Ji-hoon stood still in the quiet of the hallway, the air thick with that metallic scent of sweat, instrument polish, and nerves. The edge of his cane pressed lightly against the tile as he listened—to the far-off echo of someone running down the stairwell, to the mechanical hum of lights overhead, and most of all, to the thud of his own heart, too loud in the quiet.
He didn't know why he turned in the direction of the rehearsal room again. Maybe he thought he'd left something behind. Maybe he was just stalling, trying to tame the anxiety still clawing at his chest from earlier. But when he pushed the door open, the silence wasn't what he expected. There was movement. Tension. Someone else was in the room.
"Who's there?" Ji-hoon's voice cut through the air, calm but sharp.
Silence.
He tightened his grip on the cane.
And then it came—soft, controlled breathing. Not far away. Someone was standing in the corner, trying not to be noticed.
He took a cautious step forward, body alert. "I heard you."
There was a shuffle of shoes—then the creak of a chair being knocked over. Ji-hoon spun instinctively, the sound sharp and clear in his ears. He didn't hesitate—he ducked low as a gust of air passed over his head. Something had been thrown. A heavy object hit the wall behind him and shattered.
Ji-hoon crouched, cane ready.
"You don't belong here," came a low voice—unfamiliar, male, tight with restraint. "You should've stayed out of this."
"I don't even know what this is," Ji-hoon replied, shifting to the right, placing the piano between himself and the sound. "But you're the one hiding."
He didn't have sight, but his instincts were laser-focused. The room felt smaller than before, like the air itself was folding in. The man moved again, fast, boots hitting the tile, closing in.
Ji-hoon lunged left, swung the cane outward—not to hit, but to block—and it worked. There was contact. A surprised grunt. Then the man backed off.
"Not bad, blind boy."
"Not blind to fear either," Ji-hoon snapped.
Another footstep. Ji-hoon felt the vibration more than heard it. He moved before the man could reach him—cane to the floor, pivot, retreat. His body had learned long ago how to navigate without sight, how to move through spaces by feel, by breath, by memory. This room had become muscle memory. And muscle memory didn't lie.
The man charged again—Ji-hoon heard the intake of breath, the scrape of soles—and this time, Ji-hoon ducked and threw his shoulder into the attacker's chest.
A groan.
They both hit the ground.
The man's hand went to Ji-hoon's coat, but Ji-hoon slammed his elbow down, rolling away just in time. He scrambled to his feet, breathing hard now.
"What do you want?" Ji-hoon demanded, backing up until he could feel the edge of the piano against his calf.
There was a pause. A long one. Then the man spoke, and his voice was different—less threatening now. Almost...regretful.
"I just needed to see for myself."
"See what?"
"Why you're still alive."
Ji-hoon froze.
"What?"
A chair scraped again as the man stepped back. "You shouldn't remember it. That night. But you do, don't you?"
And then it hit him—harder than any punch could have.
The scent.
It was the same one he'd smelled at his mother's murder.
Cologne. Subtle. Earthy. Laced with something sharp. Like smoke trying to hide behind spice.
Ji-hoon's pulse pounded in his ears.
"I—" His voice cracked. "I smelled that before. That cologne."
The man didn't deny it.
"You were there," Ji-hoon whispered, breath catching. "That night—"
"That's enough." The voice turned cold again. "You shouldn't go looking for answers you're not ready to hear. Not in your condition."
"Say it," Ji-hoon hissed. "Say you were there."
Silence. Then the creak of the door being opened. The man was leaving.
Ji-hoon lunged forward, grasping into the air—but all he caught was the faint whisper of wind and a fading scent. The door slammed.
Ji-hoon stood, breathing hard, fists clenched, the echo of that voice bouncing in his skull like a ricochet. He couldn't move. Not yet. Not until the sound of footsteps disappeared entirely and the air stopped shaking with the ghost of that presence.
For the first time in years, he felt afraid not just of losing the music—but of what he might remember if he kept playing.
The man had said something strange.
"You shouldn't remember it."
But Ji-hoon did remember. A flash—his mother's hand on the piano. Blood across the keys. A shadow in the doorway. And then that smell—so faint it might've been imagined, but not now. Now he knew.
It had been real.
And it was back.
He gripped the piano tightly, knuckles pale. His head swam, but one thing was suddenly crystal clear:
This wasn't just about music anymore.
Someone had come to make sure he stayed quiet. Someone knew what he'd buried. And now?
Now the glass had cracked.
And memories... don't stay buried forever.
The room felt smaller now, suffocating, as Ji-hoon's mind spiraled through the haze of confusion and fear. The air around him felt denser, as if the walls themselves were closing in. His pulse pounded in his throat, drowning out the distant hum of the building, his senses swarming with everything that wasn't supposed to be real. The presence in the room had disappeared, but it had left something behind—an unsettling awareness that couldn't be ignored.
Ji-hoon's fingers brushed over the edge of the piano, his mind reeling back to that moment in the hallway. Why now? The question gnawed at him. He had buried the memories, hidden them so deep they felt like another lifetime. But now, like shards of glass, they were piercing through the walls he'd built.
His hand trembled as it hovered over the piano keys, unsure whether to play or to give in to the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. The silence seemed heavier now, oppressive in its weight. He could almost feel the ghost of the man still lingering in the room, watching him, waiting for him to make a move.
He couldn't just ignore it. He couldn't push it aside as if nothing had happened.
A low sigh escaped him as he allowed his hand to fall onto the keys. The smooth, cool surface beneath his fingers grounded him, reminding him of something familiar, something constant. He closed his eyes, letting the feeling of the piano flow through him, trying to block out the sense of unease that lingered. The sound of his breathing filled the space around him, steady and deliberate.
He played a few notes, slow and deliberate, his fingers moving with the rhythm of his thoughts. The notes rang through the empty room, simple, almost soothing in their familiarity. But the music felt hollow, like it was missing something essential.
His mind wandered back to the moment when everything had changed. The man's words echoed in his ears, his voice sharp, almost bitter. "You shouldn't remember it." It was like a warning, a threat. But why? What did the man mean? What did Ji-hoon know that he wasn't supposed to?
The smell. The cologne. That faint scent that had plagued his memories for so long. It hadn't been a dream. It wasn't something he had imagined. It had been real, and the realization sent a chill down his spine.
Ji-hoon's grip tightened around the piano's edge, his knuckles white with the force of it. His breath came faster now, anxiety creeping in with every passing second. The memory was too sharp, too vivid. The blood on the keys. The scream that echoed through his mind. And the shadow in the doorway.
The more he tried to push it away, the stronger it became, pulling him deeper into the dark corners of his past. The past he had tried so hard to forget.
A loud crash from down the hall startled him, pulling him from his thoughts. He froze, every muscle in his body tense. The sound had been close, too close. Someone was there. Was it the man again? Or someone else?
Ji-hoon's senses sharpened. His heart raced as he slowly turned his head toward the door. His fingers hovered above the piano keys, poised to play, to make a sound, anything to break the silence, to give him something to focus on other than the fear threatening to consume him.
Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. The sound grew louder, closer. Ji-hoon's grip tightened on the edge of the piano, the air growing thick with tension. His mind raced. Who was it this time? The attacker from earlier? Or someone else entirely?
The door creaked open, and Ji-hoon immediately adjusted his stance, preparing for whatever might come. But this time, it wasn't the man he'd confronted earlier. It was someone else—someone he hadn't expected to see.
The voice that called out his name made his heart skip a beat. "Ji-hoon?"
It was Hye-jin.
He couldn't help the rush of relief that washed over him. She had always been a steady presence in his life, someone he could rely on. Her voice was familiar, comforting in the midst of the storm of confusion swirling around him.
"Hye-jin," he said, the words coming out in a quiet, almost breathless whisper. He didn't know why he sounded so shaken. Maybe it was because he hadn't expected her to show up. Maybe it was because the events of the day had rattled him more than he was willing to admit.
He heard the sound of her footsteps as she stepped into the room, the faint click of her shoes on the tile floor. The familiar scent of her perfume—something floral and soft—filled the air, grounding him even more.
"Are you okay?" Hye-jin asked, her voice laced with concern. "I heard about what happened earlier… I didn't think you'd still be here."
"I needed some time alone," Ji-hoon replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "I… I need to figure some things out."
Hye-jin was silent for a moment, her presence steady and unwavering. Ji-hoon could almost feel the weight of her gaze on him, even though she didn't speak. She had always known when something was wrong, when he needed someone to talk to, even if he didn't say it out loud.
"I heard you playing," she said softly, her voice almost tentative. "It sounded different. Are you sure everything's alright?"
Ji-hoon turned his head slightly, sensing her standing just a few feet away, but he couldn't bring himself to face her fully. Not now. Not with everything swirling in his mind.
"I'm fine," he said, though he knew it wasn't entirely true. But he wasn't ready to tell her about the man or the cologne or the memories that were coming back to haunt him. Not yet.
There was a pause before Hye-jin spoke again. "You don't have to go through this alone, Ji-hoon. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."
Her words hit him harder than he expected, a mix of comfort and guilt. He didn't want to burden her with his darkness, with the pain he was trying to outrun. But part of him knew that, deep down, he didn't want to be alone in this. Not anymore.
"I know," he whispered, finally letting his fingers fall from the piano. The last note lingered in the air, vibrating softly as it died out.
Hye-jin stepped closer, and for the first time in a long while, Ji-hoon didn't feel so alone.
Ji-hoon leaned back against the piano, his fingers still resting lightly on the cold keys. He could feel Hye-jin's presence beside him now, and the quiet comfort she offered was almost enough to drown out the noise in his mind. Almost. But the smell was still there, lingering like a memory he couldn't shake.
The silence between them stretched, but this time, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was just... quiet. Both of them were lost in their thoughts, trying to make sense of everything that had happened, everything that had been set in motion without either of them fully understanding why.
"I didn't think you'd still be here after what happened with Si-wan," Hye-jin said quietly, breaking the silence. Her voice had that soft edge to it, the kind that hinted at worry, but there was a steady resolve beneath it too.
Ji-hoon didn't look at her, but he could hear the question in her words. She was trying to understand, trying to piece together the fragments of the night in a way he wasn't sure he could. "I needed time," he said again, but this time, there was an honesty in his voice. "I needed to hear something familiar. Something that wasn't... him."
Hye-jin's hand found his, her fingers lightly brushing against his knuckles, a silent offering of solidarity. "You don't have to do this by yourself," she repeated, her voice gentle but firm. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone."
Her words were a balm to his frayed nerves, soothing some of the panic that still gripped his chest. He nodded, more to himself than to her, though he felt the warmth of her presence seep into him. But there was still a part of him that couldn't let go—couldn't let her in completely, not yet.
"I don't even know what's happening, Hye-jin," he admitted, his voice raw with frustration. "The more I try to forget, the more it comes back. It's like... pieces of my past are breaking free and pulling me into places I didn't even know I could go. And I don't know who I can trust anymore."
Hye-jin's fingers tightened around his for a moment, a small but meaningful gesture that spoke volumes. "You can trust me. You know that, right?"
Ji-hoon hesitated. He wanted to believe her, wanted to lean into the comfort she was offering, but a part of him—that part—still recoiled, afraid of what it might cost him. How much could he reveal without losing himself in the process?
"I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it," he said quietly. His throat felt tight, the weight of his own thoughts too heavy to articulate. "But I will, when I'm ready. I just... I need more time to understand it."
Hye-jin didn't press him, and that was the part that made him feel grateful. She understood the weight of silence, the moments when words weren't enough. And in that quiet, he could feel the trust between them, slowly rebuilding, even if it wasn't complete yet.
They stayed like that for what felt like hours, but in reality, it was only minutes. Time seemed to lose its grip in moments like this. The room was bathed in the soft hum of the building, the lingering sound of their breathing the only thing that anchored them both.
Eventually, Ji-hoon stood up, his legs a little unsteady from sitting for so long. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to shake off the