Jeonghan never wished to be special. His talented hands were little more than a burden, just like his pretty face and mild demeanour. It was hard not to hear the way the other children spoke about him; mocking him as they hoped he would receive an extra beating after dinner that night. When Jeonghan was just four, one of the ladies shoved an old violin into his tiny arms. Jeonghan thinks it was the one with the wiry, ash coloured hair and thin pursed lips, the one that always smelled of prunes. She grabbed Jeonghan’s small hands forcing his skinny fingers onto the strings. The violin strings hurt as they dug into the tender flesh on the pads of his fingers, leaving behind angry, red friction burns all over his left hand. Jeonghan knew he didn’t like the violin at all, but he also knew what he liked didn’t matter, so he bit his lip and did as he was told. 

From the violin case the lady produced a bow, slapping it into his other hand. He tried his best not to flinch at the motion. Pushing the bow in his hand onto the strings of the violin, she held a stiff grip on his arm. The woman tugged it back and forth as the resin coated hairs met with the copper strings. The action produced a shrieking, screeching sound Jeonghan was certain he never wanted to listen to again. Then the woman stood up, yanking the hollow instrument from his grasp. “Well done,” she had said, before turning on her heels. He watched her short, plump figure disappear through the large mahogany doors at the back. The children weren’t allowed to go through those doors; Jeonghan often heard the others talking about where they went. Once he overheard a girl say there was a garden out there, but Jeonghan didn’t believe her. They spent all their days indoors, imprisoned by the high walls with dull, floral wallpaper that peeled to reveal the flaky plaster beneath the surface. The adults tried to fix it a couple of times, but their efforts never worked, just like when they tried to fix the leaky pipe in the second-floor bathrooms. 

The middle-aged woman came back the next day—and all the others days after that. Each time she the dusty violin at his tender neck, forcing his hands on the strings once more. By the eighth day, Jeonghan’s hands began to bleed, juicy crimson droplets erupting from his soft skin. A shiver rippled down his spine as he recalled what happened the last time he tried to complain about a wound. He the drops from his fingers, wincing at the coppery taste.

With enforced dedication and hard work, Jeonghan’s violin skills improved. Where once lay baby-soft skin on his fingers grew calloused, rough and unfeeling. At the age of ten, they sent Jeonghan to the small theatre downtown with dusty velvet curtains that smelled of damp. The well-to-do couples would gather there late on Saturday and Sunday evenings for their weekly show. Jeonghan was only allowed to play on Friday nights when only a handful of people would attend, but that suited him just fine. Jeonghan hated almost everything about the theatre, from the cheap suit they forced him to wear with the stiff collar that chocked him as he played. Mostly, he hated how small he felt standing alone on the grand expanse of the stage. The only positive aspect of the whole ordeal was that he could be alone. Jeonghan wasn’t important enough to need a man from the academy to supervise him. So long as he earned money and gave it all to them, they couldn’t have cared less what he did. 

There was one other boy there who looked around his own age, but he was taller and broader compared to Jeonghan’s scrawny figure. He would occasionally sit in the theatre as Jeonghan practised, shoulders hunched around a different book each time. Whether he was listening to him play or not Jeonghan couldn't tell, but he kept quiet and left Jeonghan alone, so he wasn’t bothered. 

Seungcheol’s father was the owner of the theatre and while he didn’t exactly like the place, he spent more time there than anywhere else; doing his homework or reading, just to avoid the constant nagging of his prudent mother and over-achieving sister. During the daytime it was fine, when the only people there were his father and the workers. He despised the theatre in the evenings; it became flooded with all the snobbish couples from their town with their garish red lipstick and gelled back hair. Everything about them was fake, Seungcheol thought. He knew only a little about Jeonghan, he would admit, but he dressed and behaved just like them, so that told Seungcheol all he needed to know.

The first time he came to the theatre, Seungcheol had tried to talk to him. The boy stood shorter and smaller than him, but there was something about the way he held himself—eyes focused on a non-existent object almost as if he was looking through you instead of at you—that made Seungcheol seem small and exposed. Jeonghan’s hands hung clasped by his sides, unmoving. Seungcheol tried to be friendly, just like his father taught him. However, the boy’s responses never comprised more than a nod or shake of his head, so what was he supposed to do? Clearly, Seungcheol was beneath him and Jeonghan wasn’t about to waste his breath on him. Seungcheol once tried telling his father he didn’t like Jeonghan, but he only sighed and told him the boy was good for business, because “people love a good sob story”. Seungcheol didn't really understand what he meant. 

It wasn’t until almost a year later that Seungcheol’s opi