Standing there awkwardly, I look at him playing the piano. He’s referring to a musical sheet at the stand, bobbing his head to the rhythm. My mouth open in awe as I walk farther into his room. Actually, Eunhee plays the piano too, but she’s very incompetent to the point of second-hand embarrassment. This boy… He’s on a whole new level on his own. It makes me appreciate the piano even more. Then, the music stops abruptly—without a trace.

“Come here, Seoyeon.”

Frick. How does he know my name and I don’t know his? What kind of horse is this? I swallow my saliva and walk towards him though my gaze remains focused on the grand piano. As I get closer, I hear a shuffle of his approaching feet. My mind begins to wonder about other things such as the price of the instrument. It must have been worth a king’s ransom just like the other pottery and potted plants. Just how wealthy is this household?

“So, thanks for this,” he says, pointing towards his head. I look up and my breath hitches at once. To be candid, it’s not because of the white bandage swathed slightly above his right ear that catches me off-guard. It’s because of his face. He has sun-kissed and pore-less skin with lips that form the perfect curve. His eyes, oh his eyes… It has some specks of white adorning the pair of delicate and soft eyes. With him being the center of my peripheral vision, I can say his looks is above decent.

“I’m sorry,” I say and this time, I really mean it. There’s no hint of cheerfulness or sarcasm in my speech. I’m genuinely sorry for hurting him. The rock that I hurled a few days ago is paramount to me inflicting a scratch on a museum piece. I do not dare to look into his eyes while I mutter my apology. All this while, I’m sparing a glance at the shirt he’s wearing. It’s a white hoodie with the Gucci logo imprinted at the center. I gulp. 

The boy shrugs and starts to conduct a lecture on my role as a servant. It’s basically helping him with mundane tasks like ironing his clothes or fetching water from the opposite end of the room. When he’s satisfied with my performance, he grants me permission to leave, albeit there’s a rule that I can stay for a maximum of four hours each day. When’s the day I’m freed from his service? That, I have no idea. 

For the first two hours, I got to know a lot about him and his room. I’ve finally learnt the most basic information; his name. It’s Park Chanyeol, a cool and unique name I have to admit. That’s the only thing he told me. He acted deaf when I asked him about the musical side of him. There is an array of musical instruments scattered in his room. Drums, guitars, ukuleles, violins, and even a saxophone hiding at one corner. I’m curious. 

“What’s your piano grade level?” No reply. 

“Who teaches you how to play all these instruments?” I try my luck, but still no reply.

Apart from these ridiculously priced equipment, the