I regretted it the moment my feet hit the ground.
I should never have come back.
That's the only thought that goes round and round in my head, haunting me like an old broken record.
Four years...
It had been four long years since I last returned to Korea.
I missed birthdays, weddings and funerals. Not even my father's persistence could bring me back.
Nothing had been able to tear me away from my new life on the other side of the world.
I had made a firm and definitive decision: I would never come home again.
And yet, here I am.
I'm sure there's an old proverb that sums that up.
This country...
It embodies everything I hate.
Maybe it's because everyone I can't stand still lives here. Or maybe it's because there's never been anything to hold me back here. The only things I have left here are memories — or rather, ghosts.
And that's well known, isn't it? You always end up hating ghosts, not for what they do, but simply for existing.
They're all buried under layers of hypocrisy and money. Just like everything else.
I'm this close to turning around, jumping on the first plane to the United States and never looking back.
But, at that very moment, a familiar, high-pitched and slightly over-enthusiastic voice cuts through the airport hubbub:
'Noah! Over here! Over here!'
I clench my jaw.
There it is: the one person I've come back for. The only exception to my rule; the one person for whom I agreed to set foot on this haunted land again.
My little sister.
I make a discreet U-turn, hoping to go completely unnoticed. But she's flailing around like a fish out of water and her voice goes up a notch.
'Noaaahhh!'
Fuck.
Resignedly, I walk quickly towards her, hoping that my footsteps will calm her down.
'Hmph... Shut up, please.'
I mumble, glancing around nervously. People are already staring in our direction.
'I heard you perfectly well the first time,' I say. I whisper through my teeth.
She replies with a huge smile, as if nothing has changed.
I force a smile, more out of habit than sincerity, already resigned to the endless monologue that's about to follow.
The floor echoes beneath my footsteps; the discreet roll of the suitcase I'm dragging behind me gives me away.
And she's speaking. Without catching her breath, it seems.
There were anecdotes, jokes and questions, all piled one on top of the other. The airport is a hive of activity: suitcases rolling, heels clicking, muffled laughter, children crying... But her voice covers it all, stubborn and familiar.
I nod along, but I'm actually thinking about something else. I say 'yeah' to every 'you remember', 'I'll have to show you' without really hearing what she's saying. I'm not quite there yet. My body's moving forward, but my head's somewhere else. Just being here makes my throat tighten. The smell of rain and coffee and disinfectant – that special homecoming smell. When I hear that language and that familiar Korean musicality, it's like I've dug up something I'd buried deep down.
Or even worse: suffocating once again. In the past, I'd escaped. I hadn't planned to come back. I promised myself I'd never go back when I left. But sometimes, even promises made to yourself can get eroded under pressure.
And this time, my father had found the right words - or rather the right tone.
One phone call. Three sentences. One order.
I had no choice.
I try not to think about everything that's waiting for me. But there are certain names that I'm not keen on. Things like faces that are hard to make out, looks that feel a bit off, and memories that pop up out of the blue. I can already feel the past nudging the back of my neck, cold and insistent.
And that's when I hear it.
A melody.
Simple. Pure.
A guitar, somewhere, behind the stream of travellers.
It feels like it's detached from the world, like it's suspended over the chaos. A couple of barely audible notes, muffled by the announcements over the loudspeakers. But they cut straight through me. I stop in my tracks.
The noise fades for a moment.
I can hear it. There's something about that sound. Like something... familiar? Or maybe just too good for this place. I turn my head slightly, my eyes trying to pierce the crowd, but before I can make out anything -
a sudden bump hits my shoulder.
'Ouch!'
Someone has just bumped into me. They're obviously in a hurry, dragging a guitar case that's too big for the narrow passageway. The smell of worn leather and conditioner hits me briefly. By the time I turn around, they are long gone. A black silhouette, blending into the human tide. I blink, feeling a little stunned. It's as if something has slipped through my fingers.
And the music has stopped.
No more notes. It was just a sudden return to the cacophony of the airport.
The floor vibrated with the sound of suitcase wheels, screams and announcements on a loop.
"Noah?"
My sister pulled me by the sleeve, her voice piercing the bubble of silence.
'What?'
She frowns.
'What's the matter, Noah?' Did you see something?'
I take one last look behind me.
Nothing. No guitarist. No tracks.
Just this strange silence and a metallic, bitter taste on my tongue, like a warning.
'No, nothing. It was nothing; don't worry.'
'Are you coming? Dad's waiting for us at home.'
'Yeah, I'm coming.' I mumbled, turning around one last time, confused.
But there's nothing left. Nothing but the pounding. The parts of my heart that don't make you live. They're just a reminder of what hurts.
_________________
My stomach does somersaults on the way. I don't want to go home. I don't want to see these walls anymore, they are too smooth, too perfect, this house in which every corridor is a cold mirror, every meal a silent theatre. Every sentence dies before it is even spoken. I don't want to put on the mask anymore. Smile for no reason, pretend everything is fine. I also didn't want to go to one of those white studios you see in the brochures. It's too clean and a bit impersonal. Walls with no history, floors that are bursting with emptiness.
What I wanted... was something different. A place that looked like me, or that didn't expect me to do anything. Even if it was tiny. Even if it was ugly. But mine.
And then I saw it.
A rickety sign hanging from a lamppost. 'Studios to let. Furnished. No guarantee needed'. It was just a number written in black marker. I got my phone out. I made the call. And the next day, I signed. It was a done deal. The estate agent didn't ask me anything. He didn't care, and it was perfect. I had everything I needed: a name, documents, money.
That was enough.The studio was pretty old and a bit run down. It had a musty, dusty smell, like it had been forgotten. The curtain was hanging a bit askew. The window creaked. But there was a door.
A lock, a bolt between me and the rest of the world.
And no one behind it to tell me who I was supposed to be...
To be continued...