The Day Her World Collapsed
"The dress and the shoes—Jung-hoon said he'd bring them soon. And..."
Hye-young's eyes swept restlessly around the waiting room.
PW Art Center, in Seocho-gu, Seoul. It was the venue for Eun-jae's third recital.
Eun-jae sat on the sofa with her eyes closed, then furrowed her brow and drew a long, unsteady breath. She had stood on countless stages, yet the nerves never grew familiar. Was it the stress? A queasy churn had settled in her stomach. Her lips, dry and cracked, parted.
"Unni, some water, please."
"Sure. Just a second."
At those few words, Hye-young was at her side in an instant, twisting off the cap and pressing the bottle into Eun-jae's hands. She knew how especially fragile Eun-jae became before a performance; every nerve in her own body was drawn taut.
Eun-jae took a sip, then slowly lifted her eyelids.
"Do you need anything else?"
Hye-young's sharp eyes tracked her every movement.
"No."
Still staring blankly ahead, Eun-jae rose from her seat. She had arrived early for rehearsal, and three full hours still remained until the performance.
"Eun-jae, where are you going?"
"I'll be right back. Just for a moment."
Off to rehearse again, it seemed. By now, one might have expected her to have grown a little more composed—but the deathly pallor of Eun-jae's face betrayed how tightly wound she still was.
It had already been ten years since her debut. She had practiced thousands of times—more than thousands—and still this anxiety clung to her. It was almost painful to watch.
A Korean girl who, at sixteen, had become the youngest-ever winner of the 15th International Piano Competition. That had been her dazzling debut. The world called her a prodigy, a genius pianist—but the Eun-jae that Hye-young knew was a creature of relentless, grinding effort. She practiced until her fingertips wore raw, without rest, without pause. And that, more than anything, made her heartbreaking.
"She's wasted away to nothing."
The extreme stress before a performance had stolen her appetite again, it seemed. Hye-young watched Eun-jae's retreating figure leave the waiting room, her eyes full of quiet pity.
Click. Click. The crisp tap of well-kept heels echoed down the silent corridor.
Eun-jae's face, as she walked the hallway with measured calm, betrayed nothing. It was the product of years of practice—steeling herself before every performance, hiding the turmoil underneath. A mask of composure. A pretense that she was fine.
She pushed open the hall doors and walked to the very center of the stage.
Some thousand seats unfurled before her eyes. They had finished remodeling not long ago, and the hall's clean, renewed lines took her in at a glance.
The moment ticket sales opened, every seat for all three days had sold out in just five minutes, and the articles had come flooding in, each one racing to be first.
Before she had even arrived, Mi-jung's voice had followed her here, ringing in her ears like a persistent hum.
It was a family her adoptive father, Gwang-hyun, had coveted since she was a child. Perhaps that was why Eun-jae had always assumed she would one day marry their eldest son.
There would be fans in the audience, of course—but also her father and mother, and the acquaintances they had personally invited to show off their daughter's dazzling talent. They were not coming because they loved classical music. They were coming to be seen.
That was all she was to her family. And for parents who had not even given birth to her, it was the only way she knew to repay their kindness.
She steadied herself, then approached the piano and sat. A small breath escaped her as she looked down at the keys.
She knew them so well she could see them with her eyes closed. No—she had practiced until her fingertips blistered, again and again, until she could play them even in her dreams.
Please, let today pass without incident. Please, let this anxiety fade.
Composing herself, Eun-jae curled both hands into a gentle arch, set them upon the keys, and closed her eyes. A moment later, Tchaikovsky's Souvenir de Florence, first movement, unfurled through the empty, silent hall and filled every hollow space.
This was the time when she could think of nothing at all—when she could give herself over, wholly, to the piano. For her, the piano was a way through. It was the place she could breathe. It was a friend. It was her family.
The sweet melody wrapped around her entire body, and in that instant her hands were gliding, elegant, across the keys.
CRASH. BOOM.
A roar loud enough to rupture eardrums ripped through the air, and the world before her eyes flashed white. It had happened in a single instant.
How long had it been?
"Eun-jae—stay with me! Go Eun-jae!!"
"Move her, please! Right now!"
Hye-young's frantic voice and a swell of commotion reached her from somewhere far away. As if someone had pulled a fuse, Eun-jae's consciousness simply went out.
It was the day Go Eun-jae's entire world collapsed.
In the banquet hall of Chayeong Group headquarters in Gangnam, a memorandum of understanding was being signed. Chayeong Department Store and TS Shopping had entered into a partnership on behalf of socially marginalized communities, and the ceremony had drawn considerable attention: Cha Mu-yeol, CEO of Chayeong Department Store, was in attendance alongside managing directors, division heads, and a full complement of executives from both companies.
"Thank you all for your hard work."
"Not at all, sir. This is entirely the result of your attention. We hardly did a thing."
The managing director who had been at Mu-yeol's side throughout the ceremony answered with scrupulous deference.
"Shall we move on to dinner? You've all put in such effort—I've arranged something in advance to treat you properly."
"Sir."
His secretary, Seung-yu, stepped in close and murmured something against his ear.
A look of displeasure flickered through Mu-yeol's eyes. He considered for a moment, then offered a faint, polite smile.
"How unfortunate. I'd have liked to join you, but something urgent has come up. It seems the Chairman is asking for me again. Vice Chairman, I'll leave our guests in your care."
"Don't worry about a thing."
Vice Chairman Lee gave Mu-yeol a kindly smile and led the executives out of the banquet hall. Only then did Mu-yeol start toward the parking garage with Kim Seung-yu.
He exhaled through his teeth. As if the old man didn't already know perfectly well what was on today's schedule. Irritation sat thick on his face.
"Why today?"
"He said his legs were too numb. He was admitted this afternoon."
"His legs?"
"Most likely his chronic disc condition, I would imagine..."
Mu-yeol let out a heavy sigh and yanked at his tie. He had been busy since morning—no, lately he had been so buried he could scarcely catch his breath. He was always busy enough that finding even a spare moment was a luxury, but the schedule had been closing in tighter and tighter until there was no time left even to eat. Meals, sleep—he had been getting almost none of either. And because every last detail of Mu-yeol's movements was reported up the chain, former Chairman Cha Jung-hyun knew all of it.
"I'll take you there, sir."
He went down to the parking garage at a clip, undid the button of his jacket, and climbed straight into the waiting car. The door shut, and Seung-yu slid quickly into the driver's seat.
Mu-yeol glanced at his wrist. It was nearly seven in the evening. He had cleared his entire schedule after the signing so they could unwind over dinner—and now, at the former Chairman's summons, he was being hauled away with no say in the matter.
Former Chairman Cha Jung-hyun had stepped back from the front lines and was living out his leisure. At his age, of course, continuing to work had long since become impractical. And the old man's single remaining pleasure: playing Korean chess with his grandson.
Even past eighty, Jung-hyun's competitive streak was something to behold, which meant the games always had to be lost. Carefully. Moderately. Without it showing. If the old man ever caught on that the losses were deliberate, he would fly into a temper and sulk for days.
"They say you turn into a child when you get old."
He clicked his tongue, exasperated, and let his head fall back against the rest, eyes closing. The schedule that had been grating on his nerves for days was finally over, and a headache came rolling in. The thought of going to the hospital only to spend the evening humoring the old man made the exhaustion pile up even thicker.
"It's rush hour, so it may take a while. The traffic is quite heavy."
Seung-yu, driving up front, spoke with careful caution.
"I know. Be quiet."
"My apologies."
As if even that much was too much to listen to, Mu-yeol got the words out and pinched the bridge of his brow.
A stretch that should have taken twenty minutes took a full hour.
He could not understand being summoned by a grandfather who only wanted his grandson to stave off boredom—nor why the old man had insisted he come at Friday rush hour, of all times. But he only ever called for his eldest grandson. What choice was there? You played along.
Arriving at the university hospital in Sangam, he cut straight across the lobby. Jung-hyun was admitted here so often that Mu-yeol's stride toward the room did not hesitate once.
He stopped in front of the VVIP elevator, and Seung-yu pressed the button.
Ding.
The car arrived. Mu-yeol stepped on at once and stood in the center, facing forward. Seung-yu pressed 35—the top floor—then the close button.
The high-speed elevator shot upward. Reserved for VVIP use, it stopped at not a single floor.
Ding.
Then, suddenly, the elevator slowed and came to a halt, and Mu-yeol's gaze lifted.
The doors parted to either side.
Two orderlies and a hospital bed were waiting on the other side. Confirming there were already people inside, the patient transporter dipped his head with an awkward, trapped expression. Sensing the murderous atmosphere, Seung-yu was the first to speak.
"Which floor are you headed to...?"
"It's all right. Please go on ahead."
They appeared to be in the middle of transporting a patient. At the orderly's words, Seung-yu reached for the close button—and in that fraction of a second, Mu-yeol's gaze fell on the name tag hanging from the foot of the bed.