WCP 16

chapter 16

A stage where not even an inch ahead could be seen.

Walking along the path people call life, one comes to realize an unchanging truth:
Nothing in this world lasts forever.

Not even the eternal snow of the Alps.
Not even the flames of revolution that once seemed capable of burning everything away.
And not even the friendship with Franz Liszt, which once felt everlasting.

“Frédéric! Please wait a moment!”

“I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other.”

When did the friendship—once thought unshakable against the passage of time—begin to fracture?

Was it when he fooled around with Madame Pleyel in my apartment?
Or when his lover, Marie d’Agoult, publicly insulted me?

Perhaps it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I heard you’re leaving for Spain soon. I know it’s shameless of me, but please, just hear me out.”

It was no secret that Chopin’s illness was worsening by the day, and that he was planning a journey to Spain to recover. It was only natural that Franz would have heard of it.

“Keep it brief.”

This would likely be the last time they looked each other in the eye.

With that thought, Chopin—despite his cold tone—allowed Franz the chance to speak.

“I’d like you to attend my recital next week. There’s a piece I want you to hear.”

Franz held out two tickets, signed in his own hand.
One for Chopin, and the other for his lover, George Sand.

“…One ticket will be enough.”

No matter what, George would never come.
The rift between her and Franz was far deeper than the rift that had opened between Chopin and Franz.

Chopin returned one of the tickets.
Then, with a tone that made clear things could never be the same again, he gave his answer.

“I’ll think about it.”

And so Chopin left his old friend Franz Liszt behind, walking down the silent street.

It was a spring day in 1838.
That was the last conversation between Chopin and Liszt.

The sunlight was blinding.

Song Min-woo stirred awake from where he had been leaning against the piano, lifting his body as the red glow of the setting sun streamed through the window.

He checked the time—6 p.m. already.

He had only meant to close his eyes for a moment while practicing, but somewhere along the way his short break had become a nap.

“Time to pack up.”

He was allowed to use the music room only until 6:30 p.m. After that, he had to leave so as not to disturb the students’ evening self-study.

Looking out at the sunset-stained horizon, Min-woo quietly let go of the memories that still flickered in his mind.

Strange. Dreaming of the past like that.

Of all his countless memories, why had that one resurfaced?

Maybe it was because he still hadn’t decided on his piece for the finals.

Seven days left.

He had been practicing various works of Franz Liszt, but had yet to settle on one.

Or rather—he had chosen one in his heart, but whenever he played it, it never felt right.

No matter how many times he repeated it, there was always some hollowness in the melody.

And so, he spent the whole day chasing after other possibilities, avoiding the piece his heart had chosen.

But here he was—still undecided, exhausted, and so drained that he had drifted off to sleep.

Maybe it’s karma.

After that falling-out with his friend, he had never once played Liszt’s works. Maybe this was only natural.

With a bitter smile, Min-woo gathered the scattered sheets of music, pushed in the piano bench, locked the music room door, and stepped outside.

The evening air was a little chilly—perhaps autumn was near.

Walking with the sunset at his back, he noticed the streets were emptier than usual.

Unlike on normal days, when he left school at dismissal, he had stayed late to practice. Now the other students were already gone, leaving him to walk the street alone.

“…This isn’t so bad.”

The quiet street, the fading glow of dusk.

Bustling crowds had their charm, but this atmosphere was nice in its own way.

He let himself enjoy the rare solitude.

That was when it happened.

From the distance came the sound of a piano.

[~~~~]

A piano?

It was a familiar sound.

A slightly metallic, worn-out piano. That’s when Min-woo realized he was walking down the very street where he had once performed while busking.

This is… a ballade?

A lyrical, slow-tempo piece—an indispensable genre in classical music.

The confident yet gentle notes of D-flat major stirred the air.

Franz Liszt’s Ballade No. 1, subtitled Song of the Crusader.

A rare work in which Liszt, usually obsessed with dazzling virtuosity, set aside his tendencies to write something simpler, lyrical.

—This is for you.

The score he had once received, delivered not by Liszt’s own hand but by another’s, flashed before his eyes.

And hearing those same notes played now—through someone else’s hands—made his chest ache.

And in that ache, he understood at last the emptiness that had haunted him every time he tried to play his friend’s work for the finals.

The word that bound his hands on the keys.

…Regret.

She had first started piano at age five.

Not for any special reason—her parents had simply made her.

By chance, she had begun, and by chance, she had talent.

Jung Da-yoon recalled the faint traces of her childhood as she wandered the streets, trying to escape her worries.

I really don’t have time for this.

The finals were just around the corner.

Even if she cut into her sleeping hours to practice, it wouldn’t be enough. Wasting time outside like this, she might not even keep her usual second place.

She knew it in her head, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to return to the practice room.

Because no matter how hard she tried, first place was always out of reach.

Maybe I should just quit.

Her mindset was a mess, her condition the worst it had ever been.

If she went into the finals like this, she would only humiliate herself.

Lifting her head, she let her eyes wander the street.

That was when she saw it—a worn-out piano abandoned in a corner.

Drawn to it without thinking, she approached.

[~~~~]

The sound that came when she pressed the keys was harsh and metallic.

She couldn’t help but laugh softly.

Why did this terrible piano sound better than the polished instruments on stage?

Maybe because it reminded her of herself.

With this piano, at least, she felt she could play.

She sat quietly, placed her hands on the keys, checked that no one was around—then began to play the very piece she had dreaded.

Liszt’s ballade, its notes ringing out rough and clear.

In the practice room she always stumbled, but here the music flowed easily.

Ah… this feels good.

She just wanted to play like this.

In a place where she didn’t have to prove her worth.
In a place where no one judged her.
Just playing as her heart led.

It had started last year—her body freezing the moment she faced a stage.

Perhaps there were differences in talent.

No matter how hard she worked, she could never reach first place. The years of grinding effort only ate away at her.

She had thrown everything into the battle against geniuses, fueled by sheer stubbornness. But when that stubbornness ran dry, only a sense of loss remained.

If her effort and time couldn’t bring victory, what meaning did they have?

Why was she even doing music?
What worth did her music hold?

Such thoughts had made her fear the stage.

It felt like every pair of eyes watching her was laughing.

Telling her: No matter how you struggle, you’ll never beat the geniuses.

I thought maybe this competition would be different.

But that had been wishful thinking.

In the preliminaries, just making it through without mistakes had been the best she could manage.

The finals would be no different—or worse, she might not even get second.

“If only I could play in the finals the way I’m playing now…”

With a faint sigh, she finished the last measure of the ballade.

She was about to rise when she noticed him—
A boy on the other side of the crosswalk, staring at her.

Wait—how long has he been listening?

Her face flushed red. She tried to steal a glance at him.

I’ve seen him before.

Yes—the uniform was familiar too.

Ah, the Moonlight Sonata!

She remembered. He was the last performer in the preliminaries.

His name was… Song Min-woo, right?

She recalled the Moonlight Sonata he had played, the performance that had left her spellbound. Even now, days later, the notes still lingered in her ears.

And now, he was meeting her eyes.

The moment their gazes locked, he began walking across the crosswalk toward her.

He’s coming this way?!

She panicked. She needed to leave before he tried to talk to her.

Instinctively, she stood up quickly, trying to slip away.

But then, his words stopped her in her tracks.

“Thank you.”

“…Huh?”

That was the first thing he said after approaching her?

What on earth did he mean by that?

“Your playing reminded me… of what I had forgotten.”

Her playing? That couldn’t be right.

It wasn’t good enough to move anyone.

Yet here he was, thanking her—as if her music had awakened something in him.

She didn’t know what to say.

And then, just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there.

Watching his retreating figure, Da-yoon thought:

For some reason, his steps seemed lighter.

As if he had just been freed of a heavy burden.