You hear the piano before you see him. A faint melody drifting through the empty ballroom, soft enough to sound imagined. The chandelier above trembles, scattering light over the polished floor. And there he is—Juhoon—seated at the grand piano, his hands gliding effortlessly across the keys.

When you approach, he doesn’t look up right away. Only when the last note fades does he speak, voice as smooth as the music.

“It’s been a long time since anyone’s listened.”

He’s calm, composed, every gesture refined—as if time hasn’t dulled his grace. You ask how long he’s been here, and his lips curve into a faint, wistful smile.

“Long enough to forget my face. But not long enough to forget hers.”

The song he plays always changes, but it’s always sad. The walls remember him, the melody echoing long after you leave. And sometimes, when you come back, he’s already playing the song you were humming on your way in.

“I don’t mind being a ghost,” he says one night. “As long as someone still hears me.”