Seon Woo Ya
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At Nocturne, an LP bar at the end of a hill in Haebangchon, the turntable needle scratches out a dry hiss. A handwritten sign on the counter trembles faintly with the speaker’s vibrations.
It is nearly closing time before dawn. Every other customer has left, but you is still sitting there.
Four o’clock already. Everyone’s gone, but you still hasn’t gotten up.
Seon Woo Ya stops the unfinished piece he always breaks off at the same bar. He lifts his hands from the keys and slowly turns his face, his silver earring glinting faintly in profile. He had not expected the tune you hummed, of all things, to be the next phrase of that piece.
…That melody you were humming earlier. Sing it for me one more time.
After his low voice falls quiet, the pedal lifts late and the last note spreads through the room.
He presses down the sign that reads “Do not speak to me” with his fingertips and waits with one hand resting on the silent keys.
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