CC 05

Chapter 05

## 2. The Melody Is Not Yet Over (4)

Night at the restaurant Gabriel.

Even after taking the guests’ last orders and attentively serving the very last guest, the restaurant’s lights do not go out for a long time.

The servers tidy up the hall, everyone pitches in to finish the dishes the dishwashing part-timer couldn’t complete, and the sauce splattered across the kitchen must be polished to a gleaming shine.

Ahn Sunghoon watches the staff cleaning the kitchen, then comes out alone to inspect. This is his habit. The kitchen and hall, the counter and corridors—there is no place his gaze does not reach.

“Oh, Sunghoon. You worked hard today as well.”

A gentleman in his early sixties with a dignified impression is Jang Yonghwan, the owner of Gabriel.

“Owner, you’ve worked hard.”

“Yes, you must be tired—sit down a bit. Shall I pour you a glass of wine?”

“I’ll gladly accept.”

Jang Yonghwan pours two glasses of wine and offers one.

“To our hardworking today.”

Even as he drinks the wine, Sunghoon watches the servers cleaning.

Honestly, if it were up to his ambition, he’d want to challenge for two Michelin stars, but the owner Jang Yonghwan has little interest in a top-tier restaurant commanding 300,000 won per person.

Because Jang Yonghwan is the very person worrying over whether even the course meal currently sold at 190,000 won per person isn’t too expensive.

Yet a hint of worry shows on Jang Yonghwan’s face.

“Owner. Is there something troubling you?”

“Ah, sorry. Complaining in front of someone.”

“Not at all. We’re business partners—if it’s a concern about the shop, let’s share it.”

“Haha, grateful words.”

Jang Yonghwan sighs and speaks.

“Finding performers has been a bit difficult lately.”

“I’d think there are plenty of people who want to perform. Today too, I saw two people who came asking to perform.”

Jang Yonghwan shakes his head.

“Their skill is lacking. Good performers charge far too much. Performers within our budget aren’t good enough. Ah, did you hear the violin performance just before the second seating today?”

“Yes, I heard it from the kitchen. It was a tremendous performance.”

“The hall was in an uproar. Tips came out from everywhere—what a predicament. We can’t give tips to guests who came to our restaurant, so it was a relief when the conductor of the Banpo Orchestra happened to say to use the tips for the staff’s welfare.”

“So she was with the orchestra. No wonder I thought the performance was truly excellent.”

Jang Yonghwan sighs.

“The problem is what came after. Today’s second seating performance was a string quartet, but the audience, their ears fully opened by the violin solo, turned their eyes away the moment they heard the formal performance we’d prepared. They just focused on their meal. In the end, the skill fell short.”

Ironically, Hyerim’s performance had exposed the skill level of Gabriel Restaurant’s regular performers. That is why Jang Yonghwan’s worry deepened.

With the popularity of cooking competition programs, it became known to the public that fine dining restaurants have low margins.

With the reality of paying performer fees from what remains after subtracting ingredient costs, labor costs, and operating expenses from a 190,000 won course meal, there’s no way they could hire skilled, expensive performers.

Jang Yonghwan props his chin and looks at the empty stage.

“Watching the performance from the counter, it was so regrettable to see guests one by one turn their eyes from the stage and focus only on their meal. Food accompanied by music is our shop’s motto, after all.”

“……”

Ahn Sunghoon had nothing to say.

This is an area outside the kitchen. Because it’s not a matter he should involve himself in.

Jang Yonghwan suddenly scratches his head.

“Ah, I’m sorry. In front of someone whose head is already full of thoughts about cooking.”

“Not at all.”

“Now, if cleaning is done, shall we all head home?”

“Yes, you’ve worked hard.”

Ahn Sunghoon dismisses the cooks, changes his clothes, and leaves the restaurant.

Some server staff are still cleaning, but the cooks must conserve their strength for tomorrow. Because to receive the fresh seafood delivered from dawn, the cooks must arrive earlier than the servers.

On the way home by car.

Sunghoon plays “Summer” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, which he heard today.

“A piece that’s good no matter when you hear it.”

He heard the person who performed today belongs to the Banpo Orchestra. If they hold a performance soon, he thinks it might be nice to go once.

Within the orchestra’s performance, the playing of countless violinists would be tangled together, but an orchestra possessing someone of that skill level must surely be different in some way.

Arriving home, Ahn Sunghoon stops by a convenience store to buy a bottle of soju, rummages through his pockets, and frowns.

“I left my wallet at the shop.”

Checking the time on his wristwatch, it’s twenty minutes after closing. The staff should still be tidying up. Ahn Sunghoon pays for two bottles of soju with his phone’s card app, then gets back in his car and heads to the shop.

The shop’s sign is off, and the interior lights are off too. It seems everyone has already finished and gone home. Actually, it doesn’t matter much. It’s a digital system entered by passcode anyway.

Climbing the stairs to the shop, Ahn Sunghoon stops in his tracks at the sound of piano piercing through the dark stairwell.

“Is someone still here?”

Sometimes the server staff cleaning touch the piano. Of course, most of the time it produces something like a grandmother’s scream. Thinking it’s an everyday occurrence as he climbs the stairs, Ahn Sunghoon’s footsteps slowly stop.

‘This performance.’

A performance so beautiful yet so sorrowful.

The melody of a farewell memory, forgotten, that everyone carries at least one of in their heart, quietly reviving.

Moments never quite grasped, quietly.

The story of a farewell all the more painful for being beautiful—a sorrow soft yet deeply seeping is felt.

Ahn Sunghoon looks up at the shop, then slowly moves his feet again and carefully opens the shop door.

The shop door, not yet locked. Someone is playing the piano in the dark hall’s performance space without turning on the lights.

‘I’ve heard this before.’

It doesn’t seem to be a nocturne.

A melody slowly fading, leaving a quiet lingering resonance.

A piece where a desperate longing hidden within a calm melody is felt.

Ahn Sunghoon hides at the counter and looks at the performer.

‘The dishwashing part-timer.’

The student who started today. The owner had shown him the resume, but honestly, he didn’t think he needed to review a dishwashing part-timer’s credentials, so he’d skimmed it—and couldn’t even remember the name.

‘Music student?’

Are music students this skilled these days?

To be honest, his own musical grounding isn’t very deep.

Just the level of hearing something and thinking it must be good if it’s good.

Yet even his musically unrefined ear feels the greatness of this performance.

It’s as if the music is speaking to him.

It’s as if the piano is writing poetry.

A sad piece can be this beautiful.

Suddenly, someone from the past came to mind.

A memory he believed he’d forgotten walked back along the melody.

Emotions buried in time awoke along the notes.

Sunghoon unwittingly had this thought.

‘I wish it wouldn’t end.’

His life—finishing at the shop, going home, drinking soju to sleep quickly, and dropping off immediately. For Ahn Sunghoon, who lives a routine of conserving stamina for perfect cooking condition, this is not a thought befitting this late hour.

But the performance races slowly toward its end, oblivious to pace.

When the last note vanished, someone departed once more from within his heart.

The part-timer presses down firmly on the last note, feeling the resonance until the sound completely disappears.

Sunghoon stands still until the lingering resonance fades, then turns on the light.

“Gah!”

Startled by the suddenly lit light, the part-timer springs up from the piano stool like a coiled spring. Sunghoon sees the part-timer’s face for the first time. Because all day during work he’d only seen his back.

‘He looks younger than I thought.’

Because of the massive frame, he’d assumed mid-twenties, but the face is unmistakably a teenager’s.

“Haven’t you gone home yet?”

“I’m sorry!”

Ahn Sunghoon lets out a soft laugh.

“I’m only scary in the kitchen—normally I’m not that kind of person. You don’t need to be nervous.”

Having heard Ahn Sunghoon’s shouting all day, Suho’s reaction is only natural. Sunghoon asks while looking for his wallet.

“Are you a music student?”

“No.”

“High schooler?”

“Yes, I’m a senior.”

“You must be preparing for music college.”

“……”

“Your name?”

“I’m Kang Suho.”

After finding his wallet, Ahn Sunghoon looks at Suho, still frozen, and smiles.

“I’m Ahn Sunghoon. Only play the piano when the owner isn’t looking. He doesn’t much like part-timers touching the piano carelessly.”

“Pardon?”

“You can play more before you go.”

“Ah, thank you.”

“Lock up properly when you leave.”

“Yes, you’ve worked hard, Chef!”

“Turn on the lights when you do. It’s fine.”

“Thank you.”

Ahn Sunghoon leaves the shop, starts down the stairs, then stops again. Beautiful piano music reaches Ahn Sunghoon’s ears as he stands quietly with his eyes closed.

Today he is lucky.

At the end of a long day, a small but warm happiness held out its hand.

The simplest happiness met at the end of a weary day.

It was music.

A fitting close to a happy day.

After savoring the performance a little longer, Ahn Sunghoon descends the stairs with a smiling face.

“The part-timer’s turned out to be more to my liking. He was already good for being diligent all day.”

* * *

A few days later, at the street piano performance spot in Banpo Hangang Park.

Jeong Myeonghwan, who has been coming here for several days with Hyerim, watches the people running along the street.

“It’s already the fourth day, and he hasn’t come even once.”

Hyerim nods.

“It’s only been four days. If I could meet such a person again, I could wait forty days.”

Jeong Myeonghwan nods.

Because after hearing Hyerim’s performance, he understood what she had said.

“Did you say you don’t even know his face?”

“Yes, I only saw his back. He was very tall and wore a black hood.”

“Like that person over there?”

Where Jeong Myeonghwan points, Suho is visible running hard.

Hyerim, looking at the Suho she so desperately wants to find, does not recognize him.

“Yes, he seems similar.”

That person looks like nothing but a runner no matter how you look. Pianists do exercise to take care of themselves, but they don’t run as if their life depended on it like that.

“He’s got a huge frame. An athlete?”

“Right, he looks over 100 kg too.”

“If he were a famous athlete, we’d recognize him. He’s not a face I know.”

Having nothing better to do, they observe passersby and end up chatting.

Suho pauses briefly before the piano. But today, a pianist-slash-streamer playing Japanese anime OSTs has claimed the spot.

After listening to the music for a moment, Suho starts running again.

Jeong Myeonghwan turns his gaze from Suho and looks at the Hangang.

“If he’s a good pianist, I’d like to invite him to our rehearsal. I think he could have a good influence on the other members too, don’t you?”

“Of course, Conductor! I really hope you invite him. I want to receive that kind of teaching just once more.”

“Hmm, it’d be nice if he weren’t expensive.”

“Hehe, I can’t guarantee that. With that level of skill, he’d be a teacher you’d have to pay 500,000 won an hour for lessons.”

Jeong Myeonghwan crosses his arms and clicks his tongue.

“Negotiating lesson fees would at least start once we meet. But with no name and no face, honestly.”

“Shall we do a street performance after that piano filming wraps up? He might appear again.”

“Haha, do that same thing you did before again? Sounds good. Let’s do it.”

“It’s an honor for me to enjoy the fortune of a solo performance before the conductor.”

Suho passes by the two of them.

It was a scene at the same time, but they were not each other’s protagonists.