The Owner of the Letter (1)

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The year the letter was written.

The personality of the artist mentioned in the letter.

A handwriting so atrocious it was obvious at a glance.

And most important of all—

The 'thing' mentioned in the letter itself.

"Beethoven."

Ludwig van Beethoven, the German-born composer.

"Do you know Beethoven the composer?"

"Of course."

There it was. Since Yang Myeonghyun knew about Beethoven, my explanation would go much more smoothly.

Thankfully, there was still no sign of the room shrinking.

Of course, before long that unpleasant creaking would start up again—but still.

"I've been thinking about what the 'thing' was that Van Gogh cast away."

"He made a grand, complete break with a friend of his. And he threw his life away, too. And there are countless artists who've done things like that."

Just as Yang Myeonghyun said, it was hard to pin Van Gogh's castaway down to a single thing in his life.

"You're right, Myeonghyun-ssi. But that's exactly why—"

Van Gogh was a man who was mentally unstable and wildly impulsive.

Both in his relationships and in his own private emotions, his rage and his sorrow ran fierce, and when they erupted, they exploded.

And that man had discarded something he possessed.

"Which is why we should think of the especially well-known traits of Van Gogh and Beethoven. The Museum tends to pick artists who are widely popular, so that even visitors who didn't major in art can still climb the tower."

Someone whose face and story the general public knew.

"Van Gogh threw his away—but the other side had theirs forcibly taken. A person who lost something so precious they'd come to curse Van Gogh, who had trampled their own fortune."

That thing was—

"I believe it's the ear."

"Ah."

Yang Myeonghyun let out a small gasp, as if the argument had landed better than before.

Van Gogh cut off one of his ears. Beethoven lost his hearing. Both had lost their 'ears.'

To put it precisely, Beethoven lost his hearing—but within a tower steeped in art, this much metaphor should be permissible.

"I can see why you thought of Beethoven, Jisan-hyung. I'd heard Beethoven had terrible handwriting, too. But among all the countless other artists, there ought to be a more compelling reason to choose Beethoven specifically."

'We haven't talked much at length, but he seems to have a decent amount of art knowledge.'

Come to think of it, to make it up to Floor 10, you needed either help from other visitors or knowledge of your own—one of the two.

Yang Myeonghyun was clearly the latter, which meant our alliance would only grow more valuable from here.

'But the more knowledge he has, the harder he'll be to convince.'

Convincing him through words alone, the way I had with Jang Siwoon or Go Gyumin, might prove difficult.

This was a quest we had to solve together, so I couldn't act unilaterally—and I didn't want to, either.

I needed evidence to persuade him. Solid evidence.

'...The Docent. If I show him the data stored in the Docent, I could bring Yang Myeonghyun around much more easily.'

But doing so would mean exposing my most important personal Perk ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to him.

A Perk I hadn't even revealed to Jang Siwoon and Go Gyumin, who had climbed beside me for far longer than Yang Myeonghyun had.

'But there's no time.'

This wasn't a choice born of trusting him. It was a choice made to escape this room.

"Docent, activate. Search: Ludwig van Beethoven."

A leaflet with the texture of old parchment appeared, floating between Yang Myeonghyun and me.

The rolled-up leaflet unfurled downward in a long strip.

Shhhh—

"...?"

'It seems Yang Myeonghyun can't see it.'

I'd never activated the Perk in front of Jang Siwoon or Go Gyumin, so I'd never had a chance to confirm whether the leaflet was visible to others.

In that case—could I share it through a command?

"Docent, share."

"!!"

The sharing command must have gone through, because the moment my words ended, Yang Myeonghyun's mouth fell wide open.

I ran my eyes down the long unfurled leaflet and pared away everything unnecessary, every piece of redundant information.

Far more swiftly than when I'd organized it alone last time.

'I used to grind my teeth every time I had to analyze and compile data at work—but turns out it all had its uses after all.'

It wasn't exactly the same as my old job, but that old skill of rolling my eyeballs into overdrive came right back.

Working my thoughts and my hands at the same time, it wasn't long before the leaflet I intended to show Yang Myeonghyun had been condensed into a far cleaner summary.

"First, the handwriting that showed itself in the letter."

"......"

"Just as you said, Myeonghyun-ssi—Beethoven had notoriously bad handwriting. And he's known as a deeply emotional, temperamental artist."

The quest letter had made much the same mention.

I recited the passage from the letter Yang Myeonghyun was holding in his hand.

Perhaps finding my Docent ability fascinating, he looked back and forth between the letter and the leaflet, comparing the contents.

"They're from different eras and different fields, but they clearly share many common threads—in temperament, and in the shape of their lives."

Vincent van Gogh and Ludwig van Beethoven.

Both were geniuses who sublimated their pain into art—but their paths through life were so treacherous that the pain edged close to madness.

And therein lay a certain irony: the deeper they retreated into worlds of their own, the more masterpieces they produced.

"This dictionary seems to be a Perk only you can have, Jisan-hyung."

Yang Myeonghyun gazed curiously at the leaflet, so neatly organized by the Docent ability.

I hurriedly waved both hands, worried I might invite suspicion that I'd been granted special favor from the Museum or the Curator.

"But it wasn't free. It's my memory converted into data. I read a lot of books, you see."

"Then I find that difficult to accept."

Hm?

Perhaps because I'd rushed to defend myself—

Yang Myeonghyun abruptly shifted his stance to something far more resolute.

"I'll admit my knowledge of art falls short of yours, Jisan-hyung. But can you be certain your memory is perfect?"

"......"

"When did you acquire all that knowledge?"

"Mostly in elementary ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠or middle school—"

"That was quite a long time ago. And if you gathered it mainly from books, your memory of music must be all the more faded. Is your auditory material sufficient?"

"...Well enough that I'd recognize a piece if I heard it."

Yang Myeonghyun's doubt was entirely reasonable.

If I'd absorbed incorrect knowledge about art—if my memories had warped somewhere along the way—then the Docent's leaflet couldn't be trusted.

And truthfully, back on Floor 2 with Sugungga, and ever since, my knowledge of music had been measurably weaker than in other fields.

Most of my knowledge had come from the school library or from classes, after all.

'If you wanted to explore art for free, that was the only way. I didn't even have a smartphone until I was an adult.'

"But the brain remembers far more than we think, so—"

No. Appealing to him with that kind of excuse was pointless.

I steadied my breath and lowered my gaze, colder now than before.

'I don't labor under the arrogant delusion that my word is automatically the correct answer. But.'

"Then tell me, Myeonghyun-ssi—which artist do you have in mind?"

"......"

If you find it hard to accept, then put forward an idea of your own.

"In any case, you do accept the common ground between Van Gogh and Beethoven, don't you?"

"That much, yes."

"The hints we can draw from inside this room are limited, like I said—so all we can do is recall a widely popular artist through their most striking traits."

"......"

"And then there's the woman in that frame."

I pointed with my finger at the painting hanging on the wall above the bed.

The very picture I had studied carefully a moment ago.

"It isn't a dress from Van Gogh's era—it looks like something from the early 1800s, precisely the period when Beethoven's most famous works premiered as his hearing failed him."

"If what you say is true, then she must be a woman connected to Beethoven."

"Exactly. And if she's Beethoven's beloved—wouldn't that be 'Für Elise'?"

"Für Elise."

'Just the title might not ring any bells for him.'

Unfortunately, I was tone-deaf—I had zero confidence in producing an accurate pitch. Which meant—

"♪ Geu, ni-na-ni-na, it's a gorilla~ You know it?"

"......"

When I awkwardly hummed that ancient playground tune, Yang Myeonghyun's expression turned a shade more ambiguous.

Meeting those flat, unimpressed eyes of his was profoundly awkward.

Our relationship, already not close, seemed to have gained another layer of distance.

"Jisan-hyung. You said you're twenty-eight... didn't you? You're more seasoned than you look."

"Seasoned? No, look, back in my neighborhood that song was pretty—ah, never mind. Anyway, that's the piece called 'Für Elise.'"

I had no intention of offering the pathetic excuse that I'd once heard my older brother's friends singing it from a distance.

Fine. I'd just accept being treated like an old man.

Shhhh—

"The identity of Elise is debated to this day, but Beethoven dedicated many of his works to his lovers, so it's generally assumed Elise was a real person too."

"......"

"So to answer Beethoven's letter, I think we should choose 'Für Elise' as the art we present to him."

"...Unlike me, who can't think of an answer at all, you even have evidence, Jisan-hyung."

There it was.

"I have no rebuttal."

~~~

Then, suddenly, a beautiful piano melody began to drift through the room.

'Für Elise' was ringing out!

Among Beethoven's piano pieces it was on the simpler side—but simple was not the same as shallow.

It was a piece where you could discover the beauty of a melody in its purest form.

"It seems that was the correct answer."

'The correct answer...'

Why, then? The room playing Für Elise meant my deduction had been right.

And yet something nagged at me. The correct answer, the correct answer, they said.

"Jisan-hyung. May I write the letter in Hangul?"

"...I don't see why not. The handwriting in the letter comes through as Hangul to us, doesn't it?"

I had already made my full case to Yang Myeonghyun; entertaining fresh doubts now was pointless.

And that unease was nothing more than a feeling anyway.

Yang Myeonghyun stood at the bed, bending his back over the desk, and dipped his pen into the ink that sat upon it.

And then, in that awkward posture, he began to write out his reply to the letter laid against the desk.

"You write well."

"It's nothing. Writing is my trade, such as it is—if I couldn't manage even this much, that would be a problem."

"Oh, Myeonghyun-ssi. You're a writer?"

"......"

'What—why did he swallow the answer? No, wait. It's my fault for making small talk when he's busy.'

Here he was, writing the single most important reply, and I was distracting him with chitchat.

Besides, he might prefer to keep his profession hidden.

From what I'd seen, Yang Myeonghyun didn't seem the type to lay his inner self bare for outsiders.

So I turned my body to the side, letting him concentrate on the letter.

But then—the painting frame behind his bent back, visible over his shoulders, looked somehow wrong.

A great tree at the center of the picture, surrounded by natural scenery.

The white sky seemed to depict an overcast daytime.

'Huh...? A star?'

Staring hard at the frame, I found something that differed from the actual Van Gogh painting. At the very edge of the white sky, a bright yellow star had been stamped there.

'It's daytime—so why is there a star?'

Creeeak—

Just then, as if the tower had decided its moment had finally come after holding back for so long, the room began to shrink.

I heard the bed and the chair crash into each other and splinter apart.

The room shook more violently than it had at any point so far, and even the frames hanging on the walls rattled.

"Wh-whoa!"

And then the cord holding a frame on its nail snapped clean through.

I threw both arms over Yang Myeonghyun's back and snatched the framed painting out of the air.

"What's happening?"

"A frame almost fell—I caught it. You're fine, so don't worry and keep writing."

"Understood."

Having confirmed I was safe, Yang Myeonghyun immediately bent back over the letter.

I took another look at the painting in the frame I'd caught.

'A star. A star that looks almost like a mistake against a daytime sky.... Vincent van Gogh would never make an error like that. Which means—'

The Museum had planted this marker deliberately. But why on earth?

Wondering whether the frame held some further clue, I was turning it back and front to examine it—

"...?!"