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14.5 – Da Capo(5)
57.
The Winter Festival, the second-semester event, began.
First-years, second-years, and a small number of third-years who still had to participate sat in the audience. Unlike the first semester’s Freshman Concert, the Winter Festival was open to all students in the Practical Music Department. In other words, even third-years who had finished the CSAT could come watch if they wanted.
Of course, only a handful of them actually showed up. Even with the CSAT behind them, they still had entrance auditions ahead.
After attendance was confirmed, the students performing in Part 1 moved to the waiting room, and preparations for the first performance began.
The Winter Festival ran for three days, and the schedule was straightforward. On the first and second day, fifty students performed each day. On the third day, sixty students performed. Each person had three minutes on stage. The Freshman Concert only allowed two, so it was one minute longer. Instead, the performances were split into Part 1 and Part 2.
Twenty-five students performed in Part 1, followed by a lunch break. After that, the remaining twenty-five performed in Part 2. Because of that, the pacing was far more relaxed than the Freshman Concert.
Sitting in the audience on the third day of performances, Yoon Hajun watched the stage.
How long had it been since he’d been able to enjoy other people’s performances with this much room to breathe? Of course, with the scholarship on the line, he couldn’t fully relax, but this was better than nothing.
As he was thinking that, the opening stage announcing the start of the Winter Festival began.
A second-year scholarship student and vocal major named Kim Nahyun stepped onto the stage. As expected of a scholarship student, her skills were excellent. The performance she prepared was a rearranged version of “Island Baby,” one of the most famous children’s songs in Korea.
It wasn’t an overwhelmingly powerful stage, but it had its own distinct charm. It was perfectly acceptable as an opening performance.
After that, the performances continued.
Second, third… and then the seventh.
Jin Sohyang’s stage began, and the moment it started, Hajun focused.
The song she prepared was “From Over There,” a track by her own group, Hwayangyeonhwa. It felt a bit like cheating, but it wasn’t against the rules. Since she had already performed it dozens of times on stage, she sang it with ease. Her vocal technique was still somewhat lacking, but her overwhelming performance ability more than made up for it.
Watching, Hajun nodded.
This was more than enough to score high.
Soon her stage ended. Hajun applauded lightly. Hearing it, Sohyang glanced toward him and smiled.
Then the performances continued, first-years and second-years taking the stage one after another.
Hajun watched every single one without missing any. He paid particular attention to the composition majors, focusing with everything he had. Before he knew it, Part 1 was over.
He stood up with Kim Taeyoung, who had been sitting beside him. They ate lunch quickly, then returned to their seats for Part 2.
After a one-hour break, Part 2 began.
The student opening Part 2 was a first-year named Im Minji, but for some reason, Hajun couldn’t focus. He covered his mouth so others wouldn’t notice and let out a small yawn.
Was it because he ate?
He was sleepy.
And honestly, he felt bad toward the students on stage, but the performances lacked distinction, which only made him sleepier. It wasn’t just him.
When he looked around, most people were either desperately fighting off drowsiness or whispering among themselves. Some even drank coffee openly.
I don’t like this.
The sight made him uncomfortable. Hajun forced himself to focus on the stage. They were working so hard up there—how could people ignore them like this?
Hang in there, he whispered in his head, quietly cheering them on. He knew firsthand how miserable it felt to be ignored on stage.
Just then, Seo Chaerim stepped onto the stage.
And still, the students weren’t paying attention.
Chaerim didn’t care. She finished her preparations and began to sing.
“Stay strong.”
The moment she opened her mouth, every eye turned to her.
The song she prepared was “Lonely,” a heavy metal track that matched perfectly with her naturally husky mid-low voice. The original key was extremely high, so she lowered it through rearrangement.
It was a bit of a shame, but it was the smart choice. Rather than forcing herself into notes she couldn’t handle, lowering the key to match her range was far better. And her voice was unique enough that it commanded attention on its own.
Watching her, Hajun felt a brief pang of sorrow.
Talent was cruel. To be given such an incredible voice, yet have to give up on becoming a singer because of other shortcomings—it felt painfully unfair.
But he didn’t pity her.
Pity could be insulting.
Besides, he was someone who once clung to being a singer, lost everything, and ran away. He had no right to pity anyone.
So he simply watched. As the song progressed, her weaknesses showed, but even so, the response she received was surprisingly good.
Soon her stage ended. The performances continued, and before long, the final stage of the first day began—the ending stage.
The one closing day one was Kang Seonghun.
Hajun straightened his posture and focused. If he had to name the biggest obstacle to winning the scholarship, it was Seonghun. What kind of song did he prepare?
In the past, Hajun would have expected a typical idol track, but hearing that Seonghun had wanted to work with Chaerim made it impossible to predict.
With anticipation and unease tangled together, Hajun watched a male student step onto the stage.
Hajun frowned slightly.
Huh? A guy?
He had assumed it would be a girl.
Did Seonghun ever do male idol songs?
Oh, right—he did.
They had all failed, though.
Whenever he worked with female idols, he achieved at least moderate success, but for some reason, his male idol songs were total flops. Every single one he produced had failed. And yet here he was, putting a guy on stage.
Then the performance started. Flashy drums signaled the beginning.
The song Seonghun prepared was an upbeat EDM trap hip-hop dance track.
Hajun let out a quiet, amazed laugh.
He’d never heard this song before. He had no idea Seonghun could even produce something like this.
The boy on stage rapped over the melody. Then, when the hook hit, another boy appeared from backstage and belted with a rock-style belt.
The students who had looked bored suddenly started waving their hands enthusiastically.
In terms of structure, it suited an opening stage more than an ending stage, but who cared? It was fun.
Seeing the reaction, Seonghun grinned with satisfaction.
This stage was a major experiment even for him. Sure, he had used trap beats and EDM elements before, but building an entire song around them was a first.
If it weren’t for Yoon Hajun—
If he hadn’t been forced to confront his own shortcomings—
He never would have tried this.
Seonghun looked toward Hajun. Hajun nodded, seeming to genuinely enjoy the song, and Seonghun smiled.
Didn’t I tell you to look forward to it?
With two years left at Seolwon Arts High, Seonghun would keep creating in every genre. One day, he would surpass Hajun and earn his recognition.
Thinking that, Seonghun clenched his fist.
Soon the performance ended, which meant day one of the Winter Festival came to a close. After a brief closing from the teachers, the students stood from their seats.
The festival wasn’t over yet.
The second day of the Winter Festival began.
Just like yesterday, attendance was checked, and the performances began immediately.
The opening stage for day two was Han Goyo.
The moment she stepped onto the stage, every student in the audience turned to look at her. With that many eyes on her, it would have been natural to feel pressure, but Goyo’s expression didn’t change. She kept her usual calm face and began to sing.
The song she prepared was “Space (Yeobaek).”
She had already performed it once at the Practical Music Concert, and yet students kept letting out gasps of admiration.
Among them was Yoon Hajun.
At the festival, Goyo had given her worst performance ever. That memory had left him secretly uneasy.
What if she messes up again?
But Goyo shattered that worry with an overwhelming stage.
Wait… is this even better than last time?
He wasn’t completely sure, but to Hajun’s ears, the “Space” she sang now sounded better than the one at the festival.
So that wasn’t even her final form?
She was still growing?
Just how far was she planning to go?
While Hajun was lost in thought, Goyo remained calm on stage. She knew better than anyone that her festival performance had been the worst. That day, she had let her emotions get the better of her and made mistakes.
But once was enough. She would never let it happen again.
And more than anything…
As she sang, she looked toward Hajun in the audience.
She remembered what he had said at the café.
Yes—because he had made her a promise.
Goyo’s voice, so full it felt like it might burst, filled the small theater. Her unique emotional intensity squeezed the audience’s hearts. Everyone stared at her as if bewitched.
Everyone except one.
Kim Taeyoung.
“That’s how it should be.”
Taeyoung, who would perform today, nodded with satisfaction.
Yeah. Having a rival like that made stepping on stage worthwhile. Otherwise, the song would go to waste.
As he thought that, Taeyoung smiled. He was always full of confidence, but today he felt it even more intensely. Right now, he felt like he wouldn’t lose to anyone.
And the source of that confidence was the song Yoon Hajun made for him.
Taeyoung’s body trembled.
Hurry.
Hurry.
Let me get on stage.
He wanted to stand up there and sing that song. He wanted everyone to hear it.
Soon Goyo’s stage ended. As she stepped down, she came face to face with Taeyoung.
Goyo looked at him.
Taeyoung smiled again.
Let’s see if you can keep that same expression after hearing my song. I’m going to show a stage so good that even you won’t be able to hide your amazement.
That was what the smile meant.
But Goyo passed by him indifferently.
Taeyoung didn’t mind.
His slot was fourth in Part 2, after the lunch break. Honestly, it wasn’t a great position. By then, people’s focus would drop—they’d be sleepy.
But Taeyoung didn’t care.
Order didn’t matter.
Only the performance mattered.
Before long, Part 1 ended. During lunch, Taeyoung ate with Hajun. The whole time, Taeyoung kept talking.
Hajun found it a little odd. Taeyoung was always talkative, but today he was especially loud.
“Nervous?” Hajun asked.
Taeyoung smirked. “Nervous? Nah. I’m thrilled. I can’t wait to show how freaking amazing I’m going to be up there.”
“You’re insane,” Hajun said, giving the perfect assessment.
Seriously? He was about to do that kind of performance, and that was what he was thinking?
Da Capo, composed by Hajun and sung by Taeyoung, wasn’t like Taeyoung’s usual energetic songs. It was a rock ballad, but it leaned more toward ballad than rock.
And he was going to sing it in that state?
“Don’t get so hyped you mess up.”
“Obviously I won’t,” Taeyoung replied firmly.
Lunch ended, and Part 2 began. Taeyoung headed to the waiting room to prepare.
“Hoo…”
He let out a short breath.
Don’t get too hyped and make mistakes.
What a pointless worry.
Taeyoung took out the outfit he had brought from home. Looking at it, a bittersweet expression crossed his face.
That excited energy he felt—
It would only last until he put on this outfit.
The moment he did, his emotions would flip instantly.
“Look forward to it,” he muttered, then changed.
Outside the waiting room, he heard the second performer finishing. At the sound, Taeyoung moved quickly, changing his clothes.
The outfit felt extremely familiar, and yet strangely unfamiliar.
Once he was dressed, he moved underneath the stage, ready to go up.
The third performer was singing, but not many people were paying attention. Everyone was either forcing themselves to stay awake, secretly napping, or chatting quietly.
The third performance ended.
Now it was Taeyoung’s turn.
He stepped onto the stage.
With help from the staff, he had a piano brought to center stage. It wasn’t the grand piano from competitions. It was the piano he had specially brought from home for this stage.
His upright piano.
The one he had played and practiced on since he was very young.
The one he had never touched again after the accident.
And now, Kim Taeyoung sat in front of it.