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chapter 6
If you want to know about someone’s family, get invited to their dinner.
Song Min-woo recalled a proverb he had heard from someone unknown in his previous life as he quietly glanced at the family sitting at the table.
A dinner table carries more meaning than just a meal.
The types of dishes on the table, the way family members handle their utensils, the brief or extended conversations during the meal—all these combine to reveal the unique character of a family.
A wealthy family’s table has plenty of meat dishes, while a harmonious family’s table is filled with conversation.
Conversely, families that lack such traits will have the opposite scene.
Instead of meat, there are vegetables; instead of conversation, there is silence. That was exactly the scene before him.
‘Even quieter than I remembered.’
As he scooped a bite of food, Song Min-woo let out a soft sigh.
Having returned from busking performances, he naturally found himself at the dinner table with his family. He silently reflected on the stark contrast between his current life’s family and the family from his memories, but no matter how much he dwelled on it, the silence on the table did not disappear.
“Thank you for the meal.”
Song Ye-rim, who had finished first, broke the silence with a short phrase and went straight into her room.
With one person gone, the emptiness of the room felt doubled.
Amidst the increasingly uncomfortable silence, Song Min-woo thought regretfully:
‘We weren’t even on bad terms.’
Though the family wasn’t wealthy, their relationships weren’t bad either. In his memories, Min-woo’s parents didn’t express love verbally all that much, but it was clear that they loved their children.
It was only the hardships of work and limited finances that overshadowed their love with concern.
Additionally, both children lacked any overt charm or playfulness. The daughter retreats to her room right after eating, and the son never expresses his feelings; it would be unfair to say they were not responsible for the silence.
All these factors combined to create a dinner where not a single conversation flowed.
Listening to only the sound of spoons clinking against bowls, Min-woo hesitated for a long while before speaking carefully.
“Father, Mother, I have something to tell you.”
The clinking of spoons ceased immediately.
With an even heavier silence than before, his parents looked at him as if saying, Go ahead.
“Could you please sign this?”
Min-woo took a slightly crumpled application form for a music competition out of his pocket and showed it to his parents.
“A competition?”
“Yes… you might not be pleased, but I wanted to try at least once.”
Would they really allow it?
A high school senior on the verge of university entrance exams suddenly announces a wish to pursue music seriously. It would surely be difficult. The one thing that remains unchanged from past to present is that parents always wish for their children’s success.
Earning a living through music is tough in any era. Even in the 19th century, when music was considered romantic, musicians who achieved both fame and wealth were extremely rare.
Which parent could fully support a child walking such a thorny path? Naturally, concern outweighs encouragement, and they might even oppose the dream.
Yet Min-woo brought it up directly because he did not want to hide his sincerity.
Though he inherited memories from a past life, inside he was still Frederic Chopin. Sitting here, he was not the child of Song Min-seok and Yang Yi-soon—they were strangers occupying their children’s bodies.
He would likely have to hide this truth for life. So the only lie he might ever need is this one; aside from it, he wanted to be sincere.
Of course, if rejected here, he would still enter the competition secretly, but he held out hope.
Such a contradictory thought made him smirk bitterly as he quietly awaited his parents’ response.
Yet, contrary to expectations, his father calmly spoke:
“So all you need is a signature?”
“…Yes?”
Startled, Min-woo repeated himself, but instead of speaking, his father picked up a pen from the corner of the table and silently signed the form.
What just happened? He expected them to insist he reconsider.
Min-woo, stunned, turned to his mother.
“How much is the entry fee?”
“Two… 200,000 won…”
Before he could finish, his mother rose as if to fetch her wallet. Min-woo hastily stopped her.
“No! You don’t need to pay! It’s already taken care of!”
Despite vowing not to lie earlier, a shameless lie escaped his lips instinctively—it was necessary to stop his mother.
“Really?”
“Yes! Really! I received something like a scholarship!”
It was a blatant lie but sufficient to convince her.
Watching his mother sit back down, he exhaled in relief and voiced a question that had been nagging him:
“Why aren’t you opposed to this?”
“Did you want us to be?”
“No, not really… I just thought it would be normal to oppose it.”
His father returned the signed form to him, a smile of gentle apology playing at his lips.
“You’ve always wanted to play the piano, haven’t you?”
How could they know? Min-woo had never spoken to them about his dream.
“You even kept the old Czerny books on the shelf, pretending you didn’t.”
“And when you quit the piano academy, you cried your eyes out.”
His mother added, smiling.
“Min-woo, you’ve always excelled in studies, so there’s a bit of disappointment, but I won’t block your path because of mere disappointment. We’ve already blocked enough.”
His father’s gaze shifted to the empty living room without a single piano.
“So I won’t block your dreams either. It’s your life—do as you wish.”
A calm encouragement. Yet why did this simple support feel heavier than a thousand gold bars?
“I won’t let you down.”
In the life of a broadcaster, unexpected anxiety often creeps in.
Ha Jung-yoon, a 29-year-old music broadcaster with 1.6 million subscribers, had experienced five years of emotional highs and lows watching views, subscribers, and likes fluctuate.
Lately, he had been feeling inexplicable deprivation and anxiety, caused by the recent focus of his content on reaction videos.
Videos edited from viewer requests and reactions, only a minute long, had caused his subscriber count to explode—from 250,000 to 1.6 million in a year. Yet he had started broadcasting to spread the joy of piano.
His original piano videos barely reached 50,000 views, while shorts reaction videos averaged 300,000. He found himself torn, questioning the purpose of his work.
‘Is this right…?’
Despite these questions, the response came only in the form of comments and requests from viewers. Sitting before his computer, he continued broadcasting with a smile.
“Wow! So semiconductors look like this when magnified??”
A mix of 65% sincerity and 35% exaggeration—a practiced reaction. Jung-yoon knew exactly what the viewers enjoyed.
‘It’s easier to do reactions… but is this the right path?’
As he scrolled through comments for the next content idea, he saw a trending post on the fan board.
[Street performance level ㄷㄷ]
Curious, he clicked. A short video played, showing a worn piano on the street and a boy sitting in front of it.
“I know this place! There’s a good restaurant nearby, so I come here often.”
The boy played Chopin’s Black Key Étude, familiar to Jung-yoon from his high school piano entrance exams.
‘Someone can play Black Key like that…?’
Despite poor audio, the clarity of touch was evident. Many conservatory students practice tirelessly to perfect this piece.
“Can someone really play it like that…?”
His unfiltered reaction prompted playful comments questioning his overreaction.
“No, you don’t understand. Ask a group of good pianists to play this perfectly—nobody can.”
Some fans recognized his piano background, but none seemed to notice the boy’s talent.
‘In just five hours, it’s hit 400,000 views…?’
His own best piano video had only 89,000 views—four years ago. Yet this raw, street performance surpassed all that.
Jung-yoon’s mind raced with the possibilities: if he could collaborate with this boy, how many views could they generate? Excited, he wiped his mouth and tried to calm himself.
At the same time, in the same place, Song Min-woo gazed at the worn piano before him.
“Feels even older than yesterday.”
He needed 100,000 won in entry fees—the last chance to gather it. People were fewer than yesterday, a Sunday morning.
‘Looks like heaven has no plans to help me.’
Relying only on himself and this old piano, he had to gather the money. Yet instead of pressure, he felt a surge of challenge.
The image of his parents quietly supporting his dream flashed through his mind.
‘It must be because of them.’
He had nothing to fear. He had already overcome the most daunting hurdle. Now all that remained was to prove himself.
“Came earlier than I expected.”
An elderly man who had given him 50,000 won yesterday approached.
“The earlier you start, the more money you can earn.”
“Diligence is good, but why not wait a bit before starting?”
Min-woo soon understood the reason as people around grew more numerous and talkative.
The man showed him the SNS video of his previous performance—already 400,000 views.
‘No wonder most people were holding phones…’
Min-woo smiled. Enough people had gathered.
His choice for the performance was clear: the most cherished, first ballad he had ever composed.
Ballad No. 1, G Minor, Op.23.
Could he perform it? Could he pour emotion, not just fingers, into the keys?
He did. The first ballad, his most treasured composition, began.
