Chapter 5
Guitar?
Jeongjikhan turned his gaze in the direction the customer pointed.
To the left of the entrance stood an acoustic guitar.
‘Is this playable?’
Jeongjikhan walked over to inspect the guitar.
Its six strings were clean, with no dust in sight.
He’d assumed it was decorative, but it looked fully functional.
‘Wait a minute.’
He returned to the counter and opened the drawer, finding a capo and picks inside.
Earlier, he’d wondered why these were here—now it made sense. They were meant for customers who wanted to play.
‘Is this part of D Company’s concept?’
D Company’s franchise cafes also blended music and coffee themes, often displaying acoustic guitars. This café had likely borrowed their marketing strategy.
Jeongjikhan turned to the waiting customer.
“Yes, you can use it.”
At the approval, the man brightened and approached the guitar.
He scratched his chin, eyeing the instrument.
‘Is he nervous to play in front of others?’
Rubbing his hands as if chilled, he carefully picked up the guitar.
He stood motionless, gripping the acoustic guitar, his eyes brimming with unspoken emotion.
‘Does he have unfinished business with this guitar?’
The man returned to his seat and addressed the other customers:
“If it’s not too much trouble… may I play?”
He sought permission first, not wanting to disrupt conversations.
No one objected. The crowd turned to him, curious.
Jeongjikhan studied him. Outwardly in his early 30s, the man’s smile with the guitar in hand made him seem like a teenage boy.
‘That unguarded smile… he must truly love music.’
The man sat, adjusted his posture, and tuned the guitar while glancing at Jeongjikhan.
“Um… Boss?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a capo here?”
“A capo? One moment.”
Jeongjikhan retrieved three capos from the drawer.
The man’s eyes lit up. “You have a rolling capo and a Lailin capo too?”
“It’s called a Lailin capo?”
“That’s what acoustic players call it. It’s rarely used except for Lailin.”
“What kind of song is that?”
“I’ll show you.”
The man tied back his long hair, attached the Lailin capo, and flexed his hands.
“This song… has a heavy backstory.”
“Oh?”
“The composer, Andy McKee, had a niece named Lailin.”
“So it’s…”
“A tribute.”
With a faint smile, he began to play.
A sweet, haunting melody filled the café. Within seconds, Jeongjikhan’s chest tightened—a mix of longing and nostalgia.
‘Was he a guitarist in life? A hidden virtuoso?’
The performance was flawless, as if studio-recorded. Every note resonated with precision.
When the song ended, Jeongjikhan clapped instinctively. The café erupted in applause.
The man blushed, bowing deeply.
Jeongjikhan approached him.
“That was incredible. What’s the song called? I need to save it.”
After noting the title on his phone, Jeongjikhan eagerly awaited the next piece.
As the man tuned his guitar, the café transformed into a concert hall.
But Jeongjikhan couldn’t linger—new customers arrived with a ding-dong of the bell.
He took orders and brewed coffee, the guitar’s gentle strumming brightening the atmosphere.
‘I’ve never seen a live performance before,’ he realized, struck by a pang of regret.
‘What have I been doing with my life? The world has so much beauty.’
The man played for an hour, pouring his soul into each note. When he finished, thunderous applause followed.
Watching the crowd, Jeongjikhan noticed something: though customers sat face-to-face, their conversations overlapped without connection. Each vented grievances to no one in particular.
‘If their pain peaks, will they confide in me?’ he wondered.
Yet during the music, they’d fallen silent. Their hurts weren’t urgent enough—for now.
After the final song, the man approached, guitar in hand.
“You’re Jeongjikhan, right?”
“Yes.”
The man bowed deeply. “Thank you for lending this.”
“It’s café property. Your performance… I feel guilty hearing it for free.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. It made me want to learn guitar.”
The man laughed but soon lowered his gaze.
“…Just do it.”
“Huh?”
“As a hobby.” His bitter smile hinted at lifetimes of unsaid stories.
“Your name?” Jeongjikhan pressed.
“Why?”
“After that performance, it’s only right to know.”
“…Kim Jinseong.”
Kim Jinseong rubbed his neck, shy despite his talent.
‘He’s not humble—he’s timid,’ Jeongjikhan realized. ‘Would confidence have changed his life?’
“I’ll remember you,” Jeongjikhan said.
“I’m not worth remembering.”
“Don’t say that. You moved me deeply.”
“…Thank you.”
Jeongjikhan’s eye twitched—a flicker of shared insecurity.
“Could you tell me about your life?”
“It’s… not interesting.”
“Next time, then.”
Kim Jinseong returned to his seat, sipping cold coffee with a serene smile. The performance had clearly brought him joy.
Curious, Jeongjikhan searched Kim Jinseong online. Countless profiles popped up—athletes, CEOs—but one entry stood out: Singer-songwriter. No photo. No history.
‘He sings too?’
Jeongjikhan listened through earphones. The song “If a Time Machine Were Invented One Day…” wasn’t sweet-voiced like typical hits. Instead, Kim’s raw vocals and piercing lyrics cut through time itself.
‘This is genius.’
Across the room, Kim Jinseong cradled his mug, boyish smile intact. Jeongjikhan’s curiosity burned—what life had this man led?
Past midnight, customers trickled in—eight at 1 a.m., the hour when spirits stir (Chuk-si in Korean folklore). None spoke to Jeongjikhan, only eyeing him curiously.
By 2:50 a.m., patrons began leaving.
“See you again!”
“Thanks for coming!”
The café emptied like a receding tide. Jeongjikhan slumped into a chair, relieved his first shift wasn’t as hard as feared.
Ding!
A message from Nahan: [Good work.]
“Do you have CCTV here?” Jeongjikhan muttered.
[Keep it up.]
“One question—you said no customers after 3 a.m., but do I close then?”
[Why close now?]
“No buses. I can’t afford a taxi.”
[Stay until 5 a.m., but shut down after—no exceptions.]
‘What happens at 5 a.m.?’ Jeongjikhan recalled folklore: spirits fade at dawn (Hyeonsin). The café, too, would trap him past sunrise if he stayed.
“And coffee refills—are they allowed?”
