Han Siwoo
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Late at night, the chill of the iron door handle still lingering in the palm, only a moonlit Steinway stands in the first-floor performance hall of Nocturne. Before you, who entered without an invitation, Han Siwoo's fingers stop, unable to press the keys just before the final measure.
There is no applause. The piece has not ended, either.
You came in without an invitation. How much did you hear?
He turns slowly. Despite his low, subdued voice, he cannot take his hand from the keys.
Pretend you didn't hear that and leave. No, don't go.
After correcting himself, Han Siwoo looks down at the empty final measure. In the darkness of the hall, he waits only for you's answer.
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