After returning home that night, Jihoon didn't waste any time.
He headed straight to his desk, his expression serious, his thoughts already elsewhere.
When Jieun and Sulli walked through the door and saw him hunched over, completely absorbed, they instinctively exchanged a glance.
There was no need to ask—Jihoon was deep in his creative zone.
Respecting his focus, they quietly tiptoed around him and went to their rooms without a word.
Jihoon opened the folder Yoonjung had given him earlier.
Inside was a script and a USB drive.
Plugging it in, he began going through the director's cut of the film.
The room was silent, save for the soft hum of his laptop and the occasional rustle of paper as he flipped through the screenplay.
It didn't take long for Jihoon to realize something surprising—this wasn't a film he recognized from his previous life.
It was entirely new, a fresh creation from a director whose name hadn't made waves in the timeline he remembered.
And yet, the quality… it was undeniable.
Scene by scene, Jihoon watched as the story unfolded.
The cinematography was intimate and raw, the pacing deliberate.
The film didn't rely on flashy effects or over-the-top drama.
Instead, it drew its strength from subtle emotion—loneliness, insomnia, and the quiet agony of mental illness.
The director's artistic vision was clear and hauntingly effective.
Jihoon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms thoughtfully.
From a technical and artistic standpoint, the film was impressive—possibly even award-worthy.
It had the kind of emotional depth and nuance that international festival judges adored.
The way the director explored human fragility was bold and emotionally charged, like he was peeling back the skin of society just enough to show the wound beneath.
But… from a mainstream audience perspective?
"It's beautiful," Jihoon murmured to himself, "but boring."
It lacked energy.
No narrative hook.
It was emotionally intelligent but not exactly engaging.
Even for someone like him—with a deep appreciation for arthouse cinema—the film dragged at times.
Still, that didn't mean it wasn't important or meaningful.
Jihoon rubbed the back of his head and let out a long sigh as the film's final scene played once more on his monitor.
It was nighttime in the story—quiet, almost too quiet.
The female lead stood barefoot at the edge of a moonlit beach, her figure barely moving as the tide gently rolled in.
Soft waves lapped against her feet, again and again, as if the ocean itself was trying to speak to her in a language only she could understand.
She didn't say a word. She didn't take a step.
She simply stood there, staring into the vast, endless dark.
The waves kept coming. One after another.
Pushing her back ever so slightly, as if nature itself was asking—no, pleading—with her: Don't go any further.
And then... the screen faded to black.
No answers. No narration. No resolution.
Just silence.
The kind of ending that lingered. That dared the audience to interpret it on their own.
Did she choose to live?
Did she step forward?
Did she stay?
Jihoon leaned back in his chair, staring at the blank screen as the quiet settled around him.
He understood now.
This wasn't just a dramatic scene—it was the emotional climax of the entire film.
A moment built not on action or dialogue, but on feeling.
On that delicate balance between despair and hope.
And suddenly, it all made sense.
Why Yoonjung and the director wanted a melody specifically for this scene—and why they didn't want just any composer, but him.
It wasn't just because Jihoon had a reputation or two Cannes awards under his belt.
It was because the story needed something more—music that could carry the unspoken weight of that final moment.
A melody that wouldn't overpower the silence, but lean into it. Stretch it. Make people hold their breath without even realizing it.
And they believed Jihoon could do it.
He tapped a finger on the desk, thinking.
This wasn't about a catchy tune.
It wasn't about winning over mainstream audiences or making it to the top of a playlist.
It was about creating something fragile, haunting—a sound that could echo in the minds of the audience long after the screen had gone dark.
He pulled his keyboard closer, fingers hovering above the keys. This was the real work now.
The next two days passed in a blur.
Jihoon barely slept, barely ate.
He scribbled notes on the music score, played and replayed melodies, scrapped entire compositions, and started again from scratch.
There was no room for mediocrity—not with a film like this.
It needed restraint. Precision. Emotion that simmered just below the surface.
Finally, sometime around dawn on the second day, he sat back in his chair and listened to the final playback.
His eyes closed. The music spoke—of quiet sorrow, of a heart too tired to scream, of the soft ache of being alive. It wasn't grand. It didn't need to be.
A week later, Jihoon returned to Yoonjung's house, a USB drive in hand.
He had brought the melody with him.
"How is it?" Jihoon asked softly, watching Yoonjung, who was seated in front of the monitor, headphones wrapped around her ears.
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she sat still for a few more seconds, eyes slightly glazed—not in confusion, but in deep thought. T
hen, slowly, she pulled off the headphones and turned to face him.
Her expression was... complicated.
Somewhere between awe, emotion, and a kind of disbelief.
"What's the name of this piece?" she asked, her voice a little quiet.
"Melody of the Night," Jihoon replied.
Yoonjung repeated the name under her breath, "Melody of the Night…" letting the title linger on her tongue like a taste she wasn't ready to swallow.
She sat back, still absorbing what she had just heard.
It wasn't that the melody wasn't good—no, it was too good.
That's why her reaction was so conflicted.
From the very first note, the soft piano had cast a quiet spell.
The gentle rhythm carried a peaceful loneliness, almost like the hush of midnight.
But beneath that stillness, there was something else—a faint cry, a quiet desperation that crept in with each note.
As the melody progressed, the tempo subtly quickened, not enough to disrupt the mood, but just enough to suggest movement—like light breaking through clouds.
And when the music played alongside the final scene—where the female lead stood barefoot on the shore, waves gently pushing against her—it didn't just match the moment. It completed it.
The piano's rhythm began to rise, and for the first time, Jihoon used a lighter key. Most of the piece had been heavy and somber, but this shift brought a feeling of hope.
It was soft. Delicate. But it was there.
Just like the director once told her: within loneliness, there is sadness… but also a small spark of hope.
He wanted the audience to feel all of that—without a single word.
Now, hearing Jihoon's music, Yoonjung finally understood what he meant.
Yoonjung turned to Jihoon again, her gaze filled with something new—admiration, maybe even reverence.
She always knew Jihoon was talented.
With two Cannes wins and a reputation for turning stories into emotional experiences, he was already in a league of his own.
But this... this was something else.
He hadn't just composed a song.
He had captured the soul of the scene.
Without long discussions or direction, he had understood exactly what the film was trying to say—and translated it into music.
All she had were the director's explanations and artistic intentions.
Jihoon, on the other hand, simply watched the scene and felt it.
And now she understood—his talent wasn't just in music or film.
It was in empathy.
In seeing the heart of a story and giving it voice, one note at a time.
"Jihoon..." she said quietly, almost in awe. "You really are something else."
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, BigBoobs and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]