The second recording session began with a minor problem.
The microphone in Studio B wasn't picking up a signal.
The technician replaced the cable twice, restarted the system three times, then crouched to inspect the outlet, his expression growing more desperate by the minute. Ji-hoon stood behind the glass, wearing headphones but hearing nothing except white noise.
Yoo-jin checked the time.
“How long?”
“At least twenty minutes.”
“Don’t we have a backup microphone?” Ji-hoon asked over the intercom.
“We do, but the tone is different.”
“Use it.”
Yoo-jin looked up.
“You want to record even if it doesn’t sound like the test recording?”
“I don’t want everyone here waiting for me.”
“That’s not a good enough reason.”
Ji-hoon hesitated.
“Then what is?”
“Because you really want to sing.”
The studio fell silent. The simple question left Ji-hoon unable to answer right away. He looked at his reflection in the glass, then at the man behind the mixing desk, and realized Yoo-jin hadn’t asked to make things difficult for him.
He just wanted to know.
“I want to sing.”
“Then use the backup microphone.”
Yoo-jin turned to the technician and asked him to adjust the volume levels. While they waited, he didn’t check his phone, read through the schedule, or urge Ji-hoon to use the time to rest. He simply sat there, patient as if twenty minutes weren’t the kind of time the agency could turn into a bill.
Ji-hoon stepped out of the studio.
“Aren’t you afraid of getting yelled at?”
“Because the microphone broke?”
“Because you’re letting me stand around waiting.”
“I’m not making you wait.”
“But you’re not leaving.”
Yoo-jin looked at him, his gaze so calm that Ji-hoon felt his question had become pointless.
“I’m in charge of the recording session.”
“Is it only because of work?”
“Do you want it to be because of something else?”
Ji-hoon immediately turned away.
“No.”
This time, Yoo-jin didn’t ask whether he was telling the truth.
Once the backup microphone had been installed, Ji-hoon went back into the studio. Today’s arrangement had an extra, very light drumbeat—enough to keep time with his heartbeat, but not enough to turn the melody into a complete song.
“Don’t sing like you did yesterday,” Yoo-jin said.
Ji-hoon looked at him through the glass.
“Was I bad?”
“No. But yesterday, you only let part of your voice show.”
“You want to hear all of it?”
“I want to hear the part you’ve never let anyone else hear.”
The room suddenly seemed to shrink around them.
Ji-hoon placed a hand on the microphone. The count-in sounded in his headphones. He began to sing.
The first time, Yoo-jin didn’t interrupt.
The second time, he asked Ji-hoon to lower his voice on the final line.
The third time, he turned off all the backing track, leaving only the solitary piano.
“I can’t sing without the music,” Ji-hoon said.
“You’re listening to the music too much.”
“Then what am I supposed to listen to?”
“Yourself.”
Ji-hoon let out a quiet laugh.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It isn’t easy,” Yoo-jin replied. “But you’ve done it once already.”
Once. Just once, and Yoo-jin still remembered.
Ji-hoon closed his eyes. There was no drumbeat, no string section, nothing left to hide the gaps in his breathing. He sang more slowly, letting each word fall like a fragment of a memory that had yet to find a name.
On the final line, his voice cracked.
This time, he didn’t apologize.
Yoo-jin didn’t ask him to record it again, either.
He simply pressed Save.
“That’s enough.”
Ji-hoon opened his eyes.
“Is this take okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you still hear me in it?”
Yoo-jin looked at the waveform on the screen.
“More clearly than in any of the others.”
Ji-hoon took off his headphones. His throat was dry and raw, but in his chest, an empty space had just opened up.
Outside the glass door, an Aurora employee stood watching. They said nothing, only took notes on a tablet before leaving.
Yoo-jin watched the person go.
“Is something wrong?” Ji-hoon asked.
“No.”
“You’re not very good at lying.”
“I’m not lying.” Yoo-jin gathered the papers. “There just isn’t enough information to say anything yet.”
That answer should have annoyed Ji-hoon. Instead, it gave him a strange sense of relief. Yoo-jin didn’t try to make everything seem better with false reassurance. He let unclear things remain unclear.
The recording session ended close to noon.
Ji-hoon had just stepped into the hallway when his phone buzzed. Min-woo was calling.
He stared at the caller ID for a few seconds before answering.
“Where are you?”
“At the recording studio.”
“I know. I’m asking which studio.”
Ji-hoon glanced through the glass panel. Yoo-jin was bent over, adjusting a section of music.
“Studio B.”
“I’m coming to pick you up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Your schedule changed. I have new information.”
“Just send it to my assistant.”
The other end went silent.
“Ji-hoon, I’m on the first floor.”
Ji-hoon tightened his grip on the phone.
Min-woo had always known where he was. Once, that had made Ji-hoon feel protected. Now, for the first time, it made him feel as if the studio door hadn’t really closed.
“I’ll go by myself.”
“You don’t know that producer.”
Ji-hoon looked at Yoo-jin again.
“I don’t know him yet, either.”
“Then don’t trust him.”
“Min-woo.”
Ji-hoon’s voice dropped.
“Don’t make decisions for me.”
The other end fell silent for longer this time.
“I just want to protect you.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you pushing me away?”
Ji-hoon didn’t answer. He hung up before the conversation could turn into another debt.
Inside the studio, Yoo-jin still wasn’t looking outside.
But when Ji-hoon opened the door and stepped in, he asked, “Is something wrong?”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re lying again.”
Ji-hoon stood still.
“You heard that?”
“I saw it.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I want you to tell me yourself.”
Ji-hoon looked at the man in front of him. A man who would never force him to open the door, but also wouldn’t pretend there was nothing behind it.
“It was an old friend.”
“The person who called?”
“Yeah.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
Ji-hoon stared at him.
“You know that?”
“He looked through the glass door four times.”
“You noticed that too?”
“My job is to listen and watch.”
A faint smile appeared on Ji-hoon’s lips.
“So what did you see?”
Yoo-jin didn’t answer right away.
“I saw that you’re tired.”
Ji-hoon’s smile faded.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask if you were fine.”
The words left Ji-hoon standing there in silence for a long time.
Yoo-jin turned off the screen and pushed a small box toward him.
“Eat.”
“What is it?”
“Bread.”
“You bought it for me?”
“I bought it for the person singing in the studio.”
“That person is me.”
“Then eat.”
Ji-hoon picked up the box. The bread had gone cold, and one corner of the wrapping was slightly crumpled. It was nothing special, yet he looked at it longer than necessary.
No one on today’s schedule had made a note that he needed to eat.
Yoo-jin had.
In the afternoon, Ji-hoon had to leave the studio for a commercial shoot. Before he left, he turned back and asked, “Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you need to ask if I want you here?”
Yoo-jin looked up.
“Do you want me here?”
Ji-hoon had known he would ask that, but he still hadn’t prepared an answer.
“I want to hear the new arrangement.”
“I’ll send it before you get here.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Yoo-jin looked at him beneath the blue lights.
A brief silence fell between them.
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ji-hoon nodded.
He had taken only a few steps when he heard Yoo-jin call out.
“Ji-hoon.”
It was the first time Yoo-jin had called his name without following it with a question about music.
Ji-hoon turned around.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let anyone make you forget the voice you found today.”
Ji-hoon didn’t know how to respond. He simply stood there, looking at Yoo-jin as if he wanted to memorize every line of his face beneath the light of the mixing desk.
“I’ll try.”
“You don’t have to try.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Just remember.”
That afternoon, while filming the commercial, Ji-hoon replayed the final line of the recording without the backing track in his head. His voice cracked in the same place, but this time he didn’t think of it as a flaw.
For the first time, someone had heard it and hadn’t wanted to fix it.
Late that night, Yoo-jin sent him the new recording.
The file was no longer named “The Person Who Can’t Sleep.”
It had only one word:
“Ji.”
Ji-hoon stared at the name for a long time before tapping it open.
The melody still had no lyrics. But at the end, the thin string section had been replaced by another sound, almost like human breathing.
After listening to it three times, Ji-hoon texted:
“What is this?”
Yoo-jin replied a few minutes later:
“Empty space.”
“Can empty space have a sound?”
“It can, if you’re willing to listen.”
Ji-hoon placed his phone against his chest.
Outside the window, the city was lit up. But for the first time, that light didn’t make the darkness disappear. It only made him realize he was no longer alone inside it.