“A performance?”
At Dad’s request—asking if I could hold a small performance for him—I tilted my head.
“I’m sorry to ask this when I won’t even be there with you... but as a musician, there’s sothing I really want to try.”
Dad looked at the scores he had brought.
“These are pieces I composed but never released to the public. When people say ‘unreleased songs,’ there are usually two reasons. First, the piece isn’t complete enough to show outside.”
As a composer, I understood that.
“The second reason is timing. Sotis you create a song, but it doesn’t feel like it would resonate with the public at that mont. Music isn’t complete just because it’s finished at the composer’s fingertips—it’s only complete when it flows into the ears of the audience.”
That made sense too.
No matter how well you make sothing, if the public says, “h?” then it’s over.
“These scores here...”
Dad lifted the sheets.
“They’re songs that probably need ten to twenty years from now—aning from 1997—for the ti to be right. It wouldn’t be appropriate to release them now.”
That must be why he was asking for a performance now.
“If I’m alive, I’ll plan that performance myself... but this video assus that both your mother and I are gone. So I’m sorry, but I’m asking you this through a recording, son.”
He smiled.
“I’m not asking twenty-five-year-old you to do everything alone. At that age, you’ll probably have finished the military and be in university... It won’t be sothing you can handle by yourself.”
Planning a performance wouldn’t be difficult for now.
But Dad was worrying like a father would.
“So it’ll be faster to ask others for help. I’ll explain the thod in detail...”
The next couple of tapes were filled with explanations.
How to structure contracts.
Whom to approach and what to offer in return.
The performance systems of the 90s were different from now, but much of it overlapped with what I’d seen while planning concerts with company staff.
Ideas began sketching themselves in my mind.
“It doesn’t have to be a big performance. Even ten audience mbers would be fine...”
It sounded like what he wanted was a small theater show.
But—
“I’ll try.”
I answered quietly to the screen.
Unlike Dad’s worries, I knew many people now who could help.
First, I called Grandma to Seoul.
When she ca to the company, I handed her the video Dad and Mom had prepared.
“This... is it?”
“Yeah.”
It was a personal farewell video for her and Mom.
I didn’t know what was inside.
Just that it was about thirty minutes long.
“I’ll co back in a bit.”
The video was thirty minutes.
But it took three hours before Grandma ca out of the room.
She must have cried a lot. I wiped the tears pooled in the corners of her wrinkled eyes and hugged her.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.”
She brushed her eyes.
“Not being able to say goodbye to your mom was a lifelong regret... but to talk like this, even this way...”
“Don’t cry, Grandma.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re crying again.”
I gently smoothed her disheveled hair and held her tight for a while.
“...Still. Don’t you feel better?”
“My heart feels lighter.”
She smiled through tears.
“When you have ti, make this into one of those computer files and put it on my phone too.”
“Okay.”
After that, we talked about the performance.
Kim Deoksun nodded firmly.
“What can’t be done? It’s soone’s last request. We have to grant at least that much so he can close his eyes in peace.”
She took a copy of the video and returned to Gunsan.
Now what remained was the performance project.
After seeing her off, I went to the practice room where the mbers were waiting for .
“I need your help.”
Because security was important, I only asked a small number of people.
“Your father left scores?”
“And videos?”
“Twenty years ago...?”
The mbers’ eyes widened as they listened.
Director Jo Gyuhwan. CEO Park Gyuho of Lemon Entertainnt. Seokhwan hyung.
“So you need to plan a performance?”
“Mm...”
There were seven of us in total.
As I explained everything, they listened carefully.
“Dad...”
It was a word I rarely used.
Unlike in my thoughts, saying “Dad” aloud felt strangely unfamiliar on my tongue.
“Dad asked to hold a small performance. I’ve done plenty of concerts, but this type of event is outside my expertise.”
Concert structures are similar at their core, but jazz performances differ from idol concerts.
How to secure the budget.
Which instruntalists to invite.
What venue to choose.
The performance Dad wanted was small-scale, so I didn’t need to overthink it—but if I was going to do it, I wanted to do it big.
“Mm.”
Junhyun asked,
“Are there any people who perford with your father before? Maybe we could ask them for help...”
I answered carefully so he wouldn’t feel awkward.
“The people who toured with Dad were mostly on the sa plane. Including the performance planners.”
“...Ah.”
Even the foreign uncles I’d been close to as a child—after 1999, I rembered nothing.
We talked quietly for a while until the maknae said,
“It feels unreal, talking about this.”
“Yeah. It does.”
It felt as hazy as standing at a funeral when I was little.
Like floating between reality and unreality.
But it wasn’t entirely bad.
“With this performance, I want to create good mories for people.”
I wanted to paint over a tragic accident with bright and hopeful colors.
Most of the unreleased pieces Dad left were about happiness and the future.
Everyone nodded.
“I’ll handle the budget first,” the CEO said.
“I have contacts in classical and jazz circles. We’ll get estimates.”
“I’ll reach out to the Sun Myeongju Foundation,” Seokhwan hyung added.
Having adults around was incredibly reassuring.
Then Director Jo Gyuhwan narrowed his eyes like a fox.
“The key is the budget.”
He continued,
“If you have money, everything else is secondary. With enough money, you can solve any problem.”
“That’s right.”
“Wooju, if you want, we can invest—”
“There’s no need.”
I had another thod in mind.
“I was originally planning to pay out of pocket. But Dad left specific instructions.”
“Really?”
“Yes. There were several options...”
There was one I liked best.
“He suggested holding a fundraising party in the U.S. He said a fundraising party wouldn’t suit the dostic sentint, so it should be done in Arica.”
During his lifeti, Sun Myeongju had not succeeded on musical talent alone.
He had an instinct for opportunity.
Self-promotion.
Showmanship.
Reading articles about his career, I’d often admired his business sense.
And the video showed it too.
“I don’t know if my na still carries weight... but if it does, a fundraising party would be very effective.”
A fundraising party.
A party held for a specific purpose, raising funds through donations from attendees.
“Even a small one. If it gains coverage in newspapers and dia... it’ll serve as effective promotion for the performance.”
Not just for securing a budget—but to generate buzz beforehand.
Back in his era, television and newspapers were the primary promotional tools.
“So I plan to host a fundraising party in the U.S. Raise funds for the performance, and donate the proceeds to youths who dream of music.”
“That’s a good approach.”
Director Jo agreed.
We discussed additional ideas Dad had ntioned, such as charity auctions, and wrapped up the eting.
After the adults dispersed, only we remained in the practice room.
“....”
The mbers glanced at awkwardly.
I smiled.
“We were preparing for the Mango Chart Awards, and now this. Seriously.”
“Right?”
The maknae laughed first.
The mbers, who had been holding in serious expressions, relaxed and smiled.
Ri Hyuk asked,
“How do you feel?”
“Honestly... really good.”
Everything had happened so suddenly that I felt stiff, but my mood was good.
“I always imagined saying goodbye properly. I kept wishing I could talk to him once more. I think sothing inside loosened this ti.”
Relieved was the right word.
I raised my fist.
“So let’s prepare properly.”
Biju nodded.
“If there’s anything I can help with, I’ll do my best.”
“Okay. Then first—!”
“First!”
“Let’s prepare for the Mango Chart Awards.”
“Ah...”
“Handle what’s right in front of us first.”
Warm laughter filled the room.
No matter what, the Mango Chart Awards were coming first.
Dad’s performance, even at the earliest, would be next January or February.
Securing the venue, inviting musicians, giving them ti to study and rehearse the scores—it would take ti.
A performance doesn’t materialize in a week.
So we had to deal with the imdiate task.
“Alright!”
I clapped my hands.
“Practice!”
The fifteen-minute ending stage for the awards.
This would be our first ti closing the show.
We had won Singer of the Year last year, but the ending stage had been Teen Spirit’s.
This ti, our popularity had grown enough to override seniority and agency power.
After two hours of practice—
“Huff... huff...”
The mbers collapsed on the floor.
Lying flat, we discussed ideas for the charity party.
Concept.
Food.
Presentation.
Mostly, it was less of a eting and more emotional support.
“Dad’s performance... hehe.”
“Hehehe.”
“Filial piety done right. Hehe...”
“Hehe.”
It was mostly us tangled together giggling.
“Hyung.”
The maknae asked,
“For the fundraising party... who are we inviting?”
“For now...”
There was a list.
Including dostic PD Ha Seungju, who had ties to Dad.
While NewBlack practiced—
Paul Laurent, regarded as one of Europe’s top pianists, lightly pressed piano keys in thought.
—We need your help, Paul.
The ssage had co from the son of the man he revered like a teacher.
At first, he thought it was a prank.
A deceased jazz musician leaving an enormous amount of unreleased scores—and performing them twenty years later?
‘I must participate.’
Beyond gratitude, as a musician, his heart raced.
Unreleased scores from a genius.
He wanted to see them imdiately.
‘If only my schedule weren’t full.’
Suppressing his urge to fly to Korea, Paul took a deep breath and picked up his phone.
—As you know, I’m not the only one who received help from Professor Sun Myeongju. May I contact the others?
—Are they trustworthy?
—Don’t worry. They’re all like .
Back when he lived in an orphanage, Paul had been discovered by a world-famous musician.
And the footprint Sun Myeongju left in the world was vast.
“I should contact them first.”
Though not bound by blood, there remained a network of Sun Myeongju’s “children.”
Paul called those closest to him.
“Guillau? Were you asleep? Ah, it must be dawn there.”
He didn’t reveal everything.
It was enough.
“They’re planning a performance for Professor Sun.”
—Professor Sun Myeongju?
“Yes.”
—What should I do?
The calls spread.
From France to Algeria.
Algeria to Egypt.
Egypt to Turkey.
Turkey to Italy.
Italy to the Czech Republic.
Voices filled with warm mories.
—I’ll attend.
—I must go.
—His final performance? I can’t miss that.
Though Wooju didn’t know it yet—
Adults who had once been children twenty years ago were now moving to help him.
Lunchti.
People finished eating and wandered.
Office workers brushed their teeth while looking at their phones.
University students lingered at cafés before class.
Everyone held a phone.
“Nothing to watch...”
Scrolling through communities or MyTube.
Then—
“Huh?”
A recomnded video appeared.
NewBlack World TV.
‘What’s this?’
The thumbnail looked strange.
Why was the quality like that?
A handso man with glasses sat at a piano.
He looked like Wooju.
“...Is that Wooju?”
No.
The features were slightly sharper.
“Hey. Isn’t that Wooju’s dad?”
“Sun... Myeongju? Probably.”
The title read:
[Sun Myeongju: A Greeting After 20 Years]
The na was unfamiliar to college students, but well-known to older generations.
They clicked.
Static-filled audio.
But beautiful piano cut through.
The man slid his hand across the keys and turned.
“Hello. This is Sun Myeongju.”
A 90s broadcast tone.
He stood and addressed the audience.
“It’s been a long ti. I don’t even know how many years... but I’m happy to see you.”
Then—
“If you’re watching this, you’re probably living in 2017. This video was recorded in 1997.”
It dawned on viewers that this was a greeting from the past.
Goosebumps rose.
“I have many questions... but I’ll hear those later. First, I must extend an invitation.”
“An invitation?”
“Yes. I, Sun Myeongju, intend to hold a small performance. There are scores I have yet to reveal. Thus, in the year 2017, I wish to hold my final performance.”
He smiled at the viewers.
“Will you co?”
His eyes burned—not just with passion, but sothing close to madness.
Then he waved gently, like a gentleman tipping his hat.
“Allow to formally greet you once more, citizens.”
He smiled broadly.
“I, Sun Myeongju, have returned.”
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