I sat on the bench, listening to the bossa music floating through the station speakers. Butterflies hovered above the tracks. Cold seeped into my bones. Should've listened to Mom about the jacket. Guess this is as far as an idol's life goes.
I laughed under my breath. "Come on then. Hell or heaven—I want to see which." A yellow light swept across my face. The screech of steel against rail rang out sharply.
"This is train No. 4 arriving at Platform 18. Passengers with a red-ink marking on the left wrist, please present it to the ticket officer." I rolled up my sleeve. My name was written in red on my wrist.
"You're Woo Seok Jin, right?" A deep voice came from a heavy-set man in uniform.
"Yes," I answered, looking up. He stepped down from the train. A long stitched scar ran across his neck. "What happened to your neck?" I asked.
he chuckled. "Oh, this? Almost died once. But these days, anything can be fixed,"
I smiled faintly. "Thanks. Those were… some of the happiest years of my life."
I showed him my wrist. He gestured for me to go inside.
Outside, the train looked ordinary. Inside, it was decorated like an old steam-engine carriage.
"Hold~~~ on!" A voice shouted from the snow-covered platform.
A black-haired man sprinted up the stairs as the train began to move. His eyes locked onto mine. "Hey~ lil'bro!" Ji Sanghye yelled.
"The hell did you come from?" I blurted, right before the doors closed. He leapt, tackling me inside. Our faces ended up inches apart.
"Whoa~ hoho!" He laughed triumphantly, standing up. "Almost didn't make it!" I sighed. Of course he was here. A construct of my subconscious—my comfort before death.
His wrist was bare, no red ink.
"You here to say goodbye?" I asked bluntly.
"What? Are you crazy? We're going back to the apartment. The concert just ended."
I brushed snow off my clothes. "And the other three?"
"Uh… probably missed the train. Fans pushed too hard." He pulled me up and I glanced toward the next carriage.
It was very crowded. "Let's sit in the last car," Sanghye suggested. "Looks emptier."
I nodded, and we headed toward the back. Butterflies fluttered through every doorway we passed.
Yeah… this was definitely a train to the afterlife.
As I stepped into the final carriage, my heartbeat quickened.
"What's wrong? Scared of ghosts?" Sanghye teased, patting my shoulder. "Man, this train's nice though. Feels like one of those old-school murder-mystery trains."
We sat by the window. A wooden table separated us.
The soft click of heels approached as a train attendant elegantly served us drinks.
"Thanks! Do we get something to drink?" Sanghye exclaimed, thrilled like a kid.
I leaned over. Just a cappuccino with a heart on the foam.
Nothing special to me.
"Oh, nice," I said, just as a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice slid toward me.
"Please enjoy your drinks," the female attendant said, a voice I really didn't want to hear.
"Uh—" I flinched at what she served, but when I lifted my head, the long–haired woman had already walked into the next carriage.
"Looks like she knows what you like," Sanghye teased. "Didn't ask for her number, huh, baby boy?"
I stared at the orange juice for a moment, then looked up at him.
"What? It's just a regular glass of orange juice."
Sanghye burst out laughing. "Ha ha— whew! It's not even cold in here, even with the snow. White snow~ white sno—"
"Stop it. Don't even start. I ain't gay," I cut him off.
"Whyy~? It's cute. And i wasn't get to The King of Cum joke yet."
"Gross. What an unlucky name. Don't pitch that to Manager Bonsong—he agrees to everything without thinking."
"My manager's not much different. But at least he's funny. Good storyteller. Total P.E. teacher energy."
"Hmph. A money–faced manager. Everything he does is just his job. When it's over, there's nothing to talk about," I muttered.
"Everyone has their job. Heavy or light, different in their own way. Our job's entertainment—make people happy, and the money and fame come in. Let us spend, pay debts, take care of the ones we love."
"And I did all that. Even if I put out half–assed songs, as long as I'm the number one idol, people praise me anyway."
"What made you look down on this job so much?" Sanghye asked, resting his chin on his hand. Not angry—just asking.
"Because I've lived it. People get addicted to fun. Addicted to the surface. They never think about the soul I put into it."
"That's still art, isn't it? It starts simple—just listening. And the song brings out whatever someone feels. People like your songs because they reflect you, don't they?"
I shrugged and stared out the window. "And what about you? What do you think of this job?"
"Artists make art. One of them is music. Music brings people together. It's…."
He fell quiet, his feelings too big for words. "...where we sit in circles, joke around, dance, or cry with our arms around each other. It marks the moments when we were happy, sad… Music is a box that keeps someone's precious memories, no matter how many generations pass."
"Mm, almost made me cry." I turned and smiled at him. "Didn't you say you wanted to be a doctor?"
"Not in this lifetime." He rolled his eyes, thinking. "Idols, we let people feel something through music. That's why I chose this job. Everyone needs color in their life… Sometimes this job is being a doctor. Healing people through music. Helping them find strength again."
I nodded.
Every word made sense. No sarcasm came to mind.
So I used this moment to confess. "Sanghye…" I tried to speak, but a tear slid down my cheek.
I looked up, trying to stop the sob from rising.
"I…" I exhaled shakily. "...if I'm gone, will you miss me?"
"Why wouldn't I? You're like a brother to me," he replied with a hopeful smile.