The rain returned like a song stuck on repeat, pounding on the broken rooftop of the conservatory. The sky looked bruised, the color of fading violets and spilled ink. Smoke still hissed from the wreckage of the stage, curling in dark tendrils that smelled of burnt wood and blood. Ji-hoon stood at the heart of it all, chest heaving, shirt torn at the shoulder, lips bleeding, knuckles raw.
Every breath hurt. Not from exhaustion or injury, though he had plenty of both. It hurt because he was standing where his mother had once stood—where Ara had played, taught, laughed. Where she had lived. And died.
Si-wan lay crumpled near the foot of the broken grand piano, eyes barely open, his breath rattling in and out like a machine breaking down. His perfectly ironed suit had long since been shredded in the brawl. His pride, too. The gleam in his eyes was gone. No more rehearsed cruelty, no more smug grins. Just a boy who had broken everything he touched and was now staring up at the ceiling like he was finally seeing the damage.
Ji-hoon staggered forward, each step echoing against the exposed floorboards. The recorder in his hand—the same one that had held Ara's final lullaby—clicked softly as he rewound the tape. It was cracked and nearly falling apart, just like everything else.
He crouched beside Si-wan, his voice a rasp. "You tried to erase her. But she survived in every note. In every performance. In every time I played the piano with trembling hands."
Si-wan gave a hoarse laugh. "I didn't mean to kill her."
Ji-hoon's face twisted. He turned his head away, rain streaming down his cheek like tears. "But you did. And you didn't stop. You kept going. You ruined everything."
The tape clicked again. Ji-hoon hit 'play.'
Ara's voice, gentle and warbling through static, filled the air. A lullaby. Sung only once into an old cassette recorder for a baby who couldn't see but could feel everything. Her voice cracked near the end. A loving tremble. She had sung through tears, and Ji-hoon could feel them now.
Si-wan blinked slowly. His mouth parted like he might cry out, or scream, or beg—but he didn't. He just listened.
"She... sang that to me too," Si-wan murmured. "Just once. I thought she was singing to me."
"She was," Ji-hoon said. "You just never understood what that meant."
The song ended, the tape stopped, and silence flooded the ruins. Not empty silence—not anymore. It was the kind of silence that comes after a storm has finally passed. Not peace. But the promise of it.
Ji-hoon stood up slowly, his knees shaking. He could still feel the rage in his chest, the ache in his bones. But he wasn't going to kill Si-wan. Not because he forgave him. Not because it was the noble thing to do.
But because Ara had asked him to hold on. She had begged him—in that tape, in her last melody—to never let the music turn into something hateful.
"You're going to live," Ji-hoon said, stepping away. "And you're going to remember every single note. Every time I play, it will remind you of what you destroyed. That will be your punishment."
Si-wan didn't argue. His eyes fluttered shut. Whether from shame or pain, Ji-hoon didn't care. The war between them was over.
Joon-won met Ji-hoon at the exit, holding an umbrella that did little to protect either of them from the sideways rain. His eyes scanned Ji-hoon's face, the wounds, the smears of blood and ash. But he didn't say a word. He just opened his palm, and Ji-hoon gently placed the cassette there.
"She wrote a letter once," Joon-won said. "I found it in the piano bench after she died. I didn't want to give it to you until you were ready."
Ji-hoon didn't respond. He didn't know how. His throat was full of wind and memory.
"The lullaby was her goodbye," Joon-won added. "But the letter? That was her hope."
The city lights blurred behind the rain. Ji-hoon stared into them like they were another language. One he could finally begin to understand.
He took the letter, fingers trembling. Slid it into his coat. He would read it when he was alone. When it was quiet.
The concert hall stood behind them, scarred and blackened. But Ji-hoon didn't look back.
For the first time in years, he felt the weight of something lift. Not the grief. That would always be with him. But the guilt. The guilt was finally silent.
He whispered to the wind, "This is where your lullaby ends, Mom. But I'll keep playing. I promise."
And the rain, relentless and gentle, applauded only for him.
Ji-hoon didn't know how long he lay there, curled against the scorched stage floor, the echo of his mother's lullaby still vibrating in the wires of the broken piano. Blood stuck to his wrist. Smoke hovered in the ceiling like ghosts refusing to leave. The curtains were torn, the lights smashed, and even silence felt wounded, limping around the room. He couldn't cry. Not now. Not when everything had already cried for him.
He could feel the warmth of Joon-won's palm resting on his shoulder. Not pushing. Not speaking. Just there—a solid reminder that he wasn't completely alone, even if the rest of the world had already turned its back. Ji-hoon didn't flinch at the sound of firemen stomping around behind the remains of the auditorium or the medics rushing in too late to save what had already been lost. All he could hear was the last note his mother ever sang.
"I found the tape recorder," Joon-won finally whispered. His voice cracked like he hadn't used it in hours. "And the letter. Both were hidden behind the false wall in the dressing room."
Ji-hoon didn't respond.
"She said she loved you... even when she knew she was going to die. She never blamed you. She blamed herself—for staying too long, for not running when she had the chance. But she stayed because of you. Because she believed in you."
A shallow breath escaped Ji-hoon's lungs, almost a laugh, almost a sob, but neither made it to the surface. He sat up slowly. The ache in his ribs flared like knives turning in slow circles.
"You said you wanted to know why she didn't run," Joon-won continued. "She said she couldn't bear the thought of you growing up afraid of sound. She wanted music to be the thing that saved you, not the thing that hurt you."
"She failed," Ji-hoon whispered.
"No," Joon-won said, firmer now. "You're here, aren't you?"
Ji-hoon shook his head. "Barely."
They were quiet again. The fire had been put out. But the damage would never be undone. What happened tonight—what Si-wan started, what Ji-hoon finished—would live in memory longer than any headline.
"You didn't kill him," Joon-won said after a pause. "He's in critical condition. They're not sure if he'll make it through the night."
Ji-hoon didn't answer that either. Whether Si-wan lived or died didn't matter anymore. The real Si-wan—his rot, his cruelty, his manipulation—had already burned with the building. What lay in that hospital bed was just the leftover shell. The afterimage of a boy who had been broken long before Ji-hoon ever met him.
"Do you want to hear what else she wrote?" Joon-won asked, voice low.
Ji-hoon nodded once.
Joon-won unfolded the note. He didn't read it like a narrator. He read it like someone afraid the words would disappear if he didn't hold onto them tightly.
"Ji-hoon-ah.
If you are reading this, it means the world didn't protect you the way I hoped. And for that, I am sorry.
I know what they've said about me. I know what they'll say about you. But please believe me when I say—none of that is who we are.
You were born in the quietest moment of the night. No doctors. No screaming. Just you and me. I sang to you before I even saw your face. I sang so you wouldn't be afraid.
Music is your gift. But you don't owe it to anyone. Not even to me.
If there comes a day when the world forgets how beautiful your soul is, promise me one thing: don't forget it yourself.
Love always,
Eomma."
Ji-hoon buried his face into his hands. His body shook with something he didn't name—grief, release, rage, maybe all three. It didn't matter. Joon-won didn't say anything. He just let him break.
After a while, Ji-hoon stood.
"Where are you going?" Joon-won asked.
"Back," Ji-hoon replied.
"Back?"
"To the piano."
"Ji-hoon, it's ruined—"
"I know."
He walked slowly, the soles of his shoes sticky with ash and blood. The piano sat like a carcass at the center of the stage. One of its legs had snapped. The lid was torn clean off. Strings curled out of it like veins. And yet—when Ji-hoon ran his fingers along the ruined keys—they still made a sound. Broken. Off-pitch. But alive.
He sat down on the crooked bench. His hands hovered over the mess of ivory.
"I'm not playing for applause anymore," he whispered.
Joon-won sat beside the wreckage, resting his back against the frame.
"Then who are you playing for?" he asked.
Ji-hoon didn't answer with words. His fingers moved instead—slow, trembling. He played the lullaby. Not perfectly. Not even close. The melody fractured where keys were missing. Some notes buzzed with burnt wire. Others refused to sing at all.
But it was enough.
Enough to remind himself that he was still here. Still breathing. Still capable of making something beautiful, even if everything around him was broken.
Behind him, Joon-won wiped a tear.
Later that night, Ji-hoon stood in the hospital hallway. The same scent from years ago—disinfectant, bleach, blood—hit him like a memory dressed in white. He didn't need sight to feel the weight in the room.
Si-wan lay unconscious. Hooked to machines. His face bruised, chest bandaged, mouth slack like he was dreaming through the wreckage.
"Can I go in?" Ji-hoon asked the nurse.
She hesitated. Then nodded.
He stepped inside alone. The beep of the heart monitor filled the silence like a slow ticking metronome. Ji-hoon reached the bedside. He didn't touch him. Didn't speak at first.
Then he leaned in.
"I don't forgive you," Ji-hoon said softly. "And I won't. Not in this life."
His voice didn't shake.
"But I pity you. And I'll carry the scars you gave me—not because you won, but because you didn't. I survived you. And one day, I'll forget what your cologne smells like."
He turned to leave. Then paused.
"You were right about one thing," he added. "Applause is a lie. But silence? That's real. And I hope you finally get to live in it."
He walked out.
By the end of the week, the academy announced Ji-hoon's expulsion—but public outcry reversed it within days. The truth had leaked: about Si-wan, about the coverups, about the death of Ji-hoon's mother. Journalists camped outside the hospital. Si-wan's sponsors fled. The conservatory head stepped down.
Justice didn't come with parades. It came with resignation letters. With apologies whispered through press releases. With silence after scandal. Ji-hoon didn't smile when the news broke. He didn't feel victorious.
He just felt... quiet.
Back in his apartment, he found the tape recorder again. His mother's lullaby—her real voice—still echoed in the tiny machine. He listened to it one more time.
Then he opened the window.
And let the recorder fall.
It shattered on the pavement below.
He didn't need it anymore.
He remembered the sound.
He always would.
He closed the window and stood in the hush that followed, no music, no memories playing on loop—just the thrum of the city breathing below. Ji-hoon placed his hand on the piano one last time. The wood was warm, scarred, real. "Goodbye, Eomma," he whispered—not in mourning, but in peace. The lullaby had finally ended.
There were no more notes to chase, no more sounds to decipher. His heart felt lighter, a weight lifted that had been pressing him into darkness for so long. The darkness wasn't gone, but he had learned how to stand in it. As the city night hummed beneath the silence, Ji-hoon allowed himself a small breath, a moment of stillness before the next chapter. The fight was over.