62 – mm. (2)
62 – mm. (2)
62.
The Winter Festival was over, but that didn’t mean all first-year classes were finished. There was still the most important part left: the second-semester final exams that closed out first year, and the major exam.
“Mm.”
Right now, I was leaning back against the living room sofa, working to prepare for the major exam. For some reason, there was no place where I worked better than here.
Was it because it was comfortable?
Or because it felt safe?
I didn’t know the reason, but as long as work went well, that was enough. Thinking that, I kept working—until the door opened and Suyeon came home.
“I’m back.”
“Back from the academy?”
“Yeah.”
I answered casually, and Suyeon nodded. She had just come back from lessons with Lee Jiyoon. Come to think of it, Lee Jiyoon had asked me to visit the academy once, hadn’t she?
Hmm.
When should I go?
After the major exam, I’d be meeting the head of mm Entertainment, so I should stop by after that. After settling the schedule in my head, I went back to working.
“What are you working on? My song?”
At some point, Suyeon had finished washing up and sat down on the sofa to ask. I shifted slightly away from the lingering dampness—she clearly hadn’t dried properly—and answered.
“No. It’s for the major exam.”
“So I can’t sing it?”
“It’s not that… I’m not sure.”
I muttered that and frowned.
The way I worked could be broadly divided into two methods.
The first was tailoring a song to the person who would sing it.
That meant deciding the singer from the start and creating the song to suit them. Representative examples included “Da Capo,” which Kim Taeyoung sang, as well as the songs Suyeon sang.
The second method was making the song I wanted to make first, and then fitting a person to it.
Representative examples were “Unknown Addressee,” which I submitted for the previous major exam and would soon work on with Suyeon, as well as “Main,” which I had just finished.
Ah—“Fault,” which I worked on with Han Goyo, also fit this category. Though in that case, Han Goyo had taken a song I’d already made, so it was slightly different.
The method I was using right now was the second one. I didn’t know who would sing it yet, but for now, I was making the songs I wanted to make.
That didn’t mean Suyeon couldn’t sing it. She could.
It just didn’t suit her.
“Sounds like you don’t think it’s my song, oppa.”
“How did you know?”
“Oppa, it’s written all over your face. It’s fine. During vacation, you’re going to make me tons of songs anyway.”
“That’s true.”
I nodded.
Even though discussions about a contract with mm Entertainment were underway, that didn’t mean I was giving up on growing the cloud account. In the first place, the cloud wasn’t meant to promote me—it was meant to promote Suyeon.
And who knew? If the cloud grew huge, it might even be useful for promotion later.
“Oh, right. I’ve been practicing a new song at the academy lately.”
“What song?”
“A song called ‘Comedy.’ Do you know it too?”
“I do.”
It was a fairly old song, but still a famous masterpiece loved by many people. Back when I was a singer, I had even remade it once.
Of course, the reaction had been a complete flop.
After that, Suyeon and I talked about this and that.
Trivial things.
But most of it was about wanting to become a singer as soon as possible, wanting to sing, and wanting to get back on stage.
“Well, once you get into Seolwon Arts High, you’ll be on stage as much as you want.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Let’s see—once at the freshman concert in June, once at the school festival, once on the school trip, and once at the Winter Festival in November. If your grades are good, you can also perform at the Practical Music Department concert in July.”
“So if my grades are good, I can be on stage five times?”
“That’s right.”
“Nice! Then I’m definitely getting a scholarship. I’m confident about studying, so if I just figure out singing, won’t that be enough?”
…I wasn’t so sure.
From my perspective, it wasn’t singing she needed to worry about—it was studying.
Suyeon was good at studying, but not good enough to earn a scholarship. The written exams at Seolwon Arts High were that difficult.
There was a reason Han Goyo was called an absurd genius. Her singing talent was on another level, and she always did well academically too.
“Well, just do your best.”
There was no need to say something that would dampen Suyeon’s mood. She was already conscious of Han Goyo.
For reasons I didn’t quite understand.
“Oh—a cat.”
Suyeon changed the subject. At her voice, I looked toward the TV that had been on for a while. A cat was on screen, acting cute.
Suyeon watched it with an adoring expression.
“I think cats are so cute. If I ever live alone, I really want to raise one.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They’re so lovable. Oppa, do you hate cats?”
“I don’t hate them, but…”
I trailed off.
I didn’t hate cats. I just didn’t like small animals.
How should I put it? Maybe they were a little scary.
The fact that they could be easily hurt because of me was what scared me. That was why I liked creatures of the deep sea—fish, whales, sharks.
At least those wouldn’t be hurt by me.
“Sometimes you make an expression I don’t understand,” Suyeon muttered.
I gave a bitter smile.
§ § §
“Hmm. Nice aroma.”
Ahead of the major exam evaluations, Lee Sanggyu, head of the Practical Music Department at Seolwon Arts High, muttered that and smiled. His mood had been at its peak lately.
The reason was, of course, the upcoming major exam.
Normally, major exams weren’t a welcome event for department heads.
They had to listen to around a hundred students’ songs. And that was just for composition majors. If it were vocal majors, they’d have to listen to far more.
At that point, it felt like their ears might start bleeding from exhaustion.
The reason Lee Sanggyu was actually looking forward to it was because of a few students—more precisely, a few first-years.
This year’s first-years were already being called the “golden class.” And that nickname wasn’t exaggerated. Considering what the first-years had shown so far, even that title felt insufficient.
Their talent was overwhelming.
And among those talented first-years, there was one student Lee Sanggyu especially favored: Yoon Hajun, a composition major.
“The ‘Unknown Addressee’ he made last time was excellent.”
How long had it been since he’d made a release offer the moment he heard a song? That was how good “Unknown Addressee” had been.
And it wasn’t just that song. Every piece Yoon Hajun had released so far had been excellent. Honestly, Lee Sanggyu wanted to gather them all and release them as a collection.
So what kind of song would Yoon Hajun present this time?
With that anticipation, Lee Sanggyu spent his days.
He wasn’t the only one. Other teachers also had expectations for Yoon Hajun. Some even expressed regret.
Regret that they hadn’t been the ones teaching him.
Whether Yoon Hajun knew their feelings or not, he was fully immersed in his work.
And finally, the final exams began.
Of course, Yoon Hajun took the written tests casually and spent the rest of the time sleeping. The teachers had grown used to it and eventually gave up on scolding him.
He didn’t listen anyway—what could they do?
It wasn’t like Yoon Hajun caused trouble. He always got good results in major-related exams, so the teachers compromised.
Though Park Jongseo thought differently, having to hear about it constantly.
In any case, Yoon Hajun conserved his stamina for the major exam held on the final day.
And he used that stored energy during practice. He kept playing guitar and piano, fully digesting the song he had made.
“That’s the song you’re submitting for the major exam?”
Kim Taeyoung, who had been watching him practice, asked.
Yoon Hajun nodded.
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“It’s good, but it’s really calm. Isn’t it even calmer than ‘Come Home’ that you performed at the festival?”
“It is.”
The song Yoon Hajun prepared for this exam was extremely calm. It used no other instruments—only piano lines.
“What’s the concept?”
“A letter to my future self.”
You could say it continued from “Unknown Addressee.” That song had been a letter to his family.
A letter of regret to family who had already left.
This one was different. It was a letter to himself.
To his past-life self.
In his past life, Yoon Hajun resented himself for failing and spent his days drinking and smoking. He didn’t even touch the guitar he once cherished, living like a wreck.
Then, when he opened his eyes, it was now.
With no warning at all, he had experienced regression.
And he tried to ignore that fact.
Because every time he acknowledged it, it was terrifying.
What if this regression was just a dream?
What if he fell asleep and woke up back in his old life?
That anxiety and fear surfaced from time to time. And whenever it did, one question followed.
What was my past self doing right now?
Was he dead?
Had he disappeared?
Or was he still living in that cramped room, having given up on everything?
That was where this song began.
Asking his past self what he was doing, and telling him how he was living now.
He had committed mistakes that couldn’t be undone.
But now he had been given a chance to undo them.
Through regression.
But if his past self hadn’t regressed and was still living that life—
He wanted to say something.
Encouragement, resentment—anything was fine.
Don’t stay like that. Get up. Move forward again.
He knew better than anyone how cruel it was to say that to someone who had already been broken once.
But that was exactly why he wanted to say it himself.
“Well… in the end, it’s just self-comfort.”
Still, since it was a song, maybe that was okay.
With that thought, Yoon Hajun kept moving his fingers.
And finally, the major exam began.
Waiting for his turn, Yoon Hajun ran his hand over his guitar. It wasn’t just nerves about the exam.
It was worry about the winter break that would start afterward.
The past year had gone mostly as he expected. Unexpected things happened, but he still gained everything he wanted.
So what about the next year?
Next year, he would be even busier. He planned to debut as a professional composer and support Suyeon.
If possible, he wanted to debut Suyeon quickly too.
And after she debuted—what should they aim for?
The best composer?
It would be nice.
Earning a lot of money, letting his mother live comfortably, having people listen to his songs—those were good things.
But that wasn’t his primary goal.
The reason he switched to a composition major was Suyeon.
His thoughts raced.
Signing with mm Entertainment, growing the cloud with Suyeon, and then—
“Hajun?”
Teacher Ha Hyoju’s voice broke through his thoughts. He stopped thinking and stood up.
It was his turn.
He entered the exam room. The teachers from the first-semester major exam were already waiting.
“Oh, you’re here?”
The department head, Lee Sanggyu, greeted him first.
Yoon Hajun nodded and returned the greeting. But their gazes felt strange.
Sweet. Indulgent.
“Shall we start with your work summary?”
“Yes. Here it is.”
Yoon Hajun stood and handed over the prepared summary. The teachers read it with interest.
“This one’s brighter than last time.”
At Lee Sanggyu’s comment, the teachers chuckled.
They remembered the previous summary—overly honest, embarrassingly emotional.
And the song that matched it.
This summary was brighter.
What would I be doing in the future? What was I doing in the past?
A letter sent across multiple timelines.
Questions asked in anxiety—am I doing well right now?
It felt like worries appropriate for someone his age.
“He really has range.”
Not just his music—his thoughts and words differed from his peers.
Artists were often eccentrics, but among them, Yoon Hajun stood out.
If Yoon Hajun heard that, he’d probably call it nonsense.
In any case, after finishing the summary quickly, Lee Sanggyu spoke with excitement.
“Let’s listen to the song.”
“Yes.”
“Your major instrument is guitar again, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Lee Sanggyu rested his chin in his hand, settling in to enjoy the music. The other teachers adjusted their posture as well.
After confirming they were ready, Yoon Hajun slowly began to play.
His fingers moved lightly. The calm sound of an acoustic guitar filled the room.
As always, his playing was simple. No flashy technique, just solid fundamentals.
Comfortable.
The teachers’ eyes shone as they watched him play.