Chapter 53
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 53
Chapter Title: The Man Playing the Piano
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It's been a while.
A very long while, and I sat down at the piano.
Ever since my sister told me to play it, I'd meant to, but surprisingly, the chance hadn't come up.
I didn't want to subject the rest of the family to my disastrous playing.
So I'd planned to practice when I was alone, but surprisingly, times when I had the house to myself weren't all that frequent.
Aren't you all busy? Are you guys surprisingly free?
Then today, for the first time in ages, I was home alone, so I sat down at the piano.
The last time I'd played was in sixth grade.
Now a college sophomore, it had already been seven years.
Seven years. Seven years...
In all that time, I'd neglected the piano, but Mom hadn't.
Even amid her packed schedule, she'd wipe it down whenever she had a moment.
I knew she called in a tuner every year.
Even though no one played it.
Even though it sat gathering dust, Mom took care of it.
Truth be told, when we moved here, I'd wanted to toss it.
But Mom objected.
"You might not want to now, but what if one day you suddenly feel like playing? It'd be heartbreaking if there was no piano then. And even if you never play, you can pass it on to your kids someday."
Even after the move, the piano steadily occupied one corner of my room.
Mom maintained it, just in case that unpredictable day ever came when I felt like playing.
And today, I played.
I lifted the lid and removed the key cover.
Facing the piano after so long, it somehow felt smaller.
No. The piano hadn't shrunk. I'd grown.
I spread my palm open.
It had gotten so much bigger than back when I played.
Back then, from C to D an octave up—barely a ninth—had been my limit, but now I could reach a full twelfth.
That was how much time had passed.
Once, I'd fled from this very spot, from the piano.
Back in sixth grade, preparing for the competition.
I couldn't handle the pressure.
I'd always been the son of actress Im Shin-hye, the abused child, the disabled kid.
I knew I'd gotten advantages in everything because of that.
Even if I failed at something, I never got scolded.
Achieving average results alone earned me praise as "amazing."
After Mom adopted me, that had become my normal.
The piano was the same.
If I just played decently, she'd rejoice like I had some incredible talent.
Enough to fuel my wildest dreams.
But the competition was different.
Mom's fame, my disability—none of that could interfere.
It was pure skill, judged solely on the results of my practice.
No excuses about pain or disability would fly.
None of the excuses I'd leaned on before...
I was depressed.
What if I failed? What if I couldn't perform well, couldn't earn good reviews?
What if my facade peeled away, revealing I was nothing special?
What if it turned out all my sincere effort meant nothing...?
Those thoughts made me doubt I could face judgment on my efforts.
Truthfully, I hadn't wanted to enter the competition at all.
But I knew how much Mom was looking forward to it.
So I couldn't say I didn't want to because of my weakness.
"You—never play piano again. If I hear one more note, I'll chop off your fingers. Got it?"
To me, hunting for an escape, my sister's words became my out.
The perfect excuse to quit playing.
And I used them as my emotional shield to run away.
I entered the competition but stepped off the stage without striking a single key.
Mom comforted me for it.
She even apologized, blaming herself, saying it was her greed.
Seven years had passed since then. Seven whole years, and my sister still harbored guilt over it.
She thought her words were why I'd quit.
Maybe that's why she kept buying me cars and watches, even slept with me— all stemming from that guilt.
"Hoo..."
Facing my sin at the piano.
The piano symbolized my cowardice.
A living witness reminding me what trash I was.
It tormented me. I was sickened by my own cowardice.
But I had to confront it.
For Mom's sake. For my sister's. For Mi-so's.
I had to change.
Face my cowardice head-on, acknowledge it.
And change.
Dong.
I strike the key.
Starting my solo competition, seven years late.
As a kid, I loved anything cool anyway.
Cool cars, cool robots, cool fighter jets.
Maybe I haven't changed much even now.
I loved Chopin.
Because Chopin was cool.
Even his name sounded cool. Being hailed a genius and dying young felt cool to me. His music went without saying.
I loved Chopin.
So the first piece I ever learned was set from the start.
Nocturne No. 20 in C-sharp minor, Op. Posth.
Commonly known as Nocturne No. 20.
It's famous as a movie insert song, and the very piece I'd practiced for the competition.
Come to think of it, Chopin dedicated this to his sister.
I'd been playing it when my sister scolded me to stop.
The irony made me chuckle.
I strike the keys.
My fingers dance across them on their own.
It felt strange.
My fingers were longer now, and I hadn't touched a piano in seven years, yet my body remembered.
The piano seemed to remember me too, ringing out beautifully.
It felt good.
My body overflowed with joy as I played.
Ahh. So I wanted to play piano after all.
I'd just lacked the courage since running away.
I'd always wanted to play.
Nocturne No. 20 ended, and I followed with Nocturne No. 2, which Mom loved, then Ballade No. 1.
Incredibly, I remembered them all.
A pro might curse it, the judges might boo, but I didn't care.
I was playing because I wanted to. No one was listening.
Yeah. If you want to play, just play.
Play for those who want to hear.
Worrying about reviews or prizes—that's not what mattered.
Leave that to the pianists.
I'd just play what I wanted.
I became Chopin, then Beethoven, then Debussy.
I even tackled Liszt's La Campanella, which I'd botched as a kid.
Twinkle Twinkle Little Star that I'd played with Mi-so, Cat's Fugue too.
For the first time in ages—truly ages—I played piano joyfully.
I didn't wipe the tears streaming down.
Even as they made the keys slick.
I just cried and played happily.
When I finished, Mom stood at the door.
Just like my sister once had.
Mom was crying, hand over her mouth.
I stood from the chair and bowed.
To my one and only audience.
Mom clapped hard through her tears.
Was my playing that moving?
If so, it was worth it.
With an audience this thrilled, wasn't I already a fine performer?
More precious than a hundred thousand fans—my one and only.
"Sun-hu!"
Mom rushed over and hugged me tight.
Ahh. If I'd known she'd love it this much, I'd have played sooner.
Why didn't I play earlier?
I was disgusted with my foolish past self.
"...Mom, I can't do competitions anymore, but can I still play piano?"
"Yes, yes. Of course. Absolutely, my son."
What a dumb question. Mom would never say no.
But I needed the ritual.
To shed my old self.
To release the me still chained to that competition seven years ago.
I stayed in Mom's embrace for a while.
A bit later, I played Chopin again.
This time for Mom.
She filmed me with her camera.
"I regretted not recording you as a kid. I could've listened anytime if I had."
Being filmed was still embarrassing, but seeing Mom's wistful look, I couldn't say no.
At least I played hard enough not to cringe on replay.
Maybe a solid seventy points.
"Huh? Oppa, piano...?"
Mi-so came home right then, gasping in surprise, but shut her mouth seeing Mom filming.
My precious second audience member.
"Mi-so, anything you wanna hear?"
I asked after finishing the piece.
"Can I request anything?"
"If I can play it."
"Hmm, then... Spring's 'For You'!"
Her group Spring's debut track.
It hadn't been a smash hit, but as their first, she must hold it dear.
I recalled our family huddled around the TV for her debut stage.
A nostalgic song for me too.
"Hm. Not sure if I can nail it."
I didn't remember every note.
But perfection wasn't the point.
The point was playing what I wanted, what Mi-so wanted to hear.
I fudged the forgotten parts with rough arrangements and played.
"For you~ I can do anything~♪"
Mi-so sang along to the chorus.
Haha.
We used to do this often.
Me on piano, her singing over it.
Before she dreamed of being an idol, back in early elementary school.
I played joyfully, like we'd time-traveled.
Mi-so seemed to remember too, dancing as she sang.
Mom filmed us happily.
"For you~ For you~♪ Thank you!"
A perfect family snapshot of happiness.
"Ow, ouch."
After my little recital, embarrassingly, I flopped onto the bed.
Sudden use of long-dormant hand muscles had my knuckles aching.
"Sun-hu, you sure you don't need a doctor?"
"I'm fine. It'll pass with rest."
Just stiff knuckles. A hospital for this?
After years off, hammering Chopin and Liszt— no wonder.
"Oppa! I'll massage your hands!"
"O..."
"Mom, this side."
"Ooh..."
What luxury was this?
Superstar Im Shin-hye on my left, idol Mi-so on my right, massaging my hands.
No amateur's few tunes earned this reward.
Was I allowed to be this happy?
"Sun-hu, feel good?"
"Yeah... nice..."
"Oppa, better?"
"Yeah... cool..."
Knead, knead. Knead, knead.
Blissful.
Especially Mom and Mi-so side by side on my bed.
It got me so excited down there without realizing.
Brain hyped from piano after ages?
"......"
"......"
"......"
Mom, me, Mi-so—we all went silent.
We all knew it was standing.
But we pretended not to.
That was our unspoken deal.
Till the massage ended, we all played dumb in solidarity.