WCP 26

chapter 26

The language called music is sometimes stronger than words.

Because music can contain emotions that no sentence could ever fully convey.

Music carries emotions, and emotions move people’s hearts.

Emotion.

Something that can be expressed in words, but never truly explained—something everyone keeps buried deep within their hearts.

Language, music… in the end, what both seek to communicate is that emotion.

So, if one can understand the emotion contained in the sheet music, then one can catch a glimpse of the fragments of the composer’s life.

‘…Though, it’s not as easy as it sounds.’

It had already been three days since Minwoo Song immersed himself in finishing the unnamed pavane.

The lunch hour he normally devoted to practice had somehow become his “composition time.” With a wry smile at this thought, he sat at the desk in the music room, twirling his pen back and forth.

“Good grief, I feel like I’ve turned into Süssmayr.”

Franz Xaver Süssmayr.

Anyone familiar with Mozart’s life would know that name.

Because it was Süssmayr who completed Mozart’s final work—his only requiem—of which only the first eight measures of the Lacrimosa had been composed before his death.

It was he who finished the work of none other than Mozart.

Of course, his skill was remarkable, but Chopin’s respect for Süssmayr stemmed from something else—his courage.

The courage to step into composition while shouldering the colossal burden of carrying Mozart’s name.

Süssmayr, an almost unknown musician, known merely as Mozart’s pupil, had achieved what even the greatest musicians of his time hadn’t dared to attempt.

How could one not respect him as a fellow musician?

‘Though, comparing myself to Süssmayr might be stretching it a bit.’

Unlike Süssmayr, who had only eight measures to work with, this pavane was in a better position—at least half of it was complete.

But the problem lay elsewhere: Maurice Ravel’s original pavane wasn’t the kind of music Minwoo was particularly familiar with.

Luckily, this arrangement carried more of the Romantic style of Chopin’s era than the Impressionist style of Ravel’s. If not, he wouldn’t even have dared attempt to finish it.

“…An unfinished piece.”

When he thought about it, he too had left pieces unfinished in his lifetime.

Two hundred years later, what had become of them?

Perhaps the reason he felt compelled to complete this one was because he saw himself in the old man’s wife.

But did that matter?

He had begun this out of a desire to fulfill the composer’s wish, so it was something he had to do.

With that single conviction, Minwoo began to fill the blank spaces in the score.

Or rather, he tried to begin.

[Grrrgle—]

“……”

…Come to think of it, he hadn’t had lunch yet.

Hunger scattered his focus, gnawing at him with cravings.

But giving in to appetite now felt like too much of a waste, with inspiration just about to spark.

“One skipped meal won’t kill m—”

[Grroowl—]

His stomach growled louder than before.

With a grimace, Minwoo slapped his belly hard, which calmed it for a moment…

[Grrooorrr—]

…but alas, it was still on strike, loudly demanding food.

‘Guess being young isn’t always a blessing.’

Back in his twenties and thirties, one meal a day had been enough, leaving no time to feel hunger.

But now, in the body of a growing teenager, even though he hadn’t skipped breakfast, by lunchtime he felt drained of all strength.

Resigned to the demands of his young body, Minwoo reluctantly stood up and headed for the snack bar… leaving his fleeting inspiration behind.

At evening, when the red sunset spilled through the window, gazing blankly at the sky often brought back faded memories.

The reddish sunset. The gentle aroma of coffee filling the air, the slightly bitter taste lingering on the tongue. And amid it all, the quiet strains of a melody in A major.

Turning his head toward the now-blurred tune in memory, she was always there.

Playing the piano, smiling brightly at him.

But soon, her image would waver.

The crimson sunset would fade, replaced by stark white walls.

The gentle coffee aroma vanished, replaced by the stinging smell of antiseptic.

The gentle melody disappeared without a trace, leaving only the cold hum of machines filling the air.

And even in this changed scenery, she was still there.

Unable to smile anymore.

—Dear, do you know what my wish is?

‘…What was it again?’

Her wish, once heard in passing, no longer came to mind.

That’s how memories become buried.

Covered over by colder memories, by painful moments.

Why was it so? Surely there had been more happy moments than sad ones.

So why, when looking back, was it only the hospital room that lingered before his eyes?

Time, he once believed, would eventually cover even that sorrow.

Forty years had passed in that belief… yet the wound left by farewell was still raw, still painful.

Trying to soothe that wound, he had clung to his wife’s pavane—but it had been futile.

Over and over, hundreds of times, he had erased and rewritten, trying to finish her score.

As the red sunset dyed the faded sheet music, Jongsoo Yoon muttered quietly:

“…Perhaps it’s time to let go.”

For so long he had held on.

Even knowing it was no different from digging into his own wound, he had clung stubbornly to it.

But enough was enough.

Gently, he placed the faded score deep into a drawer.

And just as he was about to close it, the door chime rang from the entrance.

A customer, at this hour? That was unusual.

Groaning softly, Yoon rose stiffly and turned toward the door.

The late visitor was none other than Minwoo Song.

“What brings you here at this hour?”

“There’s something I wanted to give you.”

A gift, perhaps?

“Tsk, you should’ve been practicing the piano instead of wasting time on nonsense.”

Yoon clicked his tongue and scolded him curtly.

“Sorry, sir. I just thought it was something I absolutely had to deliver.”

“Well, let’s see it then.”

Gesturing for him to hand it over, Minwoo pulled something from his bag—it was sheet music.

A score drawn with melodies in A major. No title, no composer’s name. But Yoon recognized it immediately.

“…The pavane.”

“Yes.”

“Did you compose the latter part yourself?”

At Yoon’s question, Minwoo shook his head.

“No, sir. I just scribbled in a few notes however I pleased.”

He answered with a wry smile.

“The ending your wife left behind… I think only you would truly remember it.”

“…Perhaps.”

So much had been eroded by time. Could he really say he still remembered?

“Too much time has passed—for me, and for this pavane.”

Now, he wasn’t even sure if the melody in the score was the one he had been desperately searching for.

“…Foolish, wasn’t it? Thinking I could remember forever.”

His mistake had been not trying to capture the melody while his wife was still alive. His arrogance had been believing he could defy time.

“But still—you never let it go, did you?”

Minwoo’s words pierced the silence.

“I think that alone is enough. Because in the end, all the living can do for the departed… is remember them.”

Was it his imagination, or was there a deep sorrow in the boy’s voice?

“…You speak well, for someone so young.”

“I’ve just… been through more than most my age.”

Minwoo gave an awkward smile, as though it wasn’t anything special.

‘To remember, huh…’

He was right. That’s all the living could do for the dead.

“…Perhaps that’s enough. Maybe it always was.”

Yoon gazed at the sheet in his hands.

Notes engraved into the blank measures his wife had left.

Was it just his imagination, or did they feel oddly familiar, as though she herself had written them?

Was this truly what she had intended? He would never know.

How could one know the heart of someone who had already gone?

All one could do was guess, dimly, and remember.

There had been a time when all those memories—joy, sorrow, longing—were vivid.

As vivid as this sheet of music, freshly inked with notes.

And perhaps that was enough.

Satisfied with that thought, Yoon looked at the score.

“Would you like to hear it?” Minwoo asked softly.

“No… best not. If I hear it now, I’ll only be left with more regrets.”

Though grateful for the boy’s thought, listening would only deepen his lingering attachment.

“I’ll accept the gift with thanks. But now, you should head home—I’ve got a customer waiting.”

“A customer?”

At Minwoo’s puzzled look, Yoon jerked his chin toward the window.

Outside, Hans Zimmermann was peering curiously through the glass.

“Ah, I see. I’d best not disturb such an important guest.”

“Important, my foot. He’s just some piano player.”

“Haha, you’re the only one who could say that, sir.”

With a quiet laugh, Minwoo bowed politely.

“Then I’ll be off, sir.”

“Alright. Take care on your way.”

What a polite boy, not at all like kids these days.

After seeing him out, Yoon turned back toward the window and shouted:

“Hey! If you’re here, stop loitering outside and come in already!”

What was so interesting about eavesdropping on another’s conversation? For a world-renowned pianist, he seemed to have far too much free time.

“…I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping…”

“Enough of that. You’re here to nag me about tuning the piano again, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—please hear me out, Mr. Yoon.”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“…Wait, pardon?!”

Zimmermann’s eyes widened.

“What, don’t you want me to?”

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s just…”

The old man had never given in so easily before. Bewildered, Zimmermann froze, his face clearly asking: What changed his mind?

In answer, Yoon handed him the score Minwoo had left.

“Be grateful to that student. Thanks to him, my heart’s been lightened.”

“This is—”

Zimmermann examined the sheet carefully.

After staring at it for a long time, he finally muttered, incredulous:

“…Impossible. Are you saying Mr. Song wrote this?”

“Why? Is something wrong with it?”

“N-no, not at all. If anything, it’s flawless—so flawless it feels like a problem.”

His reaction made it clear—the piece’s quality was remarkable.

Even Yoon, who knew little of composition, had immediately been reminded of his wife by the notes.

For a top pianist like Zimmermann, the shock of seeing the missing section restored so perfectly must have been enormous.

“So, it’s as well done as you say?”

“…Yes. Honestly, I feel guilty just seeing such a work for free.”

At this level, it could be sold to any publisher, Yoon thought. And judging by Zimmermann’s expression, he was thinking the same.

‘That grin of his… he’s about to stir up the music world again.’

Yoon had known Zimmermann for decades.

And every time he’d seen that smile, the music world had grown turbulent. For better or worse.

What spectacle would he cause this time? The last time had been when the Chopin Competition was turned upside down.

“…That poor kid is in for quite a ride.”

It wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. But once involved, involved he would be.

Shaking his head, Yoon looked on, a faint smile spreading across his face.