Hers.
Han Goyo—who had never desired anything in her life—felt greed for the first time. And because of that, she gathered her courage and spoke to the person who had made the song.
Yoon Hajun.
Yes. That guy.
Her first impression of him had been terrible. Tall like a pole, yet absurdly skinny. His eyes looked at the world with lazy indifference—hardly an appealing trait.
She could never have imagined that he would be the one to change her this much.
“Phew.”
Han Goyo let out a sigh and glanced around.
The practice room at Seolwon Arts High School.
It was completely silent, with only her inside.
Very quiet. Very goyo.
At first, she had loved that silence.
But now… she didn’t.
She wanted him to come soon.
And honestly, even that noisy guy who always followed him around wouldn’t be so bad—if he could just break this unbearable stillness.
Han Goyo checked the time on her phone. He should be arriving any moment now.
Just thinking about it, she set down the book she had been reading and allowed herself a small smile.
What she had said yesterday was embarrassing. But the answer he had given her in return had been—unexpectedly, warmly beautiful.
He said he wanted to work together. That he would continue to need her voice in the future.
No one had ever needed her before.
But he did.
Just remembering it made her heart beat faster.
Then, softly, the door opened.
At the sound, Han Goyo turned toward it. Any moment now, he would walk in with that familiar drowsy expression and—
“Hello! Sorry I’m late!”
…?
§ § §
“…?”
When I arrived at the practice room, I was hit by an atmosphere so suffocating it felt like I might stop breathing.
Jin Sohyang sat with her earphones in, staring at her phone. Han Goyo was quietly reading a book, exactly as she always did.
Visually, nothing was different. They were the Jin Sohyang and Han Goyo I knew.
So why did it feel like I’d just stepped into a boiling sauna?
“You’re here?”
Han Goyo set down her book and looked at me. I nodded—and then she subtly glanced toward Jin Sohyang.
Why is she here?
Catching the look, Jin Sohyang removed her earphones and dipped her head politely.
“You’re here?”
“Ah—yeah.”
“But, um… why is Miss Goyo here?”
Right. I hadn’t told her yet that the song I was preparing wasn’t a solo.
“Well—you two know each other, right? You performed together at the Vocal Department Concert.”
“Yes, we know each other.”
“Mm.”
“We’re going to work together this time.”
Both Jin Sohyang and Han Goyo blinked at the same time. Then they looked at each other, then back at me, their expressions clearly asking, I’m working with her?
I nodded.
“To be precise, there’ll be one more person. So the three of us.”
Both of them fell silent at once.
…Yeah. Still awkward.
They’d barely spoken before, so it made sense.
“For now, want to listen to the song first?”
Music was always the fastest way to break tension. They were both singers—if they listened to the song together, shared focus might help them relax.
That was my reasoning.
Both nodded. Good.
I pulled my laptop out of my bag and played the finished track.
The song was inspired by the painting Unrestrained. The title was still undecided—I couldn’t find one that fit it perfectly.
Structurally, it had three major dynamic sections.
The first was extremely low.
The second was the bridge.
The third was extremely high.
That was only a rough division. In practice, the transitions were frequent and vivid, probably because the painting itself was so free and chaotic.
Out of all the songs I’d written so far, this one had the most variation. It even made me think, Wow. I can write music like this?
Han Goyo and Jin Sohyang listened with serious expressions. As the song progressed, their faces shifted again and again.
Watching those changes was fun.
One of the greatest joys of composing is this exact moment—the first time someone hears your creation. Half excitement, half anxiety, layered with anticipation. Watching a singer’s reaction then is strangely addictive.
Of course, if they look disappointed, it’s torture.
When the track ended, Jin Sohyang immediately raised her hand.
“Why?”
“The first part is mine, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I like it.”
Almost immediately, Han Goyo lifted her hand too—more hesitantly—and looked at me.
“And you?”
“Is the third part mine?”
“That’s right.”
“I like it too.”
She nodded firmly.
So did I.
Good. The two vocalists I needed were satisfied with their parts. That meant a solid start.
Now the problem was the second section—the bridge that had to connect them smoothly.
“Do you already have someone in mind for the bridge?” Jin Sohyang asked.
“A few, but I’m still thinking.”
We had about a week before the Winter Festival. That would be enough time to decide.
I could split the bridge between them if necessary—but honestly, I didn’t want to.
The harsh truth was that the gap between Jin Sohyang and Han Goyo was far too large to divide it fairly. At the same time, I had no intention of replacing Jin Sohyang just to match Han Goyo’s level. That extremely low opening suited Jin Sohyang perfectly, and her overwhelming stage presence was a major asset.
Which meant the bridge vocalist had to be someone who could balance that gap.
“Let’s use performance class to find the best fit.”
Both nodded.
§ § §
There was no reason the bridge singer had to be female. The structure and range leaned that way, sure—but that could be adjusted.
In fact, with two female vocalists handling the first and third sections, a male vocalist in the bridge might be even more effective—if his tone was distinctive enough. Something deep, husky, unmistakable.
Which was exactly why I wasn’t asking Kim Taeyoung.
Besides, he already had his own song to prepare.
With performance class now held twice a week, I had two sessions to find the right vocalist. In the first, I planned to listen to as many students as possible and narrow down the candidates.
I sat and looked toward the stage.
On my right was Jin Sohyang.
On my left was Han Goyo.
Both wore the same serious expression as they watched the performances.
“…What are you guys doing?”
Kim Taeyoung walked over, staring at us as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Hmm?”
“Why are the three of you sitting there with those faces, staring at the stage like that? You look like company CEOs holding auditions or something.”
“Well… it’s not wrong.”
We were picking a vocalist. It was basically an audition—just an extremely one-sided one.
“So you’re really busy right now?”
“Why? Do you have something to say?”
“Yeah.”
Taeyoung nodded, unusually serious. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem trivial.
I asked Han Goyo and Jin Sohyang to handle the rest of the evaluations and stood up. There was still another session anyway—I could cross-check using their opinions later.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
“Mm.”
After that, I followed Taeyoung to a quiet corner of the small performance hall.
Once we were alone, he spoke.
“I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“For the recording.”
“Already?”
I hadn’t rushed him, assuming it would take time to prepare mentally. I hadn’t expected him to be done already.
Seeing my surprise, Taeyoung sighed.
“The only issue is the studio. They said we have to start the day after tomorrow. What do you think? Should I just go record it myself? I don’t mind.”
All I needed was the sound of him playing the grand piano. Technically, I didn’t have to be there. I barely knew anything about recording a grand piano anyway—only that it was completely different from recording a keyboard.
I thought it over briefly, then shook my head.
“No. I’ll go too.”
Someday, I’d need to record a grand piano myself. I might as well learn now.
And more than that—I wanted to hear Taeyoung play one live. Even on a keyboard, his performances felt completely different.
How incredible would he sound on a real grand piano?
“Alright. Then come after class the day after tomorrow.”
“Do we have to finish recording in one day?”
That would be ridiculous.
Taeyoung shook his head. “Do you think I can play a full piece perfectly with one hand? Of course not. I booked it for three days.”
“So we’ll be going to the piano studio after class for three days straight.”
“Exactly.”
He nodded.
…That timing was awkward. Spending all that time at the studio would eat into work I needed to do elsewhere.
I was thinking when a perfect idea suddenly clicked into place.
A way to ease the tension between the still-awkward Han Goyo and Jin Sohyang and move the song forward at the same time.
I’d give them homework.
They would practice the final chorus, where all three vocalists sang together. It was necessary anyway. And since both of them were incredibly diligent, they wouldn’t skip it.
They’d practice. And naturally, they’d get closer.
Yes.
I really am kind of a genius.
With that thought, I said to Taeyoung, “Alright. Let’s go the day after tomorrow.”
“Got it.”
He nodded.