short story collection

Chance and sleep

I was just drawn in by chance.

In a house where classical music flowed endlessly. Just saying that made me feel like I was part of the upper class. Classical music had long been enjoyed by the upper class. But I lived a dark and dreary life. In a semi-basement, where convenience store food wrappers were strewn about and the light barely penetrated, classical music was the greatest luxury I could afford. I mustered up my exhausted body, turned off the classical music playing on the radio, and sat down at the piano. How long had it been sitting there? I wondered how much dust there was. I blew the dust with my mouth, and it scattered. The dust in the air made me cough. I blew air with my hand, sweeping the dust away from my face. When the coughing subsided, I carefully opened the dust-covered piano. I carefully removed the red cloth, revealing the piano keys, gleaming brightly in stark contrast to the worn piano lid. I sat down and lightly placed my hands on the keys. The cool sensation I felt after a long time was welcome. I slowly played the classical piece I had been listening to. My playing was, dare I say, beautiful. Ever since I was a child, I'd been told I was a piano prodigy, and everyone was confident in my success. But I disappointed everyone's confidence.

It all started when I gave up on a major orchestra and joined a small, scrappy one. I chose a small orchestra because it was less of a burden. Having been admired by so many since childhood in a huge orchestra, it felt overwhelming. That's why I envied small orchestras. In a large orchestra, I could never assert my own musical ambitions, and they wouldn't tolerate even the smallest mistakes. But what was lonelier than playing piano alone in a large orchestra was having no one to support me when I made a mistake. So I left the big orchestra and joined a small one. The people in the small orchestra always greeted me with a smile. I never met a single unsmiling face. Even though I was still playing piano alone there, it made me feel like I wasn't alone. Life in the small orchestra was truly enjoyable. At least until it went under. The orchestra's performance was always poor. Many people said my recruitment would lead to success, but that wasn't the case. Of course, things were a little better at first. However, after the previous leader took his own life and a new one was appointed, the orchestra was effectively buried. Ultimately, many members left, leading to the orchestra's disbandment. After that, I attempted several solo debuts, but I was ultimately forgotten by everyone. Perhaps that was what I had hoped for.

As the piece ended, emptiness washed over me like a tidal wave. I suddenly missed the applause that came after each performance. Swallowing back my bitterness, I closed the piano lid again. I opened the window, which barely let in any light, took out a cigarette, and lit it. The smoke from my mouth wafted out the window. But the smoke, which vanished as quickly as it flew, seemed to mirror my own reflection, so I threw away the half-smoked cigarette. I ran a rough hand through my hair and sighed. I sat down on the cold floor and turned on the radio again. Brahms's lullaby flowed sweetly. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes.

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“Ms. Yeonju, I really enjoyed your performance. It was so delicate.”

“It seems like all my hard work paid off. I’m glad.”

“Please keep playing like this next time too. Thank you for your hard work.”

The manager tapped me on the shoulder and spoke to me with a smile. Her smile filled me with pride. I mentally exclaimed, "Nice!" over and over again, as I walked to the car, clutching a handful of beautiful flowers. Even on the way to the car, crowds of people cheered and cheered, many screaming at the top of their lungs as if I were a Hollywood star. Smiling and nodding, I pushed my way through the crowd and boarded the car. As the car pulled away, leaving behind the frenzied cheering, the surrounding noises quickly subsided and fell into silence. Through the still air, the manager spoke to me.

“Yeonju, shall we go home today?”

"No, I'm just stopping by the practice room. Drop me off and then leave work first."

“What about food? What do you want to eat?”

“No, it’s okay.”

A brief conversation ensued, and silence settled in again. Just as the silence began to feel awkward, a car arrived in front of the practice room. I trudged into the practice room, laden with gifts. Perhaps it was the weight of my body or the sheer volume of luggage that gave me a strange feeling. I displayed the gifts neatly in the practice room and placed my hands on the piano keys. A warm feeling lingered, as if someone had just been playing. With that exhilarating feeling, I began practicing. As if possessed by a god, I smoothly played the difficult parts, achieving a performance more perfect than usual. So, this is what it means to feel like I've grown. A sudden realization struck me. And so, I practiced in the practice room until late into the night.

That night, I took a quick look online. News about my performances caught my eye. More precisely, they were about orchestra performances, but the fact that there was a lot of talk about my piano solos was a testament to my accomplishments. After all, I was the only pianist in that massive orchestra.

The next day, my manager received news from my agency. They were suggesting I try my hand at independent pianism, no longer as part of an orchestra. It was truly an honor. In a way, success seemed assured. With a major agency, a background in a major orchestra, and a reputation as a piano prodigy, I agreed without hesitation. I think it was probably because my performance the day before had impressed me.

After months of preparation, my solo album finally came out. It was truly fantastic. I wondered if there could be a more meaningful album than my first. It was so fantastic and beautiful that I probably would never release another album in my life. I finally felt truly recognized as a pianist. Could there have been a greater success than this?

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I opened my eyes to the roar of a supercar engine outside. I felt uneasy. What was so great about that supercar? It was just a major cause of environmental pollution and noise pollution. My sweet mood was shattered, and tears welled up in my eyes. I let out a long sigh and flipped through my music book. The sheet music for the song I played in my dream unfolded before me in a flash. I placed my hands on the piano again. The piano melody, resonating note by note, was terrifyingly bad. The notes were all muffled, and my fingers were shattered. It was so miserable that I couldn't believe I was looking at the same sheet music I played in my dream. I must have had a dream that was too beautiful.

How could even the name be "Myeongyeonju"? I began to doubt my own eligibility to wear that title. Who would have thought to listen to the poor performance of a famous performer, had I rushed to the stage? Who would dare to express their appreciation for such a dismal and dark melody?

I pounded my fist on the piano, an unpleasant cacophony of discord. My mind was filled with images of my piano in my dream. If possible, I wanted to return to that dream. Overwhelmed by a senseless anxiety, I bit my fingernails. Blood trickled out, but I didn't care. For this moment, I wanted to forget my fingers existed. I couldn't forgive myself for ruining that beautiful melody like this. I thought I should go back to the dream. Even if the next dream wasn't the same, I wanted to surrender to chance. Grabbing a handful of sleeping pills from the cupboard, I trusted in chance and dove into sleep.

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A few months later, the landlord knocked noisily on the door. He was there to collect months' worth of overdue rent. The landlord sighed and shouted, but the house was as quiet as if not a single mouse had been there. Soon, the landlord's face hardened and he called the police.

“For months, there’s a young man who hasn’t paid his rent, and I can’t stand to see him leave the house.”

A moment later, the police arrived, and after barely breaking open the door, the house was quiet. Walking slowly, they found Yeonju, her eyes closed, peacefully resting on the blanket. The surroundings were teeming with bugs, and an indescribable stench emanated. Only the plastic sleeping pill container in her hand remained intact, uncorrupted. They tried to contact Yeonju's guardian, but were unable to, and the cell phone they managed to find in the house had no one they could contact. After a moment of deliberation, the police finally called the person listed on Yeonju's most recent call log, excluding the landlord. And even that call was from a year ago. He was a reporter who had been close to Yeonju. He had primarily covered music-related events and incidents, but they had barely kept in touch since Yeonju's downfall. However, upon hearing the news of Yeonju's death, he rushed to the house. He, too, was unaware of Yeonju's death. After seeing Yeonju's body with his own eyes, he took a photo, spent a long moment silent, and then, with a stiff expression, left the scene.

That evening, Yeonju's name shook the internet. [Piano prodigy Myungyeon, ultimately committed suicide due to financial difficulties]. As Yeonju's death spread, people flocked to her like a tidal wave. Reactions like, "She was such a good piano player, why did she do that...", "She hasn't been seen in a while...", and "Why did she change orchestras then... what a shame." Even though Yeonju no longer existed, everyone was condemning her choice. The world, where even the dead are judged, was a crueler place than one might think. Perhaps happiness in this world was a luxury.

Yeonju has always attempted to rebel against the world. He chose a comfortable, small orchestra over a flashy, grand orchestra, a downfall for peace over a struggle for success, and an addiction to dreams over realizing them.

As a result, the poor who loved classical music eventually died from luxury.