The blackout didn't end with silence.
It ended with memory.
When the lights shattered and the screams rose, something in Jae-hyun's mind split.
Not like a crack—more like a floodgate.
And suddenly—
He was not in the studio anymore.
He was back in that house.
The one he had never really left.
---
[Flashback — 9 Years Ago]
It was winter.
But inside the house, the cold came not from the weather, but from the walls.
They were clean. White. Sterile.
Not a photo in sight.
Not a fingerprint on a door.
Silence wasn't peace here.
It was punishment.
---
"Why did you leave the lights on again?"
The voice was calm. Too calm.
Jae-hyun, small, maybe 9 or 10, stood in the hallway barefoot, clutching the edge of his oversized sweater.
"I—I forgot," he said softly.
"You forgot?" His mother didn't raise her voice. That wasn't her way.
She just walked over, unscrewed the lightbulb directly in front of him, and dropped it into the trash with a clink.
"One less thing for you to forget next time."
He didn't cry.
He'd already learned not to.
---
His room was at the far end of the hall. It had no posters. No books. Just a mattress, a window, and a hand-me-down radio with a single working speaker.
He wasn't allowed headphones.
He wasn't allowed locks.
He wasn't allowed mistakes.
---
He used to hum under his breath while doing chores.
Once.
She heard.
"You want to sing?" she'd asked.
For a second, his heart had leapt.
Then she took the radio.
Ripped the cord out.
Dropped it in the sink and turned on the water.
"No distractions. Not in this house."
---
He learned to hum inside his mouth after that.
To tap rhythms into his pillow.
To memorize the melody of the pipes at night, the creak of the floors, the hum of the refrigerator.
He created symphonies out of survival.
---
[Later That Winter]
One night, he woke to his father shouting in the next room.
It wasn't the words that scared him.
It was the sound of a glass breaking—again.
And the silence after.
Jae-hyun crept down the hallway, heart pounding in his throat.
The door to the kitchen was cracked open.
His father's hand was bleeding. His mother sat on the floor, staring at the fridge.
No one looked at the boy.
No one ever did.
---
He learned to tiptoe.
He learned to disappear.
He learned that being seen meant being wrong.
---
[Middle School]
When he finally got a scholarship to a private middle school, he thought things might change.
They didn't.
He never spoke in class.
He ate alone.
He got good grades because failure was never an option.
His teachers praised his quietness.
"Such a well-behaved boy."
"Never causes trouble."
They didn't see the nail marks in his palm from how tightly he clenched his fists.
They didn't ask why his eyes never met theirs.
---
But there was one room in the school he loved.
The music room.
Empty. Dusty. Forgotten.
He'd sneak in during lunch and sit at the upright piano, fingers barely brushing the keys, afraid to press too hard—afraid someone might hear.
But one day he played.
Just a few notes.
Just enough.
And for the first time in years…
He smiled.
---
[The First Voice]
"You're good."
He jumped.
A boy stood in the doorway. Tall. Bright-eyed. Smirking like he'd caught Jae-hyun doing something illegal.
Jiho.
"That yours?" Jiho asked. "The melody?"
Jae-hyun nodded, too startled to lie.
Jiho whistled. "Sounds lonely. But cool."
He walked in like he owned the room, plopped onto the piano bench beside him, and said:
"Teach me."
---
For a while, Jiho became his first friend.
He liked to talk. A lot.
Jae-hyun didn't mind.
Jiho would bring chips and soda, talk about anime and guitar tabs and dreams of being a star.
Jae-hyun just listened.
And in the spaces between—
He started to play.
Jiho would hum along. Sometimes sing.
And Jae-hyun would close his eyes and pretend this was what life could be.
---
But Jiho always wanted more.
"Sing with me," he'd say.
"I can't," Jae would whisper.
"You can. I heard you hum yesterday."
Jae shook his head. "If I sing… I'll want to never stop."
Jiho smiled. "So don't stop."
But Jae knew better.
At home, singing was a sin.
Music was wasted time.
Dreams were for people who weren't mistakes.
---
Then one day, Jiho said:
"Let's audition for the school showcase."
Jae-hyun froze.
Jiho grinned. "We'll be anonymous. Just one performance. Please?"
Jae shook his head. "My mom would kill me."
Jiho frowned. "Then don't tell her."
Easy words.
For someone who didn't live in a house without music.
Jae-hyun went home and sat on the floor in the dark.
He whispered his answer into the air.
"I want to."
And that night, for the first time, he dreamed of applause.