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‘Could she be his student? The last student Mr. Myeongjeon took in? Someone whose talent he recognized and taught…?’

Junhong, thinking that, took a moment to sort out his thoughts. It was most reasonable to assume she was Mr. Myeongjeon’s student, but if he assumed that and thought about what had happened earlier…

‘If she were his student, couldn’t she simply have said so when I asked where the guitar came from?’

But Junhong couldn’t come up with a more convincing hypothesis. Naturally. Aside from being good at guitar, Junhong was an ordinary citizen—a proud twenty-first-century Korean with a scientific mindset who didn’t believe in strange supernatural nonsense.

Rather than press her about why she hadn’t revealed the truth, he decided to think about why she might have kept it hidden.

‘Could she have been told not to reveal it?’

Junhong thought that was a reasonable explanation. Mr. Myeongjeon had been difficult, after all, but he had also been a somewhat unusual person.

Junhong wasn’t the only one who had learned guitar from Mr. Myeongjeon. Several other session guitarists had stayed at Myeongjeon’s house around that time to learn from him.

And Myeongjeon had never once allowed them to call him their “master” or “teacher,” or to say that he had taught them guitar, or anything of the sort.

“If you learned it, then you learned it. What’s with all this ‘master’ and ‘teacher’ nonsense? If you’ve got nothing better to do, go home!”...