Chapter 0
“Mr. Myeongjeon. Do you know what your problem is?”
At the drinking party celebrating the end of the tour, the middle-aged singer who headlined the tour, his face flushed with drink, asked Myeongjeon a question amid the boisterous chatter.
“What is it?”
Myeongjeon knew what answer would come from the singer’s mouth. It was something countless people had pointed out time and again—and a problem he had never managed to fix.
“Myeongjeon, you play the guitar re~~~ally well. You really fucking play the goddamn thing well. You’re famous for playing it fucking well. But you’re a session player. Do you know why? You play the fucking thing insanely well, but it’s a knockoff. Huh? You don’t have anything that’s uniquely yours. You have no originality…”
“You have to create something of your own!” the singer suddenly shouted, banging the table. For an instant, the restaurant fell silent, then grew noisy again.
“I’ve heard that a lot.”
“You’ve heard it a lot, so why can’t you fix it? I’m saying this because it really pains me, Brother Myeongjeon. You’re not someone who should rot away here in Korea. What’s-his-name, uh… Anyway, you’re far better than guitarists like that.”
‘That kid really has no filter.’
Myeongjeon tilted his glass without a word.
'That happened once.'
Thoroughly drunk, Myeongjeon sat on a bench, reminiscing about the past.
Was he becoming sentimental because of the alcohol?
Or was it because he had remembered that singer’s words while drinking alone after finishing a church CCM session?
Or, if it was neither of those, was it because of his own miserable circumstances?
‘If it was something I could do, I would have done it long ago.’
For decades, he had been told he was good at guitar. He had played sessions at concerts for illustrious bands and on albums famous enough to be recognized by name alone. His guitar skills had made him renowned, and he even had a few younger musicians who respected him.
Yet despite having such skill… he had never once been the star of a stage. Even with his extraordinary guitar ability, he had always quietly played the role of the star’s shadow from the back.
Because, in the end, he was someone who could never create anything of his own.
He remembered the review of his first album, which he had made through efforts so extreme that he had nearly stopped eating and drinking.
‘If a dish is made using techniques like truffles, caviar, and saffron, yet turns out to be kimchi stew, why eat it at all? The technique is beyond excellent, but every other element is borrowed from somewhere else, without a shred of originality.’
That was the result of his efforts.
A verdict that he could not create anything of his own.
It was the same afterward.
‘It feels like something I’ve seen somewhere before.’ ‘There’s no originality.’
He was simply a man destined for that sort of fate.
Even after playing guitar for decades,
even after studying countless classic albums and masterpieces,
even if he lived a life of playing nothing but guitar, forsaking food and drink…
because he had no talent,
he had no choice but to accept that his life would end like this.
Myeongjeon got up from the bench with his guitar slung over his shoulder. He was long past the age of making a pitiable spectacle of himself, yet whenever he was involved with music, he sometimes forgot his age and acted like a child.
‘Am I making a fool of myself at my age…’
There was no need for sentimental thoughts.
At his age, he had to accept the things that needed accepting.
He had already abandoned, some twenty years ago, that ugly life of envying the talent he had never possessed and mourning the years gone by.
After walking for about three minutes from the bench where he had been sitting, Myeongjeon realized he had left his pedalboard behind.
Then, all of a sudden, Myeongjeon lost the strength to hold himself up and collapsed. Thud-thud-thunk! He heard the guitar case roll across the ground.
“A-are you all right???”
Through his blurring vision, he saw someone rushing toward him, frantically asking if he was all right.
Of course he wasn’t all right.
Was he going to die like this? He had wanted to live longer, but…
As he struggled to breathe, to stand, and to hold on, a thought rose from deep within his mind, as if a stone laid on top of it had been removed.
Wouldn’t it be better to die like this?
What good would living longer do?
In the end, it was a life crushed beneath an unfulfilled dream, merely dragging itself through each day in depression.
He had no parents.
He had no children.
He had no wife.
He had no friends.
All he had were a few acquaintances from his days in music.
Even if he dragged out his life in such a pathetic state, it would still be a miserable one.
A repetition of realizing every day that he had no talent.
What reason did he have to keep living, and where could he find it?
It would be easier to just let go.
When his thoughts reached that point, Myeongjeon felt all the strength drain from his body. As a faint sensation of floating enveloped him, he was overcome by a strange sense of comfort.
Let it come.
There were only a few people who would grieve anyway.
I feel sorry for those who will grieve, but I can’t hold on any longer.
I only hope they lay down a single flower.
Feeling his consciousness gradually fading, Myeongjeon slowly closed his eyes.
… But even just once in his life, he had wanted to receive the heartfelt cheers of others.
* * *
“… I think he’s opening his eyes.”
“… Get ready to call the guardian. … Student Su-yeon!”
Then Myeongjeon slowly opened his eyes to the noise around him.
Hadn’t he died?
It would have been better if he had died right there. If he was still alive, he would have to pay hospital bills and keep dragging out his miserable life.
Was he really supposed to continue this long, sad life?
“Student Ha Su-yeon!”
“… Yes?”
But the name called out by the man in front of him, who was dressed like a doctor,
was completely different from his own.
“Student Ha Su-yeon? Can you hear me?”
Who was Ha Su-yeon…?