WCP 13

chapter 13

The lyrical melody in E major began to resonate under the spotlight.

The flow spread out slightly slower than the tempo indicated on the score, weaving a graceful tune.

Crescendo and decrescendo, piano and forte—joy and sorrow intersected, drawing elegant curves in the air.

It was the piece Ji-hye Lee had practiced endlessly over the past month, until her fingers ached.

Even with her eyes closed, she was confident that at least this introduction would never falter, not a single beat out of tempo.

If only this weren’t on stage.

The gap between rehearsal and stage was vast.

No matter how flawless the performance in practice, that didn’t mean the same would happen on stage.

In fact, the likelihood of falling short was higher under the stage lights.

The stage was, by nature, an unfair place.

A place where even the most grueling effort offered no guarantee of reward.

The memory of being betrayed by effort itself—of stumbling on stage despite endless hours of practice—was etched deeply into her mind even now, as her fingers pressed the keys.

And that was why she had never been able to fully show her talent in competitions.

But why was it different today?

That cold, merciless stage—today, it felt strangely forgiving.

The introduction flowed smoothly, just as she practiced, perhaps even more.

A good start—but too soon to relax.

Because the enemy that had haunted her throughout rehearsal was approaching.

The diminuendo at measure nineteen, which always blocked her path.

But once you’ve scaled a wall, it no longer feels like an obstacle.

“Gradually softer…!”

From fortissimo down to pianissimo.

Not like stepping down stairs, but like sliding smoothly down a gentle slide.

“Strange… I’m not nervous.”

It was odd.

Whenever she played in competitions, her hands and feet shook until the very end. But for some reason today, the moment the performance began, her heart grew calm.

Carrying that pleasant sense of dissonance, Ji-hye kept playing.

Sometimes the melody sounded joyful, sometimes sorrowful, flowing beyond the keys.

“Strange… the subtitle of this piece is surely [Tristesse]—Sadness. So why do I feel emotions other than sorrow?”

That wasn’t how it felt in rehearsal.

Back then, it was endlessly mournful, just as the subtitle suggested.

Chopin had never once attached subtitles to his etudes during his lifetime.

Ji-hye recalled hearing that from her piano teacher long ago.

So if Chopin had given this piece a subtitle—what would he have called it?

It was a fanciful thought, but she couldn’t shake the sense that he would have added something beyond just “Sadness.”

Tristesse, Bonheur.

Sadness, and Happiness.

The melody pressed toward its climax. Passing through sorrow, it reached for joy.

And once happiness was attained, the performance gently subsided—like a life that had endured both sorrow and joy, now finally arriving at peace.

[~~~~]

The damper lowered slowly. The performance, at last, reached its curtain call.

And silence descended.

But only for a heartbeat.

The hall erupted with thunderous applause.

“……”

Ji-hye stared blankly at the audience.

She couldn’t believe the applause raining down from the seats was for her. It felt unreal.

Her heart pounded, sounds blurred, and the spotlight blinded her vision.

What should she call this emotion swelling in her chest?

Anxiety? Nervousness? Regret?

No, none of those. This feeling was clearly…

Reluctance.

The unwillingness to let go of this moment—the moment when she had poured her entire being into the music.

“I must be insane.”

How could she feel reluctant to let go?

She had suffered so much for this day, had nearly gone mad wanting to run away from the tension—yet here she was, ending with reluctance.

Shaking her head at her own confusion, Ji-hye stood from the piano with an awkward smile.

She bowed, ready to leave the stage—

[Stumble—]

“Huh?”

Her foot caught the hem of her dress.

The moment she realized, her vision tilted ninety degrees.

[Crash!]

She fell face-first onto the stage floor.

The audience burst into laughter, unable to hold it back.

“Ah, crap.”

Flushed with shame, Ji-hye muttered a curse under her breath.

After such a performance, she had ruined it at the very end.

“Good job.”

As she stepped down from the stage, Min-woo Song greeted her quietly.

“Ugh, so embarrassing.”

“What’s embarrassing? People fall sometimes.”

“Not just anywhere—I fell in front of all those people…”

Ji-hye trailed off mid-protest, suddenly realizing something.

“Wait—how did you know I fell?”

“Well, it was on screen.”

She turned and froze at the sight of a TV broadcasting her fall live from the stage.

“W-wait, so everyone here saw that?!”

“Pretty much.”

“Aaaaahhh!!”

She screamed, collapsing to the floor and burying her face in her knees.

“Don’t be so mortified. Better to trip on stage than to mess up the music, right?”

But she didn’t answer. Clearly, the idea that her clumsy fall had been broadcast to every contestant was mortifying.

“Still, your performance was wonderful.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I’d say you’re practically guaranteed to pass the preliminaries.”

Min-woo extended his hand to the still-crouched Ji-hye.

“So stop sulking and get up. You’ll ruin your dress dragging it on the floor.”

She let out a small laugh, took his hand, and stood.

Then she sat beside him, quietly watching the next contestants’ performances on screen.

The participants’ skills varied widely.

One boy played brilliantly at first, only to freeze after a single mistake. Another girl played without error, but lacked individuality.

For four hours, contestants took the stage one after another.

Eventually, Min-woo realized his turn was drawing near. He listened as the staff’s voice rang out:

“Contestant number 39, Kang Yoon. Please prepare; your performance is next.”

At last, it was Kang Yoon’s turn—the one even Ji-hye and others had admitted was impressive.

“I’m curious… just how good is he?”

Though Min-woo hadn’t liked his first impression, skill was a different matter.

Yawning, he waited for Kang Yoon’s image to appear on screen.

Soon, Kang Yoon’s figure emerged, sitting confidently at the piano. He began to play, and Min-woo listened.

“That’s Etude No. 6.”

Chopin’s Etude Op.25 No.6.

He had written it to humble his proud friend Franz, pouring his genius into it.

The difficulty was among the highest of his works.

The right hand required complete independence, while the left moved fluidly in tandem.

Without full independence of all fingers, the piece was unplayable. In Chopin’s lifetime, only Franz Liszt could play it flawlessly besides himself.

“No muddiness in the melody. Every finger lands independently, perfectly.”

The emotional depth was a bit lacking, but it was, after all, an etude—a study. Precision mattered more than expression.

“His skill’s improved again,” Ji-hye muttered beside him, her voice tinged with irritation.

Her own performance had been excellent, but compared to Kang Yoon, the gap was undeniable. She knew it too—grudgingly, she had to admit it.

Min-woo murmured in admiration as the flawless performance ended.

“Remarkable. To play like that at his age.”

“But… are you okay?”

Ji-hye asked with concern.

Following a near-perfect performance was a crushing burden—especially as the final performer.

One mistake, and he’d inevitably be compared to what came before.

“Of course I’m nervous.”

It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

His fingertips trembled, his toes chilled, and his heart pounded like it was racing.

But the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

—No matter how much you deny it, the stage suits you,

an old friend’s joking words echoed in his memory.

—After all, don’t you enjoy being nervous?

What a ridiculous joke, even now.

He didn’t enjoy it.

He was simply looking forward—as much as he was nervous.

Then, and now—sharing the stage with the finest of his generation.

“Contestant number 40, Song Min-woo. Please prepare.”

As the staff’s call rang out, the old echo of his friend’s words faded.

Min-woo rose from his seat and walked toward the stage, a faint smile on his lips.