WCP 14

chapter 14

There comes a moment in every pianist’s life.

A grand stage. The brilliant spotlight shining down. And, beyond the shadows, countless spectators watching from the dark.

The silence filling the hall will not vanish until the performer touches the keys.

And those concentrated gazes—falling like judges’ verdicts—test the performer.

A second stretches into an eternity.

For the sake of just a few minutes of performance, the player has poured in months—sometimes half a year—of preparation.

And all that effort can collapse in an instant, with the smallest mistake.

That crushing pressure makes hands cold and legs tremble.

And yet, the performer must still take the stage.

To overcome it all and prove their effort, they sit before the piano.

And then, the pianist realizes.

That fleeting moment after the performance ends—just how priceless it is.

For that fleeting moment, the boy once again braved every trial and stood on stage.

Not as Chopin, but as Song Min-woo.

He bowed toward the audience, then sat before the piano.

Adjusting the chair that felt a bit too low, he exhaled deeply and placed his hands on the keys.

Ludwig van Beethoven, Piano Sonata Op. 27-2, No. 14. “Moonlight.”

The masterpiece of Beethoven—the great composer who overcame disability to etch his name into history.

This would be Min-woo’s first performance before an audience since being given a second life.

He wanted to imbue his first piece with special meaning.

Just as Beethoven had endured the trial of deafness and completed this sonata, Min-woo too wanted to show that he would continue through hardship, that he could endure the long journey ahead—until, one day, his dream was fulfilled.

With those thoughts, Min-woo pressed the keys.

Like moonlight faintly shimmering through the night sky, a calm melody flowed from his fingertips.

The C-sharp minor theme spread softly and delicately across the hall, maintaining a hushed pianissimo.

The clear distinction between the left-hand accompaniment and the right-hand melody created a small night sky upon the stage, stretching between Min-woo and the audience.

A moonlight veiled by drifting clouds.

The listeners felt as though they were watching that dim moonlight, brightening and darkening in turn like the sonata’s ebbing phrases.

[ ~ ~ ~ ]

The fragile moonlight slowly disappeared into the clouds.

Low-octave chords resonated heavily, yet tenderly.

The performance drifted from the first movement into the second.

The heavy, sorrowful melody grew lighter.

The dense grief that had weighed down the music was gone.

Instead, moonlight peeked through a quiet sky, ringing out as though dancing upon the nightscape.

But happiness lasts only a moment.

As if to prove that truth, the grand C-sharp minor chords announced the arrival of the third movement.

Unlike the tranquil first movement and the graceful second, the third burst forth with passionate intensity.

The hall filled with rapid contrasts of dynamics, extreme shifts of light and shadow. All eyes converged on the stage at once.

The weight of their gazes pressed down on Min-woo’s shoulders.

Yet he silently continued pressing the keys.

His fingers leapt across octaves at a tempo quick but never rushed.

The fixed key signature blurred into a shifting, restless harmony—like moonlight whipped into chaos by a storm.

A gale scattered the moonlight. Rain lashed down. Thunder split the sky.

And still—the moon remained.

From beyond the storm clouds, its trembling light rained down upon the night.

As if to declare: No storm can erase my existence. I will shine regardless.

Min-woo’s hands rose and fell over the keys in a torrent of passion.

At last, the furious music reached its end as his hands halted in solemn finality.

The hall was left with silence—and beams of light flooding the stage.

Like the storm passing, leaving the full moon revealed.

It was the moment when a star thought extinguished shone once again over Korea.

What the hell just happened?

The applause shook even the backstage.

Kang Yoon stared at the monitor, watching Min-woo quietly descend from the stage, applause crashing behind him.

Just ten minutes ago, he had mocked the boy in his school uniform, sneering at the idea of him performing.

But Kang Yoon could no longer dismiss him.

How could he?

That flawless performance. That flawless interpretation. That flawless talent.

“Who is he? I’ve never seen that kid before…”

“Damn, to play the Moonlight Sonata like that?”

“I swear, I’ve never seen anyone get through the first movement without a mistake.”

The contestants around him erupted in chatter.

Ignoring their voices, Kang Yoon muttered to himself in disbelief.

To play the first movement that perfectly?

The first movement of the Moonlight Sonata looks deceptively simple, but even seasoned pianists stumble over it.

The reason is simple: “simple-looking” means few notes on the score, and fewer notes means every tiny slip rings out painfully clear.

What stunned Kang Yoon most wasn’t just the absence of mistakes, but Min-woo’s immaculate pedaling.

That sonata’s pedaling is infamous among pianists for being viciously difficult, with little explicit instruction in the score. Yet Min-woo executed it without the slightest falter.

Even I mess it up two out of ten times…

If asked, Kang Yoon could probably reproduce a performance at that level. A few practice sessions, and he’d manage it.

So why this unsettling feeling gnawing at his chest?

“…Interesting.”

With that, Kang Yoon tossed his half-finished drink into the trash.

Watching the piano bathed in stage lights, Jo Sung-min couldn’t stop himself from whispering in awe from the darkened audience seats.

“…Unbelievable.”

Never had he imagined he’d hear such a world-class performance at a mere domestic competition preliminary.

The sound of the Moonlight Sonata still lingered in his ears.

“Well? I told you it’d be worth looking forward to, didn’t I?”

“‘Worth looking forward to’? This is way beyond that. Where on earth did you dig up a gem like him?”

Professor Lee Jung-hoon grinned, unable to hide his pride at his colleague’s disbelief.

“You know I’ve always had an eye for talent.”

“Well, sure, but still…”

Sung-min trailed off.

It wasn’t just technical skill.

If it were only about technical precision, Kang Yoon’s earlier performance would have been on par.

But unlike Kang Yoon’s, Min-woo’s performance had something else—something no technical mastery alone could replicate.

Expression.

The ability to stir emotion in the listener.

Audiences applaud flawless skill, but when a performance carries raw feeling, they shed tears.

It makes them see—the picture painted by the composer upon the staff.

The flowing, cold moonlight hidden within the sonata’s name.

Looks like my student’s been thoroughly shaken, Jung-hoon thought with satisfaction. He resolved to brag about this day for years to come, and, with his chest swelling, turned to the other two judges.

“So, what do you think? Have you all decided which contestants to send to the finals?”

Out of forty participants, only four could advance.

Ranking music, unlike math, has no absolute answer.

But in this case, the differences in ability were stark enough to make the decision easy.

“Judging by your faces, I’d say we’re already agreed.”

“Pretty much.”

Without hesitation, the three judges circled four names in red on the contestant list:

• No. 7: Lee Ji-hye

• No. 16: Jung Da-yoon

• No. 39: Kang Yoon

• No. 40: Song Min-woo

“Lee Ji-hye, for example—her playing’s improved dramatically since the last competition. I wonder what sparked the change?”

“She attends the same school as Song Min-woo. I’d guess there’s some connection.”

Professor Choi Na-rae spoke with curiosity, and Professor Lee Jung-hoon nodded.

It wasn’t just speculation—he had noticed faint traces of Min-woo’s style woven into Ji-hye’s playing.

“Come on, who’d be crazy enough to help a rival? If they end up doing better than you, it stings like hell.”

Jo Sung-min scoffed.

Na-rae countered smoothly.

“If you have absolute faith in your own ability, why not? Unless… Sung-min, did you have a bad experience helping someone before?”

“Hey, Choi Na-rae, don’t play dumb. If I hadn’t helped you back then—”

Before he could raise his voice, Professor Lee smacked him on the back of the head with the rolled-up contestant list.

“Hey, brat, I asked for evaluations, not your life story. Focus.”

“Fine, fine! I’ll do it!”

Grumbling, Sung-min rubbed his head and forced himself back on track.

“Jung Da-yoon, though… compared to the other three, her performance lacked character.”

Contestant No. 16, Jung Da-yoon—despite her reputation as last year’s perennial runner-up alongside Kang Yoon, her playing left little impression.

“In fact, it felt like she regressed since last year. And she didn’t seem in good condition.”

“Exactly. Spend too long stuck in second place, and the pressure breaks you. Happens all the time.”

“That said, Kang Yoon’s definitely improved since last time.”

“No doubt. Among his peers, there’s probably no one with better technique.”

“True. He reminded me of my younger self.”

Though Sung-min’s remark sounded boastful, neither of the others disagreed. Having seen his youth, they knew Kang Yoon’s skill mirrored it almost exactly.

“But why has no one mentioned Song Min-woo yet?”

Lee Jung-hoon finally asked the question he’d been itching to.

The two others exchanged glances, then replied quietly in unison.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s nothing to critique.”

Evaluations are for weighing strengths and weaknesses.

Min-woo’s playing had neither flaw nor gap to point out.

For once, the two professors who often disagreed were in perfect accord: Min-woo’s performance left nothing to be desired.

Together, the three judges silently gazed at the now-empty stage.

Song Min-woo’s advancement to the finals was confirmed—without the slightest objection.