Chapter 0: Prologue

Mr. Myeong-jeon. Do you know what your problem is?”

A wrap-up party for the tour. Amidst the boisterous chatter, the middle-aged singer, the star of the tour, drunkenly posed a question to Myeong-jeon.

“What is it?”

Myeong-jeon knew the answer. It was something countless people had pointed out countless times, a problem he couldn’t fix.

“Mr. Myeong-jeon, you’re a really, reeeeally good guitarist. Seriously fcking good. Famous for being fcking good. But you’re a session musician. Do you know why? It’s because even though you’re f*cking amazing, it’s all fake. Huh? You don’t have anything of your own. No originality…”

The singer suddenly slammed the table, yelling about how he needed to create something of his own! The restaurant fell silent for a moment, then the noise returned.

“I’ve heard that a lot.”

“You’ve heard it a lot, but why can’t you fix it! I’m just saying this because I feel bad, Mr. Myeong-jeon. I mean, you shouldn’t be stuck here in Korea. You’re way better than that… whatshisname… uh… whatever, you’re better than those other guitarists.”

‘This kid has no filter.’

Myeong-jeon silently drank his alcohol.

‘That happened, didn’t it?’

Myeong-jeon, quite drunk, sat on a bench, reminiscing.

Was this sentimental feeling due to the alcohol?

Was it because of the singer’s words that came to mind while he was drinking alone after finishing a church CCM session?

Or was it his own miserable situation?

‘If I could have done anything about it, I would have done it a long time ago.’

He’d been hearing that he was a good guitarist for decades. He’d played sessions for renowned bands, for albums with recognizable names. He’d made a name for himself with his guitar skills, and even had a few juniors who admired him.

But despite his skill… he had never once been the star of the show. Despite his incredible guitar playing, he had always remained silently in the background, a shadow to the main act.

Because, in the end, he couldn’t create anything of his own.

He recalled a review of his first album, which he’d poured his heart and soul into creating.

‘If using techniques like truffle, caviar, and saffron to make kimchi jjigae is an option, why bother? The technique is impeccable, but all the other elements are borrowed, lacking any originality.’

That was the result of his efforts.

The assessment that he couldn’t create anything of his own.

It had been the same ever since.

‘It seems familiar,’ ‘It lacks originality.’

He was simply a man of such fate.

Even though he’d played guitar for over several decades,

Even though he’d studied countless masterpieces and famous songs,

Even though he lived a life dedicated to the guitar, foregoing food and sleep…

He had no talent.

He had no choice but to accept his life as it was, destined to end this way.

Myeong-jeon slung his guitar over his shoulder and stood up from the bench. He was far too old for such melancholy, yet sometimes, when he was making music, he would forget his age and act like a child.

‘Acting like a fool at my age…’

There was no need for such sentimental thoughts.

At his age, he should accept what needed to be accepted.

He’d abandoned the pathetic life of envying lost time and unattainable talent twenty years ago.

After walking for about three minutes from the bench, Myeong-jeon realized he’d left his pedalboard behind.

And then, suddenly, he collapsed, unable to support his body. Thud! The sound of his guitar case hitting the ground echoed.

“A-Are you okay???”

In his blurring vision, he saw someone rushing towards him, frantically asking if he was alright.

Of course, he wasn’t okay.

Was this the end? He wanted to live longer…

As he struggled to breathe, to stand, to hold on, a thought surfaced from deep within his mind, like a heavy stone being lifted.

Wouldn’t it be better to die like this?

What’s the point of living any longer?

His life was just going to be filled with the depressing weight of unfulfilled dreams.

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 music days.

Even if he clung to life, it would be a miserable existence.

A repetition of daily life, constantly reminded of his lack of talent.

What reason did he have to live?

If he just let go, he would be at peace.

As soon as he reached that thought, Myeong-jeon felt the strength drain from his body. A slight feeling of floating enveloped him, and he felt an inexplicable sense of comfort.

Just accept it.

There were few people who would mourn him anyway.

He felt sorry for those who would, but he couldn’t endure it any longer.

He just hoped they’d offer a single flower.

Feeling his consciousness fade, Myeong-jeon slowly closed his eyes.

•But even just once in his life, he wanted to receive the sincere applause of others.

“…I think they’re opening their eyes.”

“…Prepare to call the doctor.

…

Student Su-yeon!”

And Myeong-jeon slowly opened his eyes to the commotion around him.

He wasn’t dead.

It would have been better to die. If he hadn’t died, he would have to pay hospital bills and things like that. He’d have to continue his pathetic existence.

Did he have to continue this tenacious, sorrowful life?

“Student Ha Su-yeon!”

“…Yes?”

But the name called by the man in doctor’s attire in front of him was completely different from his own.

“Student Ha Su-yeon? Can you hear me?”

Who is Ha Su-yeon…?