63 – mm. (3)
63 – mm. (3)
63.
“Calm.”
That was the very first thought that came to mind as he listened to Yoon Hajun’s performance. Calm. There were no dramatic changes in the song’s progression.
No—more than that, there wasn’t even a highlight section. Naturally, there was no buildup meant to lead into a highlight either.
It began calmly and ended calmly.
That didn’t mean it evoked nothing.
This song was like a fine drizzle.
Just as you don’t realize your clothes are getting wet in a light rain, as you listened, you unknowingly sank into sadness. You were drawn into the faint sorrow hidden within the gentle performance.
Ha Hyoju let out a soft hum through her nose.
It really was interesting.
At times, he showed the air of a seasoned composer far beyond his age. At other times, he looked like an artist constantly experimenting with new things.
And right now, he was showing something appropriate for his age.
A smile spread across the teachers’ lips. They knew they shouldn’t think this way while listening to a song filled with a student’s worries, but still—
It was endearing.
And admirable.
Seeing their expressions, Yoon Hajun, who had finished playing, looked flustered. Why were the teachers reacting like that?
Did I mess up the performance?
This was a song designed to draw listeners in, to make them empathize with sadness or worry as they listened.
So why were they smiling?
At that moment, the department head, Lee Sanggyu, spoke in a relaxed tone.
“Shall we listen to the track?”
“Sure. I’ll play it.”
Quickly, Ha Hyoju played the song Yoon Hajun had submitted on her laptop. The music flowed out through the speakers installed in the exam room.
A melody made up of nothing but piano.
At first glance, it sounded closer to an instrumental piece than a pop song.
As the performance continued, other sounds began to mix in. Not other instruments.
These were sounds Yoon Hajun often used—noises from everyday objects.
The pencil sounds he had used in “Unknown Addressee” before. You could hear a pencil scribbling on paper. And yet, there was a sense of melody in that sound.
The rustle of pages turning.
The scratch of a pencil.
The sound of fingers tapping on a desk, as if deep in thought.
The pencil again.
And the sound of erasing.
Those sounds repeated, melting into the piano performance.
“Truly… excellent.”
Lee Sanggyu closed his eyes completely. Evaluation could wait—right now, he just wanted to focus on this song. Like rain tapping against a window, the song stirred emotion.
Worries young people might have, paired with an extremely seasoned structure. It wasn’t just calm. He introduced variation using paper, pencil, and tapping sounds.
The song, just over two minutes long, came to an end.
At the same time, Lee Sanggyu spoke to Yoon Hajun.
“This song is very calm. Looking at your summary, it’s about feeling anxious about yourself and seeking answers from the future. Was there a reason it needed to be this calm? Usually, songs with that kind of concern have clear progression—either deeply heavy throughout, or heavy at first and then turning bright. But this one stays calm from beginning to end. I was wondering why.”
Lee Sanggyu wasn’t questioning the choice critically. He was genuinely curious why this structure had been chosen.
Yoon Hajun thought for a moment before answering.
“Because it’s my song, and my worry. There are worries that make your chest feel tight just thinking about them, worries that cause intense anxiety. But this isn’t that kind of worry. It’s something I think about every day. And if it’s something you think about every day, getting overly emotional about it would be exhausting, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s true.”
“I debated a lot about what song to submit. But I thought that even small, everyday worries could be turned into a song. Like a diary made into music.”
“If it’s a diary, you’d have to write it consistently. Are you planning to keep making this as a series?”
“Not every day. Maybe once a year? Since this is a diary wrapping up the year, the melody would change every time, but… yes. I want to leave them behind.”
“Hm.”
So that was why it was called “Diary.” As always, nothing in Yoon Hajun’s music was without reason—not the white noise added in the middle, not the title.
“If you’re having worries like this every day, you must have a lot on your mind.”
“I can’t help but feel anxious.”
At Kim Jingu’s question, Yoon Hajun nodded honestly. Of course he was anxious. Anxiety about the future. Having already failed once, that anxiety was even stronger.
The pressure of never making the same mistake again.
The pressure to make more perfect songs.
And worries about talent, and countless other things.
Lee Sanggyu fell silent for a moment.
What should he say to this student?
Should he tell him to stop worrying because it wouldn’t help? Would that even be an answer?
If it were him, hearing something like that would just make him angry.
He didn’t want to say something empty that would go in one ear and out the other.
He wanted to say something that might actually help this brilliant student.
As Lee Sanggyu pondered, Ha Hyoju spoke up.
“Save your worries and anxiety for real life.”
“…What?”
At her unexpected words, Yoon Hajun asked back.
Ha Hyoju smiled lightly.
“I mean, don’t doubt and worry over your own songs. If the creator doesn’t trust and love their work, who else will? So keep those worries in real life.”
“…Ah.”
At her words, Yoon Hajun’s mouth fell slightly open, as if he’d realized something. In his past life, he had always sung about despair. He poured all his failures into his songs, and those songs were ultimately ignored.
Every time, he resented it. Why wouldn’t anyone listen to his songs?
He blamed others, blamed his lack of talent, hated the songs he made—and then made the same kind of songs again.
A vicious cycle.
And now, Ha Hyoju was telling him not to make that mistake again.
“You can make any kind of song you want. And the song you make might not be loved. But at the very least, you should love your own song. Maybe this is unnecessary meddling, but I’ve seen too many juniors like that.”
Ha Hyoju smiled bitterly as she said it.
Yoon Hajun answered absentmindedly, “Yes.”
Don’t deny your own songs. Love them.
Those words lingered in his head.
Tap, tap—he lightly tapped his thigh with his fingertips. Goosebumps ran up his spine.
“Then let’s listen to the chord sheet last.”
“That’s a shame. It’s already the last part.”
“Didn’t we have this exact conversation last time too?”
The teachers laughed.
Yoon Hajun went to the piano and smoothly played through the chord sheet. After exchanging a few more words with the teachers, he left the exam room.
After he left—
The department head and teachers began talking about him.
“Excellent again this time.”
“At first, it was so different from what I expected that I was startled, but the more I listened, the more I liked it.”
“It’s the kind of song that soothes tired ears.”
“But didn’t Hajun seem a bit strange at the end?”
At Kim Jingu’s question, they recalled Yoon Hajun just before he left—looking distracted, as if lost in thought.
“He played well, but he seemed spaced out.”
“I wonder what he was thinking about.”
“He might have been worrying about worries. Hmm… maybe I said something unnecessary.”
At Ha Hyoju’s murmur, Lee Sanggyu let out a sigh. Normally, he should have been the one to say those words.
“Well… he’ll be fine.”
Lee Sanggyu replied, pursing his lower lip.
§ § §
“How’d it go? Think you’ll get a scholarship again?”
As soon as I exited the exam room, Kim Taeyoung, who had been waiting, asked.
I nodded.
He was about to say something else, but I stopped him by holding up my palm.
“Wait.”
Please just shut up for a second. My head itched.
Something kept circling in my mind—Ha Hyoju’s words.
Love your own songs.
Without realizing it, I asked myself: had I ever loved the songs I made?
What did I think of them?
At first, I hated them. I hated remaking songs that had never been loved.
But when I rearranged and worked on them, it was more enjoyable than I expected.
I genuinely liked doing it for my younger sister, who had talent I didn’t.
But that pure enjoyment turned into impatience.
Surrounded by people with outstanding talent, I lived constantly anxious and restless—so intensely that even CEO Kwon Suyoung had told me not to work that way.
While working frantically like that, did I ever love my songs?
If I had to answer—no.
I didn’t feel love or hate. I felt nothing.
I worked like I was being chased, and once I finished one song, I moved straight on to the next.
Melodies from the songs I’d made so far floated through my head.
Love your own songs.
The melodies faded away.
The songs I’d made disappeared.
And in their place, a new melody emerged.
“Is the practice room open right now?”
“It should still be open.”
Okay.
I nodded and headed straight for the practice room.
Kim Taeyoung followed me.
Not just him—Han Goyo appeared from nowhere and joined us.
Ignoring them, I went inside and sat in front of the piano, lightly warming up my fingers.
A friend once said inspiration was unpredictable.
That you feel it in the most unexpected places.
I think I understand that now.
Feeling inspired by a painting made sense. Plenty of people made songs inspired by artwork.
But this time, I felt inspiration from something as trivial as one sentence from Ha Hyoju.
Love your own songs.
What was so special about that?
Even I found it ridiculous and let out a dry laugh.
Slowly, I began to play the piano.
This inspiration was different from the last one.
Before, a fully formed melody had appeared in my head.
Nothing else intruded—only that melody.
But now, all the songs I had made so far surfaced in my mind.
What were those songs like?
What were the people who sang them thinking?
How did the audience react?
Those thoughts turned into melody.
It felt strange.
I laughed.
My fingers kept moving, dancing across the keys without stopping even once.
“Whew.”
After finishing, I let out a deep breath—like releasing all the air I’d been holding in at once.
“Did you get inspiration again?”
Kim Taeyoung asked.
I nodded.
Han Goyo stared at me blankly.
Looking at them, I asked,
“So? How was it?”
“When can we record? Should we do it right now?”
“…I’m ready to sing anytime.”
Their answers made me smile in satisfaction. The anxiety that had plagued me for days vanished like a lie.
In its place, anticipation filled me.
I wanted next year—the year that had only scared me—to come quickly.
I felt confident.
I wanted to debut as a composer as soon as possible and officially release music.
I wanted to release albums with Suyeon and keep working with others.
My legs bounced restlessly.
When was the mm Entertainment meeting again?
The day after tomorrow?
“So who are you giving that song to?”
At Kim Taeyoung’s question, I smirked.
“This one? I’m not giving it to anyone.”
“Huh? What, are you going to sing it yourself?”
“No, not that.”
“Then?”
“I need to find someone to sing my song.”
This wasn’t a song made to be given away.
It was my song.
So instead of giving it, I would find the person who would sing it.
“What, you’re not going to perform it at a school festival or something?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I cleared my throat once, then smiled.
“I’m signing with a company and releasing it officially.”
Kim Taeyoung and Han Goyo looked shocked.
§ § §
“Yoon Hajun…”
Seo Hoon, the CEO of mm Entertainment, cleared his throat as he sat in the meeting room.
Originally, he had planned to go to Seolwon Arts High himself, but Yoon Hajun had said he would come to the company instead.
So now, Seo Hoon was waiting.
According to his niece Seo Chaerim, the songs uploaded to the cloud were just the tip of the iceberg.
So what would the songs he made really be like?
Seo Hoon took a sip of coffee, anticipation on his face.
He intended to sign Yoon Hajun.
It didn’t have to be an exclusive composer contract.
He wanted the songs themselves.
Especially “Come Home.”
No matter what, he wanted to secure that song.
“CEO, the guest has arrived.”
An employee’s message came through.
There was only one guest scheduled for today.
Seo Hoon stood up and headed to the entrance.
A male student in a school uniform stood there—tall, with messy hair that made him look stifled. His eyes and nose were half-hidden by it, but just looking at his jawline, he was fairly handsome.
“You’re Yoon Hajun, right?”
Seo Hoon approached and asked.
Yoon Hajun nodded lightly.
“Yes.”
“Welcome. I’m Seo Hoon, CEO of mm Entertainment.”
Seo Hoon smiled as he said it.