October 3rd, 2024 (Monday) - Seongbuk (Seoul), 1:55 PM
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"Ji-hoon, where are you?"
Ye-seul spoke it barely above a breath. The corridor outside Hall D carried a thin ribbon of cold air from the vents. Fluorescents hummed. Her phone read 1:55 p.m. Su-jin had already slipped in with a teasing, "Fix your makeup," and vanished into the warm noise beyond the door.
Her thumb hovered, then tapped the call icon. The glass was cool against her palm.
One beep, then another.
An automated voice clicked in, polite and empty. She cut the call, jaw tight.
"What are you doing. Why aren't you picking up?" The whisper bled into the hum. She opened KakaoTalk, typed, deleted, typed again.
"Get back to me when you have time."
The bubble sat there, neat and gray. Neutral on its face. For him, it was as close as she could set worry without crossing a line.
Somewhere down the hall, a practice room released a stray scale. Resin and old varnish drifted from passing cases. The vent sent a clean chill across her calves. She smoothed the silk ribbon at her collar, straightened the strap of her bag, and drew one steady breath.
She turned toward the door and stepped into the light spilling from inside.
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Inside Hall D, dust motes turned in the stage light above the Fazioli at the center. The air carried rosin and lacquer. Seats creaked as students murmured and slid scores from bags. The bench showed wear along the edges—faded leather polished by years—and kept a quiet dignity.
"Sunbae, over here!"
Su-jin's voice brightened as she waved toward Ye-seul, who was still taking in the room. In the back corner, Min-jun had already slipped into a shadow, case tucked at his feet, watching as if this were any other day.
"Ye-seul-ssi, a moment?"
The warm bass came from behind her. She turned. Professor Kim Do-hyeon stood with a stack of handouts at his side. Up close, the effect—at least to Ye-seul—was muted and exact. Dark jacket in a fine Italian weave. Shirt without a crease. Soft leather shoes that made almost no sound. A slim steel watch that caught light once and vanished. When he moved, a faint cedar note followed. On the side table, he lifted a white envelope stamped with the K-ARTS crest.
"Good afternoon, Professor Kim."
Ye-seul bowed, fingers light on her handbag strap. "Is something the matter, Professor?"
He pushed his glasses up with a forefinger and ruffled his peppered hair as if to settle it. The habitual gesture took a little of the formality out of him. "Nothing urgent," he said, keeping his voice low and warm so it carried without force. "Has Ji-hoon contacted you since the competition? You were the last to see him that night."
"No, Professor. The hall was the last place."
The HVAC hummed. For a breath, neither of them spoke.
"I see." His mouth thinned, then eased. "I thought he might call you. You and he go back farther than most here." Concern threaded the even tone. "He doesn't make scenes. He also doesn't vanish."
"I'm sorry I can't help more."
"It isn't on you," he said gently, palm turning as if to wave the apology away. His eyes went to the envelope. He lowered his voice. "Ye-seul-ssi... May I ask a favor, even if it's unusual? The office could send this the usual way, but I'd like it to reach him early." He tapped the crest with his thumb. "If you could take it to him. And if you can, speak with him." The warmth in his tone sharpened into care. "I've had him for three years. He works until security taps their watches. He doesn't miss. If he's silent now, there's a reason. It may be easier coming from someone he trusts."
Ye-seul's grip tightened on the strap of her handbag, then softened. She glanced toward the Fazioli as if to steady her breathing. "We aren't close, Professor." The words were careful. A small pause. "But… I want to see him too. I can try."
Relief loosened his shoulders. He ruffled his hair again, then placed the envelope in her palm. The paper felt heavy and cool, the ink holding a faint sheen. "Thank you. I'll text you his address. Hongdae. Not far." He hesitated. "And, Ye-seul—congratulations on KBS-KEPCO. Hard work shows."
"Thank you, Professor. I'm grateful for your guidance."
She bowed. He inclined his head and turned back to the aisle with the handouts, already answering a student's question in a few quiet words.
Ye-seul turned and crossed toward the empty seat beside Su-jin's waving arm.
---
The clock ticked as students settled. Pamphlets slid down the rows. When Do-hyeon set down the last stack, the heavy door at the back sighed open and spilled a blade of corridor light across the aisle.
"Sunbae, isn't that—" Su-jin's gasp broke into the room's small noises. She nudged Ye-seul toward the silhouette in the doorway.
The figure in the doorway crossed the threshold at an unhurried pace. Around him, the hall quieted to the sound of leather on carpet. A midnight suit cut to a clean line. To Ye-seul, the finish read as world-stage ready, the kind of poise born in rooms far larger than K-ARTS's.
"You're quite late, Seung-gyu," Do-hyeon called, already moving down the aisle to meet him.
"What do you mean late? It's two o'clock sharp," the man said, mouth quirking.
"Still as stiff as ever." Do-hyeon's laugh rose warm as he steered him toward the center.
Facing the students, Do-hyeon lifted a hand. "Class, some of you already know him. Please welcome Professor Oh Seung-gyu."
Applause gathered, quick and even, then settled.
The posters in the practice wing had trained the whole school for that name—Leeds, Cliburn, Juilliard. First-years sat taller. Fourth-years checked their hands.
"Then I'll leave the stage to you, Seung-gyu."
With a nod, Do-hyeon stepped aside. Seung-gyu took the middle like a note struck clean. When he spoke, his voice carried in a low, steady register that found the back rows without strain.
"Let's start with a question," he said. "What matters most to a pianist's success?"
"Technique!" someone called from the left. "S-speed!" from the middle. "Virtuosity!" another voice, trying not to sound unsure.
He listened to each answer, eyes tracking the room, giving a short nod that acknowledged effort without encouraging guessing games. When the murmurs began to layer, he lifted a hand, and the sound thinned to quiet.
"You're all right," he said, "and not quite." A few chuckles broke, then faded. "As pianists, we train technique. We chase speed. We polish articulation. We study style and taste. All necessary. But if two pianists stand on the same stage with the same equipment, why do you lean forward for one and not the other?"
Silence held. The HVAC hush thinned.
"It's the voice," he said. "Not speaking, but playing. The part of the sound that belongs only to you." He turned a fraction toward the Fazioli, letting the lights pick a line across the keys. "Good pianists master the tools. Great pianists make a voice you recognize after four bars and miss when it stops."
He turned toward the keyboard and touched two notes to test the action. The case wood gave a sympathetic creak. He played a single phrase—plain, even, correct to the point of vanishing. Then the exact phrase again, the inner voice weighed, time flexed a hair before resolution. A few heads lifted without anyone meaning to move.
"Think of the pianist you return to," he went on, taking a step closer to the instrument. "Same repertoire. Same notes on the page. Why that recording, that concert, that person? Because something in their sound is theirs alone." He let the thought land. "Today, we're going to work on how to find that. Not to copy, but to listen until what is yours starts to answer back."
---
Turning, Seung-gyu glanced at Do-hyeon, who gave a small nod.
"Ye-seul-ssi, would you help us demonstrate?"
Her name landed like a soft knock. Ye-seul looked to Do-hyeon. He met her eyes and answered with the faintest tilt of his chin.
"As expected, my sunbae is the best!" Su-jin's whisper-bright cheer popped the hush and nudged Ye-seul forward.
She rose. The aisle carpet muted her steps. Up close, the Fazioli smelled of wax and wood. Ye-seul touched the bench with two fingers and aligned it to the key slip by habit. Leather sighed as she sat. Left foot found the floor. Right foot hovered, then settled on the pedal.
One breath in. Longer out. Again.
The same quiet ritual she had practiced since junior competitions, the one that boxed the noise outside the line of keys.
Seung-gyu's smile was steady. "No pressure. This is work, not judgment." He drew the plain chair a little closer and sat. "Play whatever you like. Something that fits your hands today."
A few claps scattered, then faded. Ye-seul set her palms on the cool ivory for a moment, feeling the slight grain under the polish. On the exhale, she lifted and began with a light trill in the right hand.
Debussy's L'Isle joyeuse, L.106.
On paper, it looks like bright water. In the body, it asks for independence, constant voicing, jumps that arrive singing, fingers that change weight mid-flight. The harmony shifts like light, so pedaling must be clean or the whole thing clouds. Ye-seul kept the treble crystalline while the left hand traced the moving shore. Arpeggios unfurled. Crossed hands flashed and cleared. Repeated notes sat evenly, never hammered. Where the swell opened, she let the line bloom without blur, catching the resonance with a half-pedal and releasing it before it thickened. Six compact minutes shaped into one arc.
The last chord hung and thinned. Then the hall answered—quiet at first, then brightening. A program rustled. Someone breathed out. In the back row, Min-jun watched with a stillness that read as attention, not surprise. His gaze wasn't on her hands but on her face, tracking something others missed.
Seung-gyu nodded, the warmth in his tone unforced. "You play with authority. Clear tempo. Transparent pedaling. The voicing is disciplined, and your color changes are measured rather than perfumed. A textbook account of French clarity."
Admiring murmurs moved down the rows. Ye-seul kept her hands resting, not clasped, the way she had been taught.
He waited a beat. The room quieted again. "However." He tilted his head, curious rather than cutting. "Was the opening Gieseking?" A few heads turned. "That clean, quick articulation in the arabesque—very much his. In particular, the 1953 record." He let a small smile show. "And in the central span, when you softened the accompaniment so the upper harmony carried the phrase—Michelangeli's balance, almost to the bar."
Another beat. The lights hummed.
"I can hear what you love," he said, still warm. "Now I want to hear you. Where is Ye-seul-ssi in this?"
The words landed without force and still found the center of the room. Her next inhale arrived a beat late. Ye-seul's gaze dropped to the keys, fingers hovering as if a note might answer for her. Off to the side, Do-hyeon stood with his arms loose, watching, saying nothing. In her periphery, Su-jin shifted. Ye-seul couldn't see her face, but she felt the attention—not sympathetic, something else. The kind of watching that measures rather than supports.
"May I try again, Professor?" The words surprised even her. She met Seung-gyu's eyes and held them.
"Of course."
Sound filled the hall again. A different piece, the same brilliance. Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat, Op.9, No.2. Simpler, more intimate.
This time, Ye-seul shaped phrases with intent. She let a line lean, then hold. Arpeggios swelled and thinned like breath. The right hand carried a singing legato while the left traced the ground. Yet in her inner ear, two performances overlapped. One was the mirror that had lived for years in her practice room. The other was a sound pressed into her hands by family—her mother's touch, her grandfather's approved tempi, the weight of the Han name in larger halls. Both impeccable. Both radiant.
By the third bar, muscle memory asserted itself once more. Rubinstein's timing, Arrau's weight. Beautiful. Not hers.
When she listened for the seam that would hold only her weight, the sound answered with an echo.
Her hands hovered, then fell still. The last resonance climbed into the rafters and was gone. Beside her, Seung-gyu's eyes held understanding. He reached and, with two fingers, lifted her hands a breath from the keys.
Her fingers curled in the air.
He nodded once, still gentle, and turned to the room. "Take this with you. For next time, we'll work from Scriabin's Etude in D-sharp minor, Op. 8, No. 12. Eight bars, your choice. Mark what you hear as yours."
Photocopies began to pass down the rows with the handouts. Paper whispered in many hands. Toner hung faintly in the cool air. On the bench, Ye-seul steadied her breath and rose. The leather gave a small sigh. The score in her palm felt cool and faintly gritty.
She returned to her seat under a drift of admiring whispers. She gave a small nod, folded the edge of the copy twice, and kept her thumb on the crease.