WCP 20

chapter 20

Was what she was seeing truly real?

Professor Choi Narae could not hide her astonishment as she watched Song Minwoo on stage, captivating the entire audience.

“Is this really the kind of performance a high school student could give?”

A performer’s skill does not necessarily correspond to their age. The world is wide, and there are always geniuses who surpass experience.

And yet, even such geniuses cannot usually compensate for one thing with talent alone:

Experience.

The delicate pedaling that supports and tidies up a tremolo that might otherwise turn messy.

The way he relied on wrist snaps rather than simple leaps to efficiently play octave trills that could easily tire out the arm.

These were things only seasoned pianists—or students directly taught by them—could usually manage.

But what about Song Minwoo?

He was not particularly experienced.
He had not received lessons from any renowned pianist.

Yet, everywhere in his playing, traces of seasoned maturity could be found.

Normally, such a thing was impossible.

“Don’t tell me… did he teach himself all of this?”

Ordinary talent wouldn’t cut it—no, even the word talent was too weak.

It would be more believable to say that he had been Chopin in a previous life.

Was this how people must have felt when they first saw the likes of Mozart or Chopin step onto the stage?

Professor Choi Narae turned her gaze toward Professor Lee Junghoon sitting beside her.

His expression was surprisingly calm, as if he were remembering something invisible to others.

Having been by his side for years, Professor Choi understood exactly what that meant.

After all, when he had listened to her own playing as a child, he had worn the very same expression.

“Nine years… no, ten. It’s been that long since I last saw that look on the professor’s face.”

It was the expression he wore only when he was truly moved by someone else’s performance.

Seeing that face again, Choi Narae softly smiled, grateful that she could witness it once more.

* * *

Early spring, 1838.

Even after all these years, I can still vividly recall the last performance of my dear friend Franz Liszt before I left France.

The stage beneath a grand chandelier.

The melody, once thought impossible to play on the piano, rang out—and the audience sat entranced, listening in awe.

Through his playing, my friend had captured the voice of bowed strings with the piano itself.

No one could ever imitate such a sound, and no one could ever forget it.

“For my idol, the great violinist. And for my eternal friend, Frédéric Chopin, I dedicate this performance.”

That was what Franz had said when his playing ended.

From the balcony far above the stage, I heard his words. A storm of emotions swept through me, yet I could not put them into words.

It was jealousy.

It was anger.

It was also friendship.

All those feelings between us—each one was part of the cause.

I had always envied his overflowing confidence.

I had been furious when he used my house as a stage for his “fire games” without my permission.

And I had admired him, who never held back advice for me.

Our bond had long since grown beyond definition in a single word.

That performance—each note engraved in my memory—was proof that he and I were headed down entirely different paths.

Perhaps that was why…

That day, I had slipped quietly out of the hall without a sound.

And so, in the end, until the very last moment of our lives, our paths never crossed again.

So, Franz…

This performance is my answer to the question you asked me that day, the one I never managed to answer.

Only now, after countless years have passed, can I respond in this way. Forgive me.

My old friend.

The last music I ever heard from you now fills the stage once again.

“La Campanella,” performed by my own hands.

The melody closest to the one I heard in 1838, and yet forever out of reach.

For Franz Liszt has long since passed away.

And the one playing this piece now is nothing more than a ghost who never forgot that 1838 performance.

How ironic.

Though the world had always said Franz and I were opposites in music, now, I am the one who can play closer to him than anyone else.

For no reason other than that we had shared so many years together.

Hundreds, thousands of bells rushed toward their climax.

All for a single melody.

All for a memory that would never fade in a lifetime.

We once drank ourselves stupid at parties, making fools of ourselves before ladies.

We once quarreled over petty differences in musical opinion.

We even once bet on whose concert would draw the larger crowd.

Looking back, what tumultuous memories they were.

All those moments remain—our friendship, our youth, lived to the fullest.

…Franz.

I sometimes wonder.

If only I had taken your outstretched hand of reconciliation that day.

If only my illness had not worsened, and I had been given more time.

Could we have remained friends to the very end?

Questions full of regret scattered away into the music without ever finding answers.

Thus ended the old melody of La Campanella.

Along with the hope that this performance somehow reached my friend.

* * *

Had La Campanella ever sounded so sorrowful?

In all my life, I had heard countless pianists perform it, yet never had it carried this weight of emotion.

“Sadness… no, regret.”

What Paganini and Liszt had captured in La Campanella was bells—bells ringing with the passion of one forging an uncharted path forward.

But what of Song Minwoo’s La Campanella?

It was like the natural tolling of a clock tower bell at the hour.

Bells carrying irretrievable regret, as if acknowledging what was already lost.

And yet, bells that still longed to send a message to what had gone.

“It feels like a farewell song.”

What exactly had departed? What message was he wishing to send? There was no way to know.

Only the performer himself could answer that.

Professor Lee Junghoon quietly closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the lingering resonance.

Even though the performance had ended, La Campanella still seemed to echo in his ears.

And within that melody, he thought he sensed the friendship of two unknown souls—perhaps only his imagination.

The faint scent of cologne wafting from the audience.

The image of the performer caught between the waves of applause.

The stage lights slowly dimming.

Closing his eyes, Lee Junghoon could almost see the scene painted before him.

And softly, he whispered:

“…Truly. You’re always a friend who manages to surprise me.”

And so, his anticipation for the path Song Minwoo the pianist would take only deepened.

* * *

Applause and cheers rained down on the stage—something no one expected from a competition rather than a concert.

Not perfunctory applause, but the sound of genuine admiration rising from the heart.

Even in the waiting room, Kang Yun could hear the waves of fervent support. He could hardly believe his ears.

“That was La Campanella?”

So unlike the La Campanella he remembered.

It was probably another of Liszt’s original arrangements from his lifetime. That much, Kang Yun could guess.

But what truly shocked him was something else:

The sheer perfection Song Minwoo had shown on stage.

Not merely technical precision, but a perfection that embraced both skill and expression.

Octave trills and tremolos performed without the slightest flaw.

And at the same time, a monstrous expressiveness that made the listener envision the very stage of the 19th century.

It was a performance on a level so unreachable, one could almost believe Liszt himself had been reborn.

Even after the piece ended, La Campanella still seemed to ring in Kang Yun’s ears as he clenched his fists.

Yet no matter how tightly he clenched them, the melody would not fade.

“Kang Yun? Kang Yun!”

The voice of a competition staff member pierced through the mist of lingering notes.

Song Minwoo’s performance was over—which meant it was now Kang Yun’s turn.

Only then did he realize it was time to take the stage for the final performance of the competition.

The last performance of the Korean International Music Competition.

He was to be its grand finale.

Believing that with absolute certainty, Kang Yun stepped toward the backstage.

Or rather, he tried to.

“Kang Yun?”
“…!”

Seeing him frozen in place, the staff asked, puzzled, if something was wrong.

“What the hell? Why won’t my legs move?”

It was as if someone had glued them to the floor.

And it wasn’t just his legs—his fingertips trembled uncontrollably, like a patient with a disorder.

As if he were… nervous.

“Nervous? Me, nervous?”

Impossible.

This was just a domestic competition. No matter how impressive the previous performance was, he only had to outdo it.

Repeating that to himself, Kang Yun slapped his trembling legs with his shaking hands.

At last, his frozen legs began to move again.

“You can look forward to it. Everything has a first time.”

“Shut the hell up…!”

I am Kang Yun. No way in hell would I collapse at some petty competition.

With that boast, Kang Yun strode onto the stage.

But then—countless eyes bore down on him, beyond the dazzling lights.

Why did the audience’s gaze, which he once never cared for, now feel so unbearably heavy?

Their stares felt like judgment, like mockery—show us if you can outdo what came before.

Stiff with pressure, Kang Yun sat at the piano.

He could not even remember how he had managed to walk there.

Cornered, he even forgot to adjust the bench height as he forced his trembling hands onto the keys.

A jarring dissonance rang out.

A mistake, right from the very beginning.

Flustered, Kang Yun rushed to cover it up.

But the more he tried, the deeper the performance sank into disaster.

“Shit, shit, shit…!”

No matter how he tried to play, La Campanella refused to leave him.

Each time he struck a key, that melody echoed in his ears.

Desperately, he flailed against it, trying to play Étude No. 5, but it was useless.

The more he tried to forget La Campanella, the more that earlier performance clamped onto his wrists like handcuffs, dragging him down.

“Damn it!!”

Unable to contain his frustration, Kang Yun snapped.

Unable to endure his string of mistakes, he smashed out fortissimo chords that were nothing but harsh noise.

Then, abandoning the performance altogether, he struck the piano with his fist.

Ignoring the murmurs of the audience, he stormed off stage.

In that moment, the promising prodigy, the child pianist who had never lost first place—not even once—saw his reputation come crashing down.