Last Melody

Empty Pages Speak

The interior of the Mercedes smelled of high-grade Italian leather mixed with the acidic scent of old regret. Mostly, though, it smelled of Park Sora’s perfume—a cloying, aggressive floral scent that refused to leave the upholstery, clinging to the fabric just as stubbornly as she clung to the top of the digital charts.

Ji-Hoon squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned the color of bleached bone. Every breath felt like a needle in his side; his ribs throbbed with a sickening rhythm where Han Seo-Yoon’s boot had connected earlier that morning. He could still feel the phantom impact, a reminder of the bridge he had just burnt to ashes.

“Crazy b***h,” he muttered, his voice thick with a mixture of pain and venom. He merged aggressively into the center lane of the Gangnam expressway, cutting off a taxi and ignoring the long, blaring honk that followed him. Ji-Hoon didn’t bother checking his mirrors. He stared straight ahead at the blurring neon lights of Seoul, his reflection in the windshield looking fractured and hollow. “They’re both done. They just don’t know it yet. Min-Hee is a ghost. History.”

His phone buzzed in the center console, the screen illuminating the dark cabin with a name that currently ruled the industry: Park Sora.

Ji-Hoon swallowed the dryness in his throat and tapped the answer button.

“Where are you?” Sora’s voice filled the car. It was stripped of the sugary, falsetto coo she used on variety shows. This was her real voice—flat, cold, and expecting absolute obedience.

“Just leaving Min-Hee’s apartment,” Ji-Hoon said, trying to steady his breathing. “Why? Did the agency say something about the press release? Is there a leak?”

“Forget her,” Sora said, her tone as dismissive as someone flicking ash from a cigarette. “She’s yesterday’s news. Get to Essence Studio. Now. I’ve got the track you need for your debut digital single.”

Ji-Hoon blinked, his heart skipping a beat. “Already? I thought the producers were still working on the arrangement for the ballad.”

“It’s a monster, Ji-Hoon,” she interrupted, a predatory purr entering her tone. “It’s going to trash that boring 'nice guy' image you’ve been faking. It’s going to make you a king. But you need to claim it tonight before the momentum shifts.”

The physical pain in his ribs seemed to evaporate as a rush of adrenaline flooded his system. Ji-Hoon braked hard and pulled a violently illegal U-turn, tires squealing against the asphalt as he sped toward the heart of the Gangnam district.

Essence Studio was a fortress of glass and steel, a place where the air always felt expensive. Inside the private recording suite, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of electronic cigarettes and dark roast coffee. Sora was draped over a crushed-velvet sofa like a cat that had just finished a meal. Beside her stood a producer known only as 'Ghost,' a man who hid his identity behind a bucket hat and a black mask.

“You’re late,” Sora said, though a smirk played on her lips. She held out a pair of gold-plated headphones. “Put these on. Listen. This is the sound that changes everything.”

Ji-Hoon took the headphones, his hands trembling with a mix of fear and excitement. He placed them over his ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the room. A heavy, distorted bassline kicked in immediately—it was rough, dark, and vibrated through his jawbone. It wasn’t art; it was a weapon. Then, a rhythmic, hypnotic chant hit him.

“Money got that, Fame got that, Blings got that...”

The beat dropped, a chaotic mix of synthesized noise perfectly engineered to go viral on every platform. By the second loop, Ji-Hoon was already humming along. It was cocky, shallow, and aggressive—everything Kang Min-Hee’s soulful, intricate music was not. It sounded like success.

“I love it,” Ji-Hoon breathed, pulling the headphones down. He looked at Sora, his eyes bright with greed. “It’s great. It’s exactly what I need.”

“Then get in the booth,” she commanded, pointing toward the glass-walled recording room. “Let’s make sure everyone forgets the name Kang Min-Hee ever existed.”

Across the city, it felt like Kang Min-Hee was already fading into a shadow. Her apartment, once a sanctuary filled with the sounds of piano scales and laughter, was now a tomb of cardboard boxes and packing tape.

“You’re staying with me, end of discussion,” Seo-Yoon said, her voice leaving no room for argument. She was violently shoving Min-Hee’s oversized sweaters into a suitcase, her purple hair whipping around her face. “I want you gone by the time they come for the keys. I won’t let them see you like this.”

Min-Hee sat on the edge of her bare mattress, feeling smaller than she ever had. “Seo-Yoon-ah, I have no money left. I have 7.3 billion won in debt hanging over my head. I need time to think, not a couch to sleep on.”

“There is no time!” Seo-Yoon snapped, spinning around with a pair of shoes in her hand. “You have forty-eight hours before they legally kick you out and freeze your last accounts! You are moving into my studio, and we are fighting this.”

As they continued to pack, Min-Hee pulled a stack of old, forgotten books from the back of her closet. As she moved them, a small, black-and-white photo fell out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.

Min-Hee picked it up. It was a photograph of her mother during her opera-singing days, standing backstage at the Grand Theater with her crew. Min-Hee’s eyes misted over as she traced the familiar smile, but then she noticed something strange. In the background, partially obscured by the shadows of the wings, a woman was holding a notebook. It was a mahogany notebook with silver-tipped edges.

Min-Hee didn't think much of the coincidence; her mind was too clouded by the present. She held the photo to her chest, the paper crinkling slightly under her touch.

“Mom,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I tried. I really tried.”

She tucked the photo into her pocket and went back to the grueling task of erasing her presence from the room.

“Wear this,” Seo-Yoon said an hour later, throwing a beige trench coat and a bucket hat at her. “Get some air. You’re rotting in here, and the smell of sadness is starting to get to me. Let’s go.”

Han-Guk Arts University felt sad but beautiful in the fading afternoon light. An hour later, Min-Hee and Seo-Yoon were walking through the quiet grounds. As they approached the Music Department, the atmosphere shifted. The air felt heavy, and yellow police tape was stretched around a manicured garden bed.

“What happened?” Min-Hee asked, her voice a mere whisper.

Seo-Yoon looked away, her expression darkening. “A student died a few days ago. They think it was suicide, but the investigation is still open. He fell from that second-floor window. They say he was a brilliant music student, but he was an orphan. Nobody has come to claim him yet.”

Min-Hee felt a sudden, sharp pang in her chest. She stepped closer to the tape, her eyes scanning the grass. Something caught the light under a rhododendron bush.

It was a notebook.

Min-Hee ducked under the tape, her heart racing. She grabbed it, and as her fingers touched the leather, it felt strangely warm—almost like a pulse. She opened it and gasped. The pages were full of intricate music and desperate, beautiful lyrics.

“Turn the pain into a cadence,” one line read. “Let the silence scream.”

“Min-Hee! Get back here before the security guards see you!” Seo-Yoon whispered frantically.

Min-Hee quickly closed the book and shoved it deep into her bag.

That night, the new apartment felt cold and foreign. Seo-Yoon was heading out to grab dinner. “Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone,” she warned.

Min-Hee didn't hear her. She was already hunched over the mahogany notebook at the desk. The songs inside were hauntingly beautiful, echoing the very feelings she couldn't put into words.

Seo-Yoon paused at the door, looking at her friend. “Still staring at that thing? Seriously, Min-Hee. It’s just an empty book. The kid probably never got a chance to use it. Stop it, you're giving me the creeps.”

Min-Hee froze. She turned around, her brow furrowed. “Empty?”

“Yeah,” Seo-Yoon said, shruggeing. “I looked at it when you were in the shower. It’s just blank pages. I’ll be back soon.”

The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked. Min-Hee looked back at the book. It wasn’t blank. The ink was dark, stark, and undeniably there.

“It’s not blank,” she whispered to the empty room. “I can see it.”

In the gray space of the In-Between, Lee Do-Hyun felt something he hadn’t felt since the moment his heart stopped.

Pain.

It started in his chest—a violent, searing tug that felt like his soul was being hauled through a keyhole. The gray world around him shattered like glass.

He fell. He hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

Do-Hyun gasped, his lungs burning. He was in a bedroom, and a woman was sitting just a few feet away, holding his notebook. He froze, his eyes wide. The black, vein-like rot on his hand pulsed with a sickly light. He scrambled to cover it, terrified.

But the woman wasn't looking through him. She was looking directly at him.

Min-Hee felt the room turn ice-cold. There was a boy on her floor, wearing a dirty, cream-colored sweater. He was pale and translucent around the edges, but his eyes were the most real thing she had ever seen.

They looked at each other in a silence so heavy it felt like it would break the floor. The boy slowly lowered his hand from his face, his lips parting in shock.

“You...” Min-Hee whispered.

Do-Hyun reached out a trembling hand toward her.

“You can see me?” he asked, his voice echoing in her mind like a distant melody.