The way his calloused fingers move on the keys, creating a sad, old melody, hurts his chest. Every single damn note feels like a dagger aiming at his heart and scratching the surface. He wonders whether the customers complain behind his back about the painful music. Or his jackass behaviour.

His arrival made a bigger fuss than he originally wanted and gossips spread incredibly fast in a little village like this. Yet, he hasn’t run away. He sat in the bus stop until the vehicle packed full of tourists left the town. Without him. Who knows, maybe it was out of sheer stubbornness but he wanted to stay. What for? Salvation? Or maybe to prove something. But for who? Himself or somebody else?

And now he sits behind the rusty piano in the corner of the bistro and plays compositions he knows by heart. He never takes requests, shooing away every customer who tries to talk to him. The bell above the door is jingling happily as a new one arrives but he couldn’t care less until his uncle’s cheerful voice snaps him out of it:

“Chaeyoung! Good to see you, dear,” the owner greets the florist girl and helps her to sit on a bar stool. Taehyun freezes for a moment but keeps playing like nothing happened. Good thing that playing the piano is like riding the bike: you might get a little out of practice but you never forget it, not if you have played for so long like him. He plays the melody by muscle memory. Luckily, it’s an old-fashioned town and they bear with the classics because he has no idea what’s up with the music industry nowadays.

“Thank you! Can I get the usual?” the girl asks cheerfully and her bright voice hurts the pianist’s ears. What’s more, the fact that she’s a regular here leaves a burning hole in his chest.

“Sure, it’s coming right up! While I heat up the stove, tell me what you’ve been up to!”

“It’s been awhile since I came, right? I’m sorry I was busy but don’t worry, I’ve been doing good,” Chaeyoung’s cute little giggles fill the tiny space and Taehyun feels like it’s choking him. He can’t stop thinking about the last time he saw her, at the court, wearing a dress that she didn’t even know the colour of and a on her forehead. Three stitches or so he heard. But it wasn’t the worst. The head trauma was and what it did to her optic nerves.

“But I heard you have a new musician and I got curious,” she continues and the boy abruptly stops playing. Something is scratching his throat and his vision goes black for a minute, memories flashing behind his eyelids. Like the darkness enveloping the neon lights of Seoul and the vivid red on the asphalt.

His fingers start shaking and cold sweat covers his skin. His heart stings painfully and he gasps for air. A panic attack. Great.

He doesn’t even notice the girl suddenly standing behind the elegant instrument until she speaks up with a nostalgic smile on her lovely face. She seems like someone whom the heavens are obsessed with. Divine.

“It sounds like your music bleeds pain,” she tells him like she could see through him and Taehyun wonders how she understands it so well. Perhaps she’s stuck in the same nightmare he is.

He shoots a hostile look towards his uncle who is watching over them carefully from behind the counter. Taehyun sighs, because deep down he knows he won’t be of much help, and he has to force himself to look at the girl. Not because she isn’t nice to look at, she’s rather strikingly beautiful. It’s because of those scars along her hairline and the distant look in her cappuccino eyes.

“Maybe it does,” he agrees, blinking and astonished as the symptoms are fading away one by one. The florist’s soothing voice is like a rising tide washing away sandcastles on the beach and leaving shiny shells behind. Signs of hope.

“You are really talented. But wouldn’t it be better if you sang, too?” the girl beams and the guy frowns, looking away. You can’t stare into the Sun for too long either, right?

“I don’t sing,” he protests bitterly, tasting the morning black coffee on his tongue. It’s something he says out of habit: that he doesn’t sing anymore.

“What a pity.” Chaeyoung pouts. “You have a nice voice.”

There’s nothing nice about it, he knows. It’s rough and unused, sounds like cracking rocks or like dying inside. She must be lying then, but Taehyun doesn’t care, he has always known angels lie, too.

He doesn’t say anything but his silence doesn’t dishearten the girl at all.

“Grab a drink with me?” she asks all brightly as if they were best friends and Taehyun is confused. Is she this nice to every single stranger she meets? She probably is because that’s just how kind she is. “It’s rare that the town gets a visitor or a new inhabitant. I’m sure everyone wants to know where you are from and why you came.”

“You should use a break,” Minho chimes in appearing out of the blue and patting his shoulder. Then he gently takes Chaeyoung by the elbow. “Your lunch is ready.”

The girl nods towards the source of his voice with a grateful smile then turns back to the pianist once again. She is looking a little at his right.

“Would you join me?”

She is so hopeful, Taehyun would feel like a douche saying no even though he knows he should. But he’s hungry and he could really use that break now.

“Okay,” he sighs taking a deep breath and her face lights up as they walk to the counter. It’s a short walk, only a few steps. One, two, three. Yet, it feels much longer, a march to war.

“So what’s your story?” Chaeyoung asks, eyes shining full of curiosity as soon as they get to eat their lunches. She uses cutlery and eats like everyone else, like her disability to see wouldn’t affect her in any way. If he didn’t know better he would believe she sees. Maybe it’s because she hasn’t been blind for most of her life, but isn’t it crueler? To lose your sight even before the peak of your life, knowing you won’t see any more sunsets, the love of your life or anything. He would go crazy.

“There’s no story,” he grumbles, guilty. He can’t even digest one bite.

“You are wrong or simply lying. There’s always a story behind pain.”

The florist says it simply, like it goes without saying. As if it was a known secret of the universe and maybe it is. No wonder why there are so many songs about heartbreak, loss and grief. He has written them all. In a different life.

“Then what about you?” he asks instead of answering. He’s always been bad in opening himself up. It means to allow others to hurt you and he’d burnt himself already. He should have learnt his lesson by now.

“You mean my eye condition?” A short pause. She’s wondering if it’s really what he means or that he would take it back, embarrassed about being straightforward but he doesn’t and she nods in acknowledgement. “It’s okay, it’s been years, I don’t mind talking about it anymore. I found my peace. I used to want to be a painter, I dreamt about having big exhibitions. I still paint, mostly with my fingers but obviously it’s not the same. I have a good imagination and I label every colour tub. It’s the same method I use at my parents’ flower shop. I would be bored to death if they didn’t let me work there.”

She’s speaking calmly, between bites, a few laughs here and there, with nostalgic smile endearing her features. The way she forms the consonants and vowels is music itself, a melody waiting to be written, a song Taehyun once dreamt about. And he lost it.

“Okay, come on! Tell me something about yourself,” Chaeyoung chirps before off the caramel from the tip of her finger. It smells sugary and sweet like her because she always reeks of lilies: innocence and humility.

The guy shrugs, not really wanting to answer but he owns her a lot more than this. “I’m Minho’s nephew, I just came to help him out until he finds a proper pianist.”

It’s the truth but he’s so much more than a nephew. Yet, he’s so much less than a person. He’s broken inside out, a shell of who he once was, an oxymoron standing alone in the midst of people. A sad soul swimming in the sea of lost hope. A lost boy with a guarded heart not wanting to be found.

“Then you might be here for long,” the girl giggles and she sounds happy, almost relieved. Taehyun doesn’t know if it’s a miracle or a punishment. “What’s your name?”

“Nam Ta…” he starts recklessly, out of habit but he can’t tell her that. He can’t bear the look on her face. He’s not ready for that. So he coughs, correcting himself: “You can call me Nam.”

Chaeyoung smiles, kindly so but a quiet beep beep resonates through the air like a siren. She taps the little device on her waist and pouts when it quiets down.

“Oh, looks like my lunch break is over. It was nice getting to know you, Nam. Come by at the flower shop to talk some more when you have some time to spare. I meant it when I said I liked your voice. I would like to hear it more,” she blinks and her glassy, doll eyes are shining so prettily, Taehyun feels something clenching his heart.

“Would you like me to walk you back?” Minho offers from the other side of the counter but the girl declines politely.

“Thank you but no need, I can do it,” she beams, proud, taking out her foldable, white cane from her purse and waving goodbye while she leaves. The pianist looks after her and it’s like watching the Sun setting. You know something just ended but it will come back the following day again and again because that’s just how she is.

His uncle is so damn positive nonetheless.

“Isn’t she lovely?” he asks and the boy doesn’t know how to tell him that it makes it even worse. Words don’t feel enough to describe what he’s feeling.

“I hate myself even more know.”

“But she doesn’t hate you,” Minho points out but it doesn’t help. Taehyun shrugs and returns to the dusty piano, still waiting in the corner all alone.

“Because she doesn’t know who I am,” he mutters and starts to play a melancholic song, one that actually cries black tears.