CC 09

Chapter 09

## 4. The Night the Stars Aligned the Path (1)

The beginning was a very quiet performance.

The barely audible notes resemble rain falling little by little on a wet forest.

Jeong Myeonghwan spoke as soon as he heard the prelude.

“This is Chopin’s Prelude Op.28 No.15. It’s a piece nicknamed the Raindrop Prelude.”

Myeong Jaeman nods.

“It’s a very comforting and pleasant piece to listen to.”

“That’s only the prelude.”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“Actually, this piece was born when Chopin, whose pulmonary tuberculosis had worsened, went to the island of Majorca with his then-lover George Sand for convalescence and was going through a difficult time due to bad weather and illness.”

“You mean it’s a piece that sounds painful in the later part because of his sick heart?”

Jeong Myeonghwan shakes his head.

“No. The mansion where Chopin was convalescing at the time was in the countryside, so to buy groceries, one had to go far away. Since the sick Chopin couldn’t go out, his lover went instead. But a sudden downpour broke the bridge, and she couldn’t return for over six hours. Chopin was seized by anxiety that she might be dead. The piece he composed while sitting at the piano, trembling with fear and anxiety, listening to the sound of rain falling from the eaves—that is this piece.”

“Ah… so there’s such a story.”

“The repeating low notes in the left hand evoke raindrops falling from the roof, and the structure that begins calm then rushes toward a passionate and dark middle section dramatically expresses anxiety and solitude…”

Jeong Myeonghwan, who had been explaining fluently, suddenly stops and turns his head sharply to look at Suho, who is performing.

The piano is speaking to him.

‘I was seized by the fear of death in the storm, and what I heard then was the sound of endlessly falling raindrops.’

A poetic meditation flowing like a single destiny.

Poetic fragments, short but intense like an eagle in ruins, pound wildly on the frontal lobe of his brain.

Not monotonous raindrops, but the rhythm of anxiety and recollection knocking on the human interior.

Jeong Myeonghwan was so astonished just from hearing the calm prelude where the pulse of destiny begins.

‘This can’t be.’

It’s a performance that completely surpasses everything one could expect from a restaurant pianist. When finally entering the section where the storm, anxiety, and darkness of the middle part are expressed, Jeong Myeonghwan unconsciously clenches his fist.

In the moment the storm rages, he faced his own deepest anxiety.

Those repeating notes weren’t raindrops—they were the footsteps of time that would never return.

In the dark middle section, he faced himself, whom even he didn’t know.

One drop, another drop… in that repetition, he finally came to understand Chopin.

Chopin’s true heart, which he had known only through letters, writings, and literature.

Jeong Myeonghwan’s trembling eyes.

Myeong Jaeman, who doesn’t have much musical knowledge, was watching Jeong Myeonghwan’s reactions rather than the piano performance.

‘The conductor’s reaction being this intense means…’

Myeong Jaeman’s gaze turns to Suho.

What Myeong Jaeman considers most important, having run a group for a long time, is people.

One good talent is stronger than ten strategies, and the future of a company depends on what talent you choose today—that is exactly what Chairman Myeong Jaeman believes.

‘Capital can be gathered, but talent must be cultivated.’

A saying from a past businessperson he respected comes to Myeong Jaeman’s mind.

‘A good company gathers good people, and a great company makes them shine.’

The restaurant’s pianist.

He probably isn’t a well-known pianist.

Myeong Jaeman’s gaze turns back to Jeong Myeonghwan.

Amidst the fierce storm-like performance, Jeong Myeonghwan looks like someone standing drenched in rain. He wanted to believe this performance was the sound of rain, but it seems clearly like a scream echoing within himself.

At some point, the music began speaking to Myeong Jaeman’s ears as well.

He doesn’t really know what it’s saying. Myeong Jaeman furrows his brow and looks at Suho.

As darkness closes in, the piano repeats the same question as if interrogating him.

He doesn’t yet know the identity of the question.

The notes were merciless. They chased after him without giving him time to breathe.

In the moment of the storm, he was hearing not his own heartbeat but the heartbeat of a strange someone.

The storm-like middle section ends, and it becomes quiet again in the recapitulation. A beautiful performance filled with recollection, resignation, and tranquility continues, and the performance quietly ends, fading away.

When the last note disappears, Myeong Jaeman was sinking into a slightly deeper night.

The rain has stopped, but the inner storm is not yet over.

Myeong Jaeman lets out a hum.

“Hmm…”

Silence flowed through the hall instead of applause. No one could breathe first.

Perhaps because it’s a familiar occurrence, the hall servers and the owner, who had been listening to the performance from behind, give the audience time to savor the lingering resonance before applauding. At that sound, the guests awaken from their illusion.

Some shed tears.

Because they glimpsed Chopin’s desperate anxiety and fear, and the intense sorrow hidden within.

Myeong Jaeman felt strong curiosity at the musical illusion he was experiencing for the first time in his life.

‘This is music.’

Honestly, Myeong Jaeman doesn’t like music. He never understood why so many people live intoxicated by refined music. Rather than classical, ppongjjak suited his taste better.

But he had to revise his thinking today.

‘A poetic meditation flowing like a single destiny within simple repetition. This is what classical music is.’

He had dismissed it as chaebols with aristocratic mindsets choosing classical music as a means to externally display their refinement, but that wasn’t it. This music had genuine emotion.

Myeong Jaeman lets out a self-deprecating laugh.

“I’ve lived 80 years and still have things to learn, hehe.”

This is why the world is interesting.

Not new technology, but learning the value of music that existed long before he was born—after turning 80. That is the world.

Myeong Jaeman looks at Jeong Myeonghwan.

He still can’t take his eyes off Suho.

Not wanting to disturb Jeong Myeonghwan’s emotion, Myeong Jaeman quietly rises and calls Jang Yonghwan, the owner of Gabriel.

“Yes, Chairman. How is your meal?”

“Hehe, I was so surprised by the piano performance that I couldn’t even touch the food.”

Jang Yonghwan grins.

“Yes, that’s why that friend’s performance has 10-minute breaks in between. You can eat then.”

“Hehe, living long enough, I even experience forgetting to eat because I’m listening to a performance. I heard truly wonderful music today. I’d like to give that friend a tip.”

“You can put it in the tip box here.”

Seeing the tip box with Suho’s name on it, Myeong Jaeman asks.

“Is that friend’s name Kang Suho?”

“Yes, Chairman.”

“Hehe, is that so? He looks young—what university does he attend?”

“He’s a high school student, Chairman.”

Myeong Jaeman’s eyes grow wide.

For an old man who has lived long enough that there’s nothing left to surprise him, having his eyes grow wide is something not easily seen.

“A high school… student, you say?”

“Yes, surprising, isn’t it?”

“Heh… hehe.”

Myeong Jaeman looks at Suho, who is preparing the next sheet music, with fresh eyes, then takes out his wallet. Jang Yonghwan is startled to see a 1-million-won check go into Suho’s tip box.

“Ch-Chairman. This is too much.”

“It’s fine. At this age, there aren’t many things that surprise me. But today I had a very interesting experience.”

“Yes… I’ll deliver it well.”

Myeong Jaeman nods, then pretends to go to the restroom and steps outside the restaurant. When an attendant secretary waiting outside approaches, Myeong Jaeman speaks.

“Look into the student who just performed, and check if he has any sponsors.”

“Yes, Chairman.”

As the attendant secretary bows, Myeong Jaeman’s eyes shine sharply.

‘A talent who will make Jaewon Group shine.’

He feels like he’s met quite an interesting fellow in his later years.

“That aside.”

Myeong Jaeman grabs the restaurant door again.

“I should keep listening to the performance.”

—

Jeong Myeonghwan, the conductor of the Banpo Orchestra, is still in a daze even after the meal is over. Even as he bows while watching the car leave to see off Chairman Myeong Jaeman, his eyes are unfocused.

The car has completely disappeared, but Jeong Myeonghwan, still bowing and lost in thought, causes earthquakes in his pupils.

‘Every night it rains, the same note will call me again.’

Suho’s performance was not raindrops but like a hammer pounding on his head. After a very long time, Jeong Myeonghwan straightens his back and looks up at the restaurant.

“You said performances are every Thursday, right?”

Jeong Myeonghwan immediately picks up his phone, accesses the restaurant’s SNS, and makes a reservation for Thursday.

“I’ll become a regular at this restaurant.”

Suddenly, the pianist at Hangang Park that Hyerim mentioned comes to mind. What if he and Suho faced off?

“Next week I should bring Hyerim too.”

Jeong Myeonghwan rubs his slightly tired eyes, having lost his soul, and heads home.

At the same time, Suho, having changed out of the suit borrowed from the dry cleaner and washing dishes, is wearing a slight frown.

‘Not enough practice.’

About 60% of his past life’s skill.

No matter how much Chopin dwells within him, a pianist ultimately expresses music through the body. In other words, without physical training, he can’t give 100%.

That’s not simply strength. The key lies in reaction speed and the density of muscles essential for performance.

That is something that can only be obtained through endless practice.

‘I need to buy a piano quickly.’

To do that, he needs to work hard today too.

‘But buying a piano is also a problem.’

Suho’s house is a multi-family dwelling.

Pianos have strong vibrations that transmit to the downstairs neighbor. Even with mats, playing late at night becomes a problem.

‘Not just vibrations, but sound is also a problem.’

In his past life, he mainly lived in mansions in remote places, so he could play piano day or night, but in Korea’s reality, that’s difficult.

Ahn Sunghoon, who had been watching Suho washing dishes with an unusually troubled expression, taps him on the back and asks.

“Is something wrong?”

“Ah, Chef. It’s nothing.”

“Why, tell me. I might be able to help.”

Suho takes off his gloves and scratches his head.

“Well, I want to practice piano more, but I live in a multi-family dwelling, so noise is a bit of an issue.”

“Hmm, a piano isn’t an electronic instrument, so… hmm? Why not just buy an electronic instrument?”

He knew electronic keyboards existed and had gone to touch one himself. But electronic keyboards are too light and have artificial touch, so the weight and rebound of the keys aren’t natural.

For him, who uses playing techniques where tone and expression change greatly depending on subtle force control, it’s not a suitable instrument.

“That’s a bit…”

“Hmm, I guess there are people who insist on real pianos. I don’t know much about it though.”

At that moment, one of the cooks chimes in.

“I heard silent pianos are coming out these days?”

“What’s that?”

“It works on the same principle as an acoustic piano but combines digital technology so you can hear the sound through headphones.”

Wow, there’s such a thing?

Suho’s eyes grow wide.

“Does it really work on the same principle as a real piano? With hammers directly striking strings?”

“I heard so. I saw it on the news too.”

Suho quickly picks up his phone to search and then makes a tearful face.