Chapter Text
The performance hall was dim at the late hour. Grand chandeliers hung above like sleeping giants, their lights turned low, casting long, dim shadows over rows of empty velvet seats. Dust floated lazily in the air, catching what little light there was. It felt like a secret—the kind of quiet that demanded reverence, or at least silence.
Kyung had found this place weeks ago. Tucked behind a towering pillar on the balcony’s far end, it wasn’t marked or reserved, but it felt like hers now. From here, she could see everything: the gleam of polished wood on the stage, the way the spotlight glanced off the gold-plated frame of the harp, and—most importantly—the girl sitting beside it.
Not that she was here for her. Not really.
She shifted in her seat, notes open on her lap, highlighter caught between her fingers like an afterthought. The ink on the page had started to blur from being looked at but not read. Below, the harp’s notes flowed in soft, deliberate waves, delicate but not fragile. Confident. Like someone who knew she was talented, someone whose skill demanded to be observed.
Kyung's eyes drifted toward the stage again, despite herself. The harpist was still poised like a sculpture. Straight-backed, elbows just so, fingers moving with a kind of elegance that felt too graceful for real life. Her brow furrowed in concentration, but she never looked tense. Only focused. In control.
There was something admirable about that composure. Magnetic.
The first time Kyung had wandered into the hall, she’d told herself it was a fluke. A quiet place to study was a necessity with her mock trial coming up, and it seemed like every other place on campus was full of other law students thinking the same thing. Every place except this one- most law students wouldn't be caught dead within a hundred feet of the arts building.
But Kyung hadn't been able to stop coming back. There was no chatter, no group study noise, no one asking her if she was sure she didn’t want to go into corporate law instead. Just music. She’d planned to leave after an hour. Then an hour turned into two. Then days. Then weeks.
Now it was a routine. Harp practice. Legal prep. One-sided performances on both ends.
She pretended not to listen. Pretended this wasn’t the highlight of her day.
Under her breath, Kyung recited lines from her mock trial script, voice low and steady. The acoustics in here were strange—her words felt fuller, like they carried weight even when whispered.
“The evidence clearly demonstrates that…” she faltered, grimaced, then slipped into her judge voice. “Objection overruled. Continue, counselor.”
It was ridiculous, and she knew it. But somehow, with the harp behind her words, the courtroom in her head didn’t feel so distant. The sharpness of the legal language softened at the edges, made room for rhythm. For feeling.
She tried again, this time slower, measuring her tone against the melody below. Her voice, the music, the hush of the hall—it was all part of the same strange harmony.
Then, just as abruptly as it began, the music stopped.
A final note lingered, then faded.
Kyung snapped her mouth shut.
Down on the stage, the harpist remained still, hands resting gently on the strings. Then a breath. A stretch. She rose, gave a small, amused curtsy to the empty seats, like she was playing for ghosts, and began to pack up with quiet precision. No rush. No wasted movement.
Kyung stayed frozen in place, watching as she disappeared through the wings, same as always. When the latch of a door out of sight clicked shut, it echoed all the way up to the rafters, signaling the end of her nightly session.
Only then did Kyung exhale.
She glanced at her notes. The highlighter had left a smear of neon yellow on her palm. She wiped it away absently.
Until next time.
The first time Yeri noticed her, she didn't think much of it.
The performance hall was big enough to swallow people. Sometimes students wandered in—overwhelmed, lost, or just looking for a moment of quiet. The balcony was dark, half-hidden behind heavy stone pillars, and easy for someone to dissapear into. If Yeri wasn't so attracted to the spotlight, she might have even found herself sneaking up there for private performances, too.
But, she was on the stage. And she had things to do- music that demanded to be played- perfected ahead of the annual fall fundraiser. It wasn't her senior capstone performance, and it wasn't an audition for the Seoul Philharmonic, but still, it was a performance. And Yeri had no right to call herself a musician if she didn't give every performance a wholehearted effort.
So she ignored the shape in the shadows. A passerby, she figured. Temporary.
But then the shape came back. And kept coming back.
Always in the same spot. Always alone. Always watching.
At first, Yeri pretended not to care. She told herself it didn’t matter—people came and went. But every time she played, her eyes would drift toward that shadowed corner. Just for a second. Just to check. And every time, she was there.
Slouched, distracted, pretending to study—but not really studying. Not with that stack of notes left untouched for entire pieces. And not with that voice.
Soft, at first- barely audible. But the acoustics of the hall and Yeri's finely tuned ears didn’t miss a thing. Yeri had caught it mid-phrase once, the words crisp and oddly formal. Legal jargon? It seemed out of place and foreign, but before long, it started happening regularly. Pacing, rhythm, tone—like someone rehearsing for an audience no one else could see.
Then one night, right in the middle of Tchaikovsky, Yeri heard her say, with comically deep conviction: “Objection, your honor, this line of questioning is irrelevant!”
Yeri missed a note.
It wasn’t a huge mistake. Just a slight slip, a breath caught too soon. But it shook her. Not because the phrase was funny—though it was—but because she’d realized, with sudden clarity: she was starting to listen for her.
The girl in the shadows wasn’t background noise anymore.
After that, it became a pattern. Yeri played. The girl practiced her fake trials. Sometimes she whispered. Sometimes she mouthed the words, lips moving silently in sync with her hands. And every now and then, when she forgot herself, she’d say something out louder than intended and flinch like she’d broken a rule.
It was oddly intimate, this shared space. A kind of performance neither of them acknowledged.
But Yeri saw her. Always.
And lately, she found herself playing longer pieces, just to see how long Kyung would stay. She started choosing music that sounded bold and theatrical—something to match the way that voice would echo in counterpoint. She liked the way Kyung’s rhythm shifted with the music, how her sentences became more urgent when the tempo rose.
She was strange. Focused. Kind of intense. Definitely smart.
Yeri didn’t mean to be so curious. But she was.
And tonight, she decided, she wasn’t going to keep pretending it was nothing.
The final note hung in the air. Yeri let it linger, then stood, smoothing the front of her skirt. She bowed—habit, muscle memory—then looked straight up toward the balcony.
“My name is Yeri,” she said, letting her words ring out clearly. “What is yours?”
There was a beat of stillness. Then movement—cautious, slow.
A face peeked out from behind the pillar. Wide eyes. Startled. Like she’d been caught mid-theft.
“Yes, you,” Yeri said, smiling now, her voice warm and unapologetic. “What’s your name?”
“I'm...my name is Kyung,” came the answer, soft and reluctant, like it was being given up under protest. "Choi Kyung."
Yeri nodded, committing the name to memory. She could almost see Kyung trying to disappear again, as if saying it out loud had made her too visible. Too real.
Interesting.
“Next time I practice, Choi Kyung,” Yeri called, picking up her music, “I hope you’ll come sit in the front row.”
That got a reaction—Kyung went rigid, like she’d been electrocuted.
Yeri bit back a laugh. She hadn’t expected her to actually say yes- at least not immediately. But still, she hadn't expected her to do that.
She lingered a second longer, just to watch the way Kyung squirmed under the attention.
“I like an audience,” she added, mostly for herself.
Specifically, she liked this one.