WCP 18

chapter 18

A gentle, peaceful melody flowed, with light and lively trills ringing out.

Franz Liszt’s Étude S.136, No.9. Allegro grazioso.

Literally, “fast, and gracefully with charm.”

A lyrical piece, unusual for an étude, with its subtitle borrowed directly from musical terminology, filled the air.

Even beyond the TV screen, the colorful melody rang out vividly.

Song Minwoo gazed at Lee Ji-hye on the screen as she played, filled with admiration.

“Her playing has become even more delicate since the last time I saw her.”

Her growth was astonishing.

Even though he hadn’t given her any guidance since the preliminaries, her dynamics had become more nuanced.

And alongside that—her accuracy remained razor sharp.

It was a performance that seemed to strengthen her weaknesses while preserving her strengths.

Teaching her one thing and having her understand two—surely that phrase was made for someone like her.

“Ji-hye really sharpened her blade for this.”

With playing like that, the judges’ expectations would be soaring.

Naturally, they’d be thinking, ‘How amazing will the next contestant be?’

Wasn’t the next one Jung Dayoon?

At that thought, Minwoo looked toward where Jung Dayoon was sitting.

She was the girl who, just a few days ago on the street, had played The Song of the Crusaders so magnificently.

Her performance had stirred Minwoo deeply at a time when he hadn’t yet chosen his competition piece.

But today, unlike that day, Dayoon didn’t look well.

Her face was pale, her hands trembling violently.

Not just nerves—she looked as if she were on the verge of a panic attack.

Minwoo walked over and spoke to her.

“Are you okay?”

“……”

No answer.

She was too nervous to even reply.

Different performers handle nerves differently, but never in his life had Minwoo seen someone this paralyzed.

She looks in really bad shape.

If it were just mild nerves, a light joke might ease the tension—but in this state, that would only backfire.

Still, leaving her alone meant he could already see disaster waiting for her on stage.

Ji-hye’s performance was already reaching its climax. Minwoo realized there wasn’t much time left.

He took a deep breath and sat down beside Dayoon, speaking gently as if to himself.

“Thanks for last time. It was your performance that helped me make up my mind.”

From her perspective, it must have sounded absurd.

He’d just happened to hear her play on the street, and now he was suddenly thanking her.

“See, I was struggling to pick my piece.”

“…Struggling?”

Dayoon slowly lifted her head to look at him.

“Nothing major. It’s just… the final round is Liszt, right? But for personal reasons, playing Liszt’s works was… hard for me.”

Each time he pressed a key, memories flickered before his eyes.

Every time he tried to play his friend’s works, he had to face that question:

Do I even deserve to play these pieces?

Could someone who rejected his friend’s hand of reconciliation dare to perform his compositions now?

For days he had been tormented by such thoughts, and yet somehow forced himself to practice.

“But when I heard you play that ballade, I realized something. If I kept avoiding Liszt, I’d regret it forever.”

His friend’s last gift.

The one time that stubborn composer had set aside his own will and wrote something tailored for Minwoo.

The ballade Dayoon had played that day had carried every intention Franz wanted to convey.

“…You’re saying that’s thanks to me?”

“Yeah. Because your performance held all the emotions the composer had meant to express.”

The emotions in a piece always feel different depending on who plays it.

No performer can fully grasp a composer’s mind.

But sometimes, rarely, there are those who come close—

performers who seem to read the composer’s very thoughts and channel them into near-perfect expression.

Dayoon was one of them.

Her wings just hadn’t yet spread—trapped behind the wall of her nerves.

But listening to her, Minwoo had felt as though Franz himself was answering him.

And so, he comforted her.

“So don’t just stare at the floor. You’ll hurt your back.”

“……”

A new light flickered in her dazed eyes.

She looked as though she wanted to say something—but before she could, applause thundered from the stage.

Grand applause.

Tribute to the pianist who had just finished performing.

For some, proof of months of effort.

For others, a crushing weight on the chest.

Dayoon rose at the sound and walked toward the stage.

Watching her retreating back, Minwoo offered the only words he could.

“I’ll be cheering for you.”

Did she hesitate for a brief moment at that?

Perhaps it was only his imagination.

Only she would know the truth.

As he watched her fade into the distance, Minwoo prayed softly.

That she might somehow finish her performance without incident.

When had the spotlight on stage begun to feel like ridicule, mocking her at the piano?

Round and round, she had ended up back here.

The largest stage she’d ever stood on—bigger than any competition before.

The stage she had wanted so badly to run away from.

And yet, Jung Dayoon had failed to escape it, standing there, clutching her chest as she gasped for breath.

Renowned figures in Korea’s classical world sat in the audience, silently waiting.

Waiting to judge each and every key her fingers struck.

And in the end, they would dismiss her, not recognize her as first place.

There she is, second place again.

Of course Kang Yoon takes first.

She’s amazing though. Imagine always placing second, yet still entering competitions without giving up.

She could still hear those words she’d overheard from other contestants in the lobby.

Her ears still burned with them.

At times she’d even thought of breaking her own arm to escape those stares and whispers.

But she had never had the courage for such extremes.

Not this coward who even feared the spotlight.

“Jung Dayoon?”

A staff member’s voice, urging her to go on stage.

It felt like the herding of cattle to the slaughterhouse.

Unable to refuse, Dayoon dragged her feet forward.

She forgot how to breathe.

She even forgot to bow to the audience.

When she sat down at the piano without greeting them, a murmur ran through the crowd.

But she had no room in her mind for that.

Every ounce of her focus was already consumed by the black-and-white keys.

She didn’t even adjust her bench.

From the smallest details, everything began in chaos.

As if the world itself were telling her:

You don’t belong here. Get up and run from this stage.

And so her doomed performance took its first step—

fragile, flickering, like a candle before the wind.

Ah… I knew it. I can’t do this.

Mistakes tripped her from the very opening.

The audience’s murmurs grew louder than the notes themselves.

She knew she should ignore it and continue playing, but her focus slipped away toward the crowd.

It felt like sinking into a swamp.

The harder she struggled, the deeper she sank.

The only way to handle a mistake was to press on, unbothered.

But few musicians could actually manage that.

Instinctively, humans try to fix mistakes.

She slowed her tempo to cover them.

The slowed tempo tangled her fingers in the chords.

Those tangled fingers made yet more mistakes.

A vicious cycle.

And the performance that began in chaos was being devoured by failure.

Should I give up?

The performance was ruined anyway.

Quitting now would make little difference.

Her tense fingers loosened.

The music, still only in the introduction, began to fade as if reaching its end.

I’ll be cheering for you.

Why did Minwoo’s encouragement resurface just then?

He must be so disappointed… or maybe he never meant it at all.

Dayoon gave a bitter smile without realizing it, staring at her reflection in the polished piano.

Her face was as much a mess as her playing.

On the verge of tears.

Closing her eyes softly, she wondered:

But… was it really just empty words?

The memory of that boy’s smile from days ago floated in her mind.

Thank you.

That’s what he had said after hearing her casual street performance.

But why?

That battered piano, the ruined Liszt ballade she had played on it—

What was different between that performance and this one?

The only difference was that back then, she played freely, with no one to judge her.

She had just followed her heart across the keys.

And yet, he had thanked her.

With that smile so full of relief.

She wanted to know. She wanted to understand.

Why her music had moved him that way.

If only she could play now as she had then—

Wouldn’t something change?

The performance was ruined anyway.

Even if she played differently now, the result wouldn’t change.

So why not try?

Even if she looked pathetic.

Even if they jeered.

It was the only thing she could do in this moment.

Trills—bright and light—cut through the fading melody.

Her gaze, once turned toward the audience, returned firmly to the piano.

The competition results no longer mattered.

Only the will to play to the end remained.

To play a ballade that only she could bring to life.

And so, a one-of-a-kind ballade flowed from the stage.

As if to declare: This performance isn’t over yet.