When the trainee showcase list was posted, Haru didn't expect anything.
He was half-asleep when he wandered into the common room, eyes still adjusting to the fluorescent lights. The list had been taped up just outside the cafeteria, where trainees clustered every month to check if their work had made it. A few hopefuls were already gathered, whispering names, nudging each other, sighing in relief—or disappointment.
Haru barely glanced at the board. He wasn't here for that. Not really.
He was halfway through turning away when a shriek rang through the air.
"YOU'RE ON IT! YOUR SONG! OUR SONG!"
Minju.
She was hovering just inches from the board, glowing so brightly she shimmered like a lightbulb about to explode. Her face was frozen in pure shock, hands clapping together wildly—even though they didn't make a sound.
Trainees turned at the outburst, confused and startled. Haru froze, eyes darting between them and the board.
Minju was spinning in place now, practically vibrating.
"Look! Slot #6! 'Midnight Echoes' by Haru Shin! That's us!"
He blinked. Slowly stepped forward.
There it was.
Showcase Slot #6. Midnight Echoes.By Haru Shin.
He stared at it, chest suddenly too tight. "Wait," he said numbly. "I used a fake name when I submitted it."
Minju grinned wide. "Well, you're still the only Haru in the building. Not exactly subtle."
Around them, a few other trainees squinted at the list, whispering to each other. Some were trying to place the song title. Others just seemed surprised. Haru wasn't known for writing music—not like this.
But none of it registered.
He stared at the list, the letters swimming slightly as his heartbeat grew louder and louder.
They'd picked it.
Not because they knew who wrote it.
Not because of connections.
Just because the music mattered.
"They picked it," he whispered.
Minju floated beside him, her glow soft and proud. "No," she said, voice full of warmth. "They picked you."
The week leading up to the showcase was chaos.
Pure, relentless, beautifully exhausting chaos.
Every day was packed with rehearsals, revisions, and pressure that felt like it could crack bones. The producers had decided Midnight Echoes would be performed live—with Haru as the main vocal. The arrangement was tweaked, the key adjusted slightly, harmonies layered in by a temporary team of two other trainees, and a minimalist choreography added to match the tone.
It was everything Haru had secretly dreamed of… and everything that terrified him.
Practice ran late into the night—past 2 a.m. most days. Haru's voice cracked twice during full run-throughs. Once, badly. His throat burned from overuse, and his chest felt like it was tied in a knot. Riki, one of the vocal trainees he barely knew, offered him cough drops without a word. A silent gesture of solidarity.
Minju, of course, was far less subtle.
She hovered through every practice session, weaving between mirrors and lighting fixtures like a hyperactive stage manager. Her commentary was endless, loud, and absolutely unfiltered.
"You need to BREATHE through the bridge!" she barked one night, floating inches from his sweat-drenched face as he gasped for air after a messy third verse.
"I am breathing!" Haru snapped, pulling off his hoodie in frustration.
"Not like you're dying of asthma in a rainstorm!" she shot back, crossing her ghostly arms with dramatic flair. "You're wheezing. Wheezing, Haru."
He groaned and dropped onto the studio floor. "I'm going to die."
"You can't die," she said smugly. "Not until after the showcase. I need emotional closure, and I'm not getting that if you collapse mid-verse."
In spite of himself, Haru laughed. Tired and breathless, but real.
She tossed a vaporized mint in his general direction, though it fizzled uselessly before reaching his mouth. "There. Ghost medicine. You're welcome."
On the fourth night of practice, the room was quieter than usual.
The speakers were off, the lights dimmed, and the only sound was the soft rustling of Haru flipping through his notebook. He was reviewing harmonies for the bridge when he noticed something unusual—Minju wasn't floating or pacing, or correcting his breath control for the hundredth time.
She was still.
Hovering silently in the far corner of the room, her glow faint and uneven.
"What's wrong?" Haru asked gently, setting the notebook down.
Minju didn't respond right away. Her eyes were distant, not fixed on anything in the room, but somewhere far beyond it. Somewhere memory-shaped.
"I just remembered the day I wrote the chorus," she said softly.
Her voice was quiet, almost reverent. Haru waited, sensing she wasn't finished.
"It was on the roof," she continued. "Just me and Hyunwoo. We used to go there after practice, when everyone else was too tired to argue about curfew." A small, sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I had my notebook. I was humming this half-finished melody I couldn't get out of my head. He brought his guitar—he always did."
She paused, eyes unfocused. "We sat there for hours. He kept scribbling chords on the side of a takeout napkin because he forgot real sheet music again. I remember the breeze. The lights. The quiet."
Haru said nothing. He didn't need to.
"He told me something," Minju went on, voice cracking just a little. "'It's not about being heard by everyone,' he said. 'Just by the ones who need it.'"
She looked down at her hands—transparent, trembling.
"I told him that sounded sad."
Haru tilted his head gently. "What did he say?"
"He said, 'It's real.'" Her voice was barely a whisper now. "That was the last time we worked on it together."
A silence settled between them. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.
Minju took a shaky breath. "He never got to sing it."
Haru stepped closer, eyes steady on hers.
"I will," he said. "For both of you."
The night of the showcase came faster than Haru expected.
One minute he was rehearsing until 2 a.m., the next he was standing backstage in full black outfit, mic taped to his cheek, trying to remember how to breathe. The performance hall buzzed with anticipation—rows of producers, mentors, and vocal coaches filled the seats beyond the curtain. Some with arms crossed, others scribbling notes. All watching. All judging.
Every trainee knew this night could change everything.
Haru paced just behind the stage curtain, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the emcee's voice. The lights leaked through the gap in the drape, casting moving shapes on the floor. His palms were slick with sweat.
Riki passed by with a calm grin, holding a water bottle. He gave Haru a thumbs-up without saying anything.
Minhee smirked as he slipped past him in line. "Don't trip," he whispered, voice teasing.
Haru offered a tight, nervous smile, the kind that barely held itself together. His fingers trembled at his sides.
Above him, Minju hovered gently, her glow dim but steady—like a candlelit halo.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
He looked up at her, fear creeping into his voice. "What if I mess up?"
She grinned, tilting her head. "Then we haunt the piano together."
"Comforting," he muttered.
But her smile softened into something more tender. "You've already done the hard part," she said. "You chose to sing."
And somehow, that truth settled the storm in his chest.
From beyond the curtain, a voice rang out:
"Next up: Haru Shin, performing an original piece titled Midnight Echoes."
Everything inside him went still.
Haru stepped forward, legs shaky but determined.
As he moved into the spotlight, the silence of the hall met him like a wall. Hundreds of eyes. Dozens of spotlights. One piano waiting in the center of the stage.
And in that moment, he wasn't just performing a song.
He was finishing a story.
The piano started soft.
One note at a time.
Haru's fingers moved gently across the keys, as if coaxing the song out of sleep. The melody was simple—delicate, almost fragile. Each note carried weight, each pause a breath.
Then he began to sing.
Midnight echoes, starlight breaking,Hearts we buried, now awaking…We were shadows, chasing sun,Two ghosts trying to become one.
His voice filled the space slowly, carefully. Not loud. Not showy. Just… honest.
Minju stood behind him.
Not floating.Not joking.Not correcting.
Just still.
Listening.
For once, she didn't speak. Didn't tease. She simply watched—hands clasped at her chest, her form more focused, more present, than it had ever been. She was here. With him. And he knew it.
As Haru reached the chorus, something shifted. The air, the lights—everything felt quieter. In his mind, the memory of Minju's voice folded itself into the notes, like it belonged there. And layered faintly beneath it, barely noticeable, was something else.
A second voice.
Not really there.
But not entirely gone.
Hyunwoo's harmony. Echoing from some distant corner of the song. No one else would have noticed it—but Haru did. It was like a thread sewn between memory and music, between grief and grace.
The song wasn't perfect.
His voice cracked once—right before the bridge. A small, human slip.
But he kept going.
And somehow, that made it more beautiful.
Because it was real.And raw.And entirely his.
Then came the final line—soft, but full of meaning.
If the stars heard us tonight,let them remember.
He held the last note just long enough for it to linger.
Then silence.
The lights dimmed.
For one breathless second, the world held still.
And then—thunderous applause. A tidal wave of sound rising from the crowd. Claps, cheers, standing ovations. The room lit up with it, like a dam breaking.
Minju's glow pulsed softly behind him, brighter than it had ever been.
Tears shimmered in her eyes as she whispered, "You did it. You really did it."
Haru, still catching his breath, whispered back without turning.
"We did."
Backstage buzzed with energy.
Trainees crowded the hallway, voices overlapping, laughter echoing off the walls. The showcase was still in full swing, but Haru's performance had left a mark—and everyone felt it.
As he stepped offstage, someone clapped him on the shoulder.
"Who knew #11 had lungs like that?" one trainee joked, wide-eyed.
"Original song?" another added. "Dang. Didn't think anyone here had the guts."
Haru offered a small smile, still riding the strange mix of adrenaline and exhaustion. Compliments rolled over him like waves—surreal, disorienting, but kind.
Then, quietly, the vocal coach—known for her brutal honesty and famously arched eyebrows—nodded at him as he passed.
Just one nod.
But from her, it felt like a standing ovation.
Later that night, long after the lights dimmed and the halls had emptied, Haru returned to the mirror room.
The one where it all began.
He stood in front of the glass, hands in his pockets, eyes searching out of instinct—though part of him already knew.
No flicker.
No boy.
Just his own reflection, staring back under the hum of soft overhead light.
Minju hovered beside him, quiet.
"He's gone," she said gently.
Haru nodded, the truth settling in his chest—not heavy, not painful. Just still.
"I think the song let him go," he said.
Minju's glow warmed. She smiled, not with sadness, but with something softer. "We gave him peace."
Haru turned to her, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. "What about you?"
She paused.
The silence was different this time—not empty. Thoughtful.
"I'm not ready yet," she said at last.
"Okay," he replied without hesitation.
He smiled. "Then stay a little longer."
Minju beamed at him, her light flickering just a little with joy.
"I was going to anyway."