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chapter 7
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A grand overture in Neapolitan sixths reverberated through the streets, carried by the melody of an old piano.
Pesante—heavily.
A patriotism for his homeland, Poland. A youthful zeal, brimming with ambition.
A melody that seemed to represent himself in those days, when both his mind and heart burned with intensity.
It was a time when he felt he could accomplish anything.
A time when, dreaming of the future, it seemed even mastering music itself was within reach.
Yet, even in such times, not everything was bright.
Difficulties always existed. And with difficulties came countless moments of wandering.
He had simply hidden those inner struggles behind the mask of youth.
Ballad No. 1 captured the essence of youth’s inner world.
The helplessness concealed beneath overflowing passion.
The unease that arose with an uncertain future. Questions blooming at every step.
An inner darkness resonating like a sorrowful waltz.
A vigorous arpeggio followed, trying to cover that darkness.
Yet covering the darkness did not bring calm.
No matter how much one reassures oneself, anxiety always lurks deep inside, silently observing.
Even when one feels capable of anything, a sudden wave of unease can sweep one off course.
And when lost in that anxiety, time itself eventually reveals the path once more.
Passion and wandering.
Days where goals seem clear, only to vanish like heat haze, blocking the way once again.
That is the nature of youth.
Most young people endure similar struggles during life’s most chaotic period—though they may hide it from others.
Grandeur and tenderness, sorrow and joy.
The ballad, moving through all these emotions, reminded listeners of their own complex and vivid moments.
The performance moved past the middle, racing toward the finale.
At the end of a timbre that transformed from hopeful melody to sorrowful prelude awaited the coda, storming like a tempest.
The melody began to cry out in conflict.
Fast, passionate.
As if telling the audience that they must bear this anxiety and move forward.
Youth is too brief to wander trapped by unease.
It must be acknowledged.
So that the anxiety does not define the self.
So that even amid wandering, one does not lose the way.
Burning passion is a privilege of the young.
Thus, one must advance, carrying anxiety with that passion.
Even if the path ahead is utterly unseen.
With a scale composed of grand octaves, the ballad drew to a close.
Silence followed the performance.
As everyone held their breath, Song Min-woo slowly lifted his foot from the sustain pedal.
The echoing notes faded, and the vintage-toned sounds completely dissipated.
At that moment, the streets erupted in cheers.
It was a moment that would be remembered for years as the legendary street performance of pianist Song Min-woo.
A professor’s life is truly exhausting.
A life spent consuming one’s passion, patience, and hope, constantly teaching students.
A student joins as a pupil in early spring, only to leave after colliding with reality when the next cherry blossoms bloom.
By the time the blossoms had come and gone a couple of times, a talented student would appear.
Even when that student brought hope, the results often remained limited to domestic competition awards.
Fifteen years ago, he had taken on a professorship determined to revive the declining classical music scene in Korea.
For pianist Professor Lee Jung-hoon—a Korean classical piano master with international acclaim—those fifteen years were a cycle of hope and disappointment.
It wasn’t that talented students were absent.
A few, considered geniuses, existed, albeit countable on one hand.
Yet a few geniuses alone could not revive a collapsing classical music world.
They shone briefly, stirring the media, while the status of classical music in Korea continued to fade.
In another five years, even the largest domestic youth competition, the “Korea International Music Competition,” was predicted to shrink.
Fifteen years of slow progress taught Professor Lee one thing: an individual’s power is too weak against the tide of the times.
Thus, he began to let go.
Whispering to himself that he had done enough, deciding this year would be the last, he took on hosting the Korea International Music Competition with little enthusiasm.
One Saturday, abandoning paperwork under the pretense of a walk, he wandered the streets.
And there, his steps were captured by the melody of an old piano.
A slightly out-of-tune instrument, its tone occasionally mixed with metallic sounds that could irritate a listener.
Yet, the performance still held him captive.
The [Heukgeon] he heard that day was special, unlike any other he had ever listened to.
Unrefined technique, yet perfectly honed expressiveness.
A rare student, for usually, technique develops first, followed by expression.
Perhaps for that reason, Professor Lee paid attention to him.
So much so that he added a 50,000 won taxi fare to help the student who was raising money for a competition.
Not out of expectation for talent, but curiosity at the exceptional expression compared to his technique.
If he were to take the student as a pupil, perhaps he could make a name for him in the world—but he held no high expectations.
The reason he came early on a Sunday morning to watch the student’s performance was simple: curiosity.
How would a student with such expressive power perform pieces beyond études?
A pinch of curiosity, a vague interest.
That was all Professor Lee felt—until he heard the student play Ballad No. 1 the next day.
Chopin’s Ballad No. 1.
The first of four ballads containing the passion of a genius who had left the world early.
A melody so beautiful that the performer’s emotions painted vividly in the listener’s mind.
When had he last heard such a passionate performance?
A spark reignited in him, which he thought had long burned out.
“Do I still have passion left?”
Among the crowd giving the student a grand applause, Professor Lee silently placed a hand over his chest.
His heart raced.
Long-dormant feelings flared anew, recalling the yearning he thought he had abandoned.
“Old memories come rushing back.”
Where had that time when he felt capable of anything gone?
Where was the pianist obsessed with fame, wandering in denial?
Only a worn man trapped in doubt and pessimism remained.
The repeated questions crossed Professor Lee’s mind.
And today, he found his answer.
“It was all here, all along.”
Everything was still there—he had only mistakenly thought it gone.
It felt as if he had finally found a simple answer, taking a long, winding path.
With that feeling, Professor Lee quietly moved through the crowd.
Toward the dream he thought he had abandoned.
“Hey, Song Min-woo!!”
A voice cut through the music room at midday.
Song Min-woo’s performance, flowing smoothly, came to an abrupt halt as Lee Ji-hye burst in, excited.
“What’s this?? Were you really serious about busking??”
She thrust her phone toward him, demanding answers.
“Of course I was serious. I didn’t expect it to become this popular, though.”
Song Min-woo glanced at the playback of his performance and let out a soft sigh.
“A million views… still hard to believe.”
The video uploaded on Saturday had only reached 400,000, but yesterday’s performance clearly made a bigger impact.
The Ballad No. 1 video reached a million views, climbing the trending charts.
Recalling that he had miraculously completed the performance without mistakes, Song Min-woo silently gazed at his hands.
“Good thing I only uploaded that one. The others were all a mess.”
He had tried performing other ballads, but they were full of mistakes.
At least he completed this one despite unpolished technique.
“So… you raised the entry fee too?”
“Somehow, I managed.”
Song Min-woo waved the envelope containing 200,000 won. Several 500-won coins spilled onto the floor.
“Oh right, there were coins mixed in.”
He quickly picked up the coins.
“Wow… amazing. I didn’t think you could make 200,000 won busking.”
“I was lucky.”
If the Heukgeon video hadn’t gone viral, collecting the money wouldn’t have been this easy.
Of course, the elderly man contributing 50,000 won helped too.
“And the entry form? Did you get your parents’ signature?”
“That’s done too.”
Song Min-woo showed a slightly crumpled entry form to Ji-hye.
“Surprisingly, they approved right away.”
“Really? Thank goodness. I thought they’d be strict like my parents.”
Ji-hye’s parents were apparently quite strict. She was lively, so it had seemed they might be similar.
“Then we just need to record the piece. Though, do we really need to?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why not just submit the SNS video as it is?”
Ji-hye played Song Min-woo’s video again.
“…Are you a genius?”
An idea completely unexpected.
Song Min-woo looked at her with a somewhat blank expression.
As always, far from scheming—he was Chopin incarnate.
