The last bell rang like a quiet sigh of relief through the hallways, and the world outside your classroom began to move in fast-forward — students rushing past, voices loud with end-of-day energy, lockers slamming, feet pounding down the stairs. But you didn’t move.

You waited, as you always did.

The silence you craved came slowly, like dusk settling over a restless sky. You gathered your things quietly, heart already anticipating what was coming. When you finally left the classroom, you didn’t follow the crowd pouring out of the building. You slipped the other way, down the older corridor with the creaky floorboards and faded choir posters. Past the art room, past the janitor’s closet, all the way to the very end — the music room.

Your fingers hesitated on the doorknob, out of habit more than fear. Then you stepped inside.

The room greeted you with its familiar calm. It was small, cozy in a forgotten kind of way, with its cracked windows and dust-coated shelves. A single shaft of golden light slanted through the blinds, landing perfectly on the black piano near the wall, like a spotlight just for you.

You sat down on the worn bench, running your fingers gently along the polished wood before resting them on the keys. A quiet exhale. A moment. Then — music.

You played from muscle memory, the chords blooming beneath your touch like wildflowers. And then you sang.

Your voice poured out of you — soft at first, like you were afraid of your own power. But it grew, gaining color, shape, wings. Your range moved effortlessly from gentle, breathy highs to warm, rich lows. You wrapped yourself in the melody, forgetting everything else. The world. The fear. The fact that no one had ever really heard you.

Because here, you could be honest. Here, the voice you kept buried could finally breathe.

What you didn’t know was that someone was listening.

⸻

Heeseung’s day had been like most lately — heavy.

He didn’t bother pretending to take notes in class anymore. His mind wandered too much. His teachers noticed, but they didn’t ask questions anymore. Just frowned and marked something on their clipboards. His grades had plummeted since last spring, since the funeral. Since the day the air in his house changed forever.

His father barely looked at him now. The man who used to make pancakes on Sundays had become a stranger in his own skin — red-eyed, silent, drunk more nights than not. They passed each other like ghosts in that house.

So Heeseung found comfort in the one thing that hadn’t changed: his guitar.

It was a gift from his mom, back when he was ten. The wood was a little scratched now, the strings worn in, but it was his most precious thing. He played it late at night when the world got too loud in his head. It made the silence less lonely.

That afternoon, he’d stayed late to work on a song — nothing finished, just pieces. But in his distraction, he left the guitar leaning against the wall in the music room. He realized it halfway home, cursed himself under his breath, and turned around.

By the time he made it back, the halls were nearly empty. His footsteps echoed as he hurried, heart pounding from a mix of panic and frustration. But when he got near the music room — he stopped.

He heard something.

A voice.

It was soft at first, almost like the wind through cracked glass. But then it rose — clear, aching, and stunning. It wasn’t like any voice he’d heard before. It wasn’t just technically beautiful — it was honest. Like someone was singing their soul, not just their notes.

He eased closer, careful not to make a sound. He stood just outside the doorway, one hand against the cool wall, heart racing for a different reason now.

He couldn’t see you from where he stood — but he didn’t need to. The music filled the space between him and the door like a confession. A secret.

And for the first time in months, something inside Heeseung cracked open.

Not with pain, but with wonder.

He didn’t know who was singing. But he knew, in that moment, he’d never be the same after hearing you.