It was a chilly Sunday afternoon.
Kim Chong had just finished a long vocal session alone in the community center's practice room—the same tiny room where he'd once cracked a note so badly he nearly swore off singing forever. Now, he was cracking less, breathing more, and growing inch by inch.
His throat burned. His voice felt like an old string pulled too tight.
Still, he sang until the lights flickered and the janitor peeked in, half-amused.
"Kid, this ain't your concert hall."
Kim bowed sheepishly and grabbed his things.
Walking home, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, he passed the same old row of low-rise apartments, familiar like the buzz of a neon sign. The air smelled faintly of grilled fish, laundry detergent, and distant karaoke.
He was halfway to his building when a voice cut through the cold.
"Yah! Kim Chong!"
He stopped mid-step and turned, startled.
It was the granny from next door—the legendary one who had banged on his wall with a slipper during every off-key chorus of his trainee days.
She was out in thick slippers, arms crossed, standing like a judge from a cooking show.
"Oh—hello," he said quickly, bowing.
"You're not as loud as you used to be," she squinted. "What happened? Gave up already?"
He scratched the back of his head. "No, I… I'm still trying."
"Hmph." She eyed him like she could smell lies. "Good. I thought maybe you finally listened to me."
Kim wasn't sure if she was serious or joking. Probably both.
Then—out of nowhere—she sighed and said, "I used to yell, not because you were bad. You were too good."
He blinked. "Wait… what?"
"My son used to sing like you," she said, voice lower now. "Same passion. Same fire. He wanted to be a singer too. I told him no. Said it was foolish. He gave it up. Got a job at a bank. Steady paycheck, zero joy."
Kim stared at her, the words settling slow and heavy in his chest.
"I yelled," she continued, "because you reminded me of him. And I didn't want to watch you quit like he did."
Kim opened his mouth, but for once, couldn't find anything to say.
The wind picked up. For the first time, the cold didn't reach him.
"Thank you," he finally said.
She snorted. "Don't thank me. Just don't waste that voice."
She turned to go, but paused at her door.
"Come by sometime," she added gruffly. "I make good soup. You sing one of those heartbreak songs—make me cry a little."
Kim broke into a grin. "Deal."
As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, something stirred inside him. Something new, and warm, and real.
That night, in his room, he opened his notebook and scribbled:
Day 47 – I'm not alone. Not really.
And maybe… I never was.
Just then, his phone buzzed. A message from Ha-eun.
"Don't forget—studio tomorrow. We're trying that duet, okay? Also, bring snacks. I'm starving just thinking about it."
He laughed. Loud enough that the granny probably heard him through the wall.
He didn't care.
The Next Day – Training Studio
"Duet day," Ha-eun declared, arms crossed dramatically as Kim Chong stepped into the studio, ten minutes late and holding a crumpled plastic bag.
"You're late," she added, squinting at him like a judge on a survival show.
"I brought snacks," he said, waving the bag like a peace offering.
Ha-eun snatched it and peeked inside. "You brought fish cakes and a banana?"
"They were on sale," he replied defensively. "Budget life."
She shook her head in disbelief. "We're gonna sing a heartbreaking ballad, and I'll be chewing on a fish stick between takes."
"You said you were starving," he mumbled.
Ha-eun narrowed her eyes, then broke into a grin. "You're lucky I skipped breakfast."
They sat by the speaker, munching on snacks in silence for a moment.
"So, duet?" she asked, mouth full. "You ready to harmonize with greatness?"
Kim raised an eyebrow. "Define 'greatness.'"
"Me," she said without hesitation, tossing the banana peel into a corner like she lived there. "But I will accept your humble, slightly pitchy voice beside mine."
"Slightly pitchy?"
She grinned. "Come on. Let's warm up. Try not to ruin it with your tragic high notes."
"Tragic?" he gasped. "You sounded like a dolphin in pain last week!"
"That was experimental!"
Their warmups devolved into ridiculous runs and exaggerated vibrato, both of them trying to out-weird the other. Ha-eun even tried singing lying down. Kim Chong accidentally dropped the mic stand on his foot.
It was chaotic.
And it was perfect.
By the time they actually got to the duet, something clicked. Their voices weren't perfect—but they understood each other's rhythms now. When Ha-eun faltered, Kim filled in. When Kim hesitated, Ha-eun leaned in.
For a second, they weren't just two trainees fumbling through another practice.
They were a team.
And Kim felt it deep in his chest—something shifting.
Maybe this wasn't just about surviving training anymore.
Maybe this was the beginning of something that mattered.