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# Chapter 1: Sumbisori
Sea-a heard the song for the first time from behind the convenience store counter at 2:17 in the morning — on the radio, in a voice that didn’t know it had stolen something.
The fluorescent lights at the GS25 in Hapjeong always flickered a little. Like a frequency that couldn’t quite lock in, or like the world occasionally forgot this place existed. Na Sea-a had long since stopped noticing. Eight months in the same spot, looking up at the same lights from the same angle. Midnight to six a.m., five nights a week. The upside of working the night shift was that almost no one came in. The downside was that the silence gave her too much room to think.
The radio was turned down to almost nothing — a channel the manager had left on before heading out, the kind no one listens to but no one bothers to turn off. Sea-a was pressing expiration date stickers onto drinks when her hands stopped.
The melody changed the air.
That was exactly what it felt like. Like the flicker of the fluorescent lights had shifted frequencies. Like the air inside the convenience store had suddenly taken on a different weight. Sea-a didn’t lift her head. She just stood there, hands still, and listened.
Piano intro. A rhythm in 4/4 that felt like 3 — not because of syncopation, but because the breath was too short. Then a voice. A woman, twenty-three maybe, vocals processed slightly husky. The lyrics were about winter and windows and someone’s name.
Then the chorus came.
Only then did Sea-a set down the sheet of stickers. Slowly. Her hands already knew — they remembered where this melody had come from. A room in a gosiwon at three in the morning, sitting with her back against the wall, typing chord progressions into her phone’s notes app. Rain outside the window. Someone coughing on the floor below. Sea-a had thought the melody was good. More than good. She’d thought it was the most honest thing she’d ever written.
That song was playing on the radio right now. Without her name.
The DJ’s voice drifted through. “That was ‘At the Window’ by Park So-jin. It’s sitting at number four on this week’s streaming charts — climbed there in just two days. She’s a new artist from JYA Entertainment, and honestly, the best is probably still ahead of her.”
Sea-a placed both hands flat on the counter.
Cold. The counter surface was cold. The fluorescent light flickered. The radio moved on to the next song. All of it happening at the same time, all of it continuing without pause. It felt strange — that the world could keep going this calmly.
She took one breath. Then she picked the sheet of stickers back up.
Na Sea-a had come to Seoul when she was twenty-two.
She’d taken the ferry from Jeju, not a flight — not because she couldn’t afford the plane ticket, but because she wanted one last long look at the sea. She stood at the railing and watched until the island disappeared below the horizon. Like her mother walking into the water in a haenyeo suit, the island sank slowly. Sea-a hadn’t cried. She’d thought she would, but the tears didn’t come. Instead, something hard settled into place somewhere behind her ribs. Like a stone. It was still there.
The first room she found in Seoul was a semi-basement gosiwon in Hapjeong, Mapo-gu. Three hundred fifty thousand won a month, no deposit. There was one window, but being semi-underground, all it showed her was the ankles of people walking by. Sea-a decided she didn’t mind. Ankles don’t lie. A hurrying person has hurrying ankles. A drunk person has drunk ankles. Couples would sometimes stop just outside, and she could see their two pairs of feet pausing for a moment in the frame of the window. She made melodies out of what she saw. The urgent ones. The unsteady ones. The ones that stopped.
She was still at the same gosiwon. Different room — she’d moved to unit two in the same building two years ago. No window, but twenty thousand won cheaper per month. She gave up the window, saved the twenty thousand. And sent that twenty thousand to help pay for her younger brother Do-hyeon’s tutoring back in Jeju.
That was how Sea-a did the math. One window = 20,000 won = half a month of Do-hyeon’s math tutoring.
She’d started calculating everything this way. Skip one meal, save 4,500 won on a convenience store lunch box. Two skipped meals, 9,000 won. 9,000 won could go toward her mother’s medication. Her mother’s medication ran about 120,000 won a month. So if she skipped one meal a day, eighteen times a month, she could cover almost half of it.
Sea-a knew the math was wrong. She just couldn’t stop doing it.
The shift ended at six in the morning. Sea-a stood in front of the convenience store for about five minutes. The sky wasn’t fully light yet — somewhere between deep grey and pale blue. Hapjeong was quiet at this hour. One block over, the last music from Hongdae was leaking into the street. Some band finishing their final set, the echo of an electric guitar bouncing off brick walls and finding its way to her.
She walked with that sound.
Ten minutes on foot to the gosiwon. Two minutes by taxi, base fare 4,800 won, so she walked. The calculation was automatic now. She didn’t even notice herself making it.
She turned the corner and her phone buzzed. KakaoTalk. Do-hyeon.
— unni you still alive? (6:03 AM)
She typed back with her thumb.
— yeah
— woke up for school and turned on the radio this morning
— there was this really good song
— park sojin or something
— idk why but i thought of you
— kinda felt like something you’d hum around the house
— anyway lol call you later
Sea-a put her phone back in her pocket.
At the end of the alley, there was a cat. Grey tabby, one ear slightly torn. The same cat she saw every day. She didn’t know its name — she’d never given it one. Name something and you start caring about it more.
The cat looked at her. She looked at the cat.
“I just heard it too.”
The cat didn’t answer, and disappeared into the alley.
Sea-a went inside the gosiwon.
She only slept two hours.
She lay down but there was only the ceiling. A windowless room — darkness that couldn’t tell day from night. In that darkness, she ran through the chord progression of “At the Window” again in her head. Am – F – C – G. Then the modulation to Em in the chorus. Her choice. She’d almost gone to G, but Em hurt more. Em was more honest.
The one who’d first taken the song was Choi Jin-hyeok, an A&R broker she’d met at a Hongdae club. He came around sometimes to Blue Noise, where Sea-a worked as a session vocalist. Always in a black puffer jacket, always with one AirPod in, always handing out business cards. One night, after a session, he’d found her alone in a corner of the practice room, running through chords.
“Did you write that?”
She’d nodded.
“It’s good. Can I take it? I know a new artist it’d suit perfectly.”
She should have asked something then. What about the credit? A contract? The copyright? She should have asked any of those things. But when he said “it’s good” — those two words struck the stone behind her ribs and made a strange sound. Sea-a lost herself in that sound for a moment.
“…Take it.”
That was all.
Two months later, Park So-jin’s “At the Window” came out. Composed by: Lee Chae-rin (In-house Composition Team). That was the name in the space where Sea-a’s should have been. She’d messaged Choi Jin-hyeok on KakaoTalk.
— i think there might be a mistake with the credits
He replied a day later.
— oh that, yeah all external composers go under the in-house team that’s just how JYA does it, but the song fee should’ve already hit your account, check it
She checked. Four hundred thousand won.
She sent it to her mother’s hospital bill. And never messaged Choi Jin-hyeok again.
That was six months ago. Since then he’d come back twice. Both times he’d taken her songs. Both times she’d let him. Without asking about the credit. The payments were five hundred thousand and five hundred fifty thousand won, respectively.
With that money, she paid for Do-hyeon’s school trip. Put down the deposit for their mother’s knee surgery. Covered the back rent on the gosiwon.
Sea-a stared at the ceiling and ran the numbers again. Three songs = 1,450,000 won = no name. Whether that equation was right or wrong, she fell asleep before she could decide.
The alarm went off at five in the afternoon.
The Blue Noise session started at seven. Sea-a got up, washed her face, skipped eating, tied her hair back, grabbed her bag, and left.
Fifteen minutes on foot. Hapjeong toward Hongdae, past Sangsu station, into the back alleys, and there was Blue Noise. The sign was so worn that the ‘B’ in ‘Blue’ only half-lit anymore. Lue Noise. Sea-a had always thought that was a better name. Something more honest about it.
Inside, the smell hit all at once — beer and cigarettes and old amp metal. And beneath everything, the low vibration of the bass speaker, music you felt in your feet before you heard it with your ears. Sea-a liked this smell. She liked this vibration. This place felt more like home than her room did. She knew that was a little sad.
“You’re here.”
Ha-neul appeared from the corridor beside the stage. Oversized hoodie, left sleeve pushed up — she’d clearly just come from getting new tattoo work done. The inside of her forearm was still wrapped in film.
“Yeah.”
“Did you eat?”
“I ate.”
Ha-neul looked her up and down. “Where.”
“…Convenience store.”
“What.”
“…Triangular rice ball.”
“How many.”
Sea-a didn’t answer. Ha-neul sighed and dug through her bag. Out came a convenience store plastic bag. Two tuna mayo onigiri and a tofu bar.
“Eat. Right now.”
“I’ll do it later—”
“Hey, Na Sea-a. You need to eat before a session or your voice won’t hold. Remember last week when your voice cracked on the final set? You hadn’t eaten then either.”
Sea-a took the onigiri and unwrapped it. While she ate, she looked toward the stage. The guitarist was tuning up for the sound check. The D string was slightly flat. Sea-a caught it by ear.
Ha-neul sat down next to her. “I heard that Park So-jin song on the radio today.”
The chewing slowed for just a beat.
“Yeah.”
“Me too. It’s really good.” Ha-neul looked at her. “That one’s yours, isn’t it.”
Sea-a finished the onigiri and folded the wrapper. “Why would you think that.”
“Because I know every melody you’ve ever written. Ten years.” Ha-neul crossed her arms. “That Em modulation. It’s your thing. You always go to Em when something hurts.”
Sea-a said nothing.
“What about the credit?”
“…Listed under the in-house composition team.”
“Hey.” Ha-neul’s voice dropped. “Hey, Na Sea-a. How is that okay?”
“It is.”
“How is it okay.”
“I got a song fee. Four hundred thousand won.”
“Four hundred thousand?!” Ha-neul caught herself too late. The drummer looked over. She lowered her voice again. “That song is number four on the streaming charts right now. Do you know what the streaming royalties alone are worth? Four hundred thousand won?”
“I signed a contract.”
“What contract.”
“…Something Choi Jin-hyeok sent me. A usage rights consent form or whatever.”
“And the copyright?”
Sea-a didn’t answer. Ha-neul pressed her fingers to her forehead.
“Sea-a. Did you read the copyright ownership clause?”
“…I read it.”
“What does it say.”
“Assigned to JYA.”
Ha-neul stared at her for a long moment. Sea-a held the gaze without flinching. Looking away felt worse somehow.
“…Why,” Ha-neul said quietly. “Why did you sign that.”
“I needed the money.”
That was all. Sea-a said it and opened the second onigiri. Ha-neul didn’t say anything more. She knew there were things you simply couldn’t say anything to.
Three sets. Seven, nine, and eleven.
Blue Noise’s house band had five members: two guitarists, a bassist, a drummer, and Sea-a — vocals. Not an official member. Session vocalist, meaning she came in when needed. When the main vocalist wasn’t feeling well or had a better gig, Sea-a stepped in. Twelve to fifteen nights a month.
Tonight, the main vocalist Jun-hyeok had lost his voice, so Sea-a was covering all three sets. The setlist was already fixed — six covers, two originals. The covers were all familiar. The originals were written by Jong-su, one of the guitarists.
When the first set began, Sea-a let her hair down.
Just that. Only when she sang. It was almost the only thing she allowed herself.
Ha-neul had seen it happen every time from her corner seat on the right side of the stage, nursing a beer. The moment Sea-a wrapped her hand around the mic and stepped up to the stand, something in her face changed. Not that the blankness disappeared — it wasn’t that an expression appeared. Something else entered. Like a door that was always closed swinging open. Not light coming in. Light coming out.
Sea-a sang the first line.
The noise in the room dropped. Not because anyone decided to be quiet — it just happened. Someone paused mid-lift of their beer glass. Someone looked up. Someone put their phone face-down. Sea-a’s voice wasn’t big. It didn’t command a room. It seeped into one. Between the air and the conversations and the clinking of glasses — and then, at some point, it was simply there.
She never looked at the audience while she sang. She fixed her eyes somewhere beyond the mic — the back wall of the room, the point where the light didn’t reach. She sang toward that dark spot. Or maybe the song came from it. As if she wasn’t performing, but transcribing something.
It was near the end of the second set.
There was an unfamiliar face at the back of the room. Sea-a rarely noticed people while she was singing, but this one snagged her attention. The kind of face that kept pulling the eye back. Expensive clothes worn carelessly, both hands in his pockets, dark circles under his eyes. He looked to be in his late twenties. He was alone.
She looked, then turned her gaze back to the dark point on the far wall.
She focused on the song.
After the third set, when Sea-a came off the stage, Ha-neul was waiting.
“You were incredible tonight.” Ha-neul grabbed her arm. “That high note in the last song — genuinely gave me chills. It’s Jong-su oppa’s song, but when you sing it, it becomes something else entirely.”
“…Jong-su’s version is better.”
“It is not.” Ha-neul said it flatly. “Genuinely, it is not. Why do you always say someone else’s version is better?”
Sea-a didn’t answer, tying her hair back up.
From behind the counter, the club owner Park Min-su waved. “Great work tonight, Na Sea-a. Take a drink on the way out.”
“Thank you.”
She pulled a grape juice from the fridge and turned around — and someone was right there.
The face from the back of the room.
Up close, he was taller than she’d expected. Sea-a was 162 centimeters — this man had a good hand-span on her. His hands were long. The one not in his pocket was just visible past the edge of his jacket, and it was immediately obvious: pianist’s hands. Thick-knuckled, slender-fingered.
He spoke first.
“You didn’t modulate in the last song.”
Sea-a looked at him, grape juice in hand. Not a greeting. Not a “hello” or a “great show.” Just that, as his opening line.
“…No.”
“The original goes up a half-step there. Was that deliberate?”
She considered it for a moment. “Going up makes it too showy.”
“Showy isn’t necessarily bad.”
“It is for this song.”
He studied her. Not a judging look — more like verification. The way you check your work after solving a problem.
“Why.”
“Because this song is ultimately about giving up.” Sea-a twisted the cap of the juice. “If the moment of surrender is dramatic, it’s a lie. Giving up is quiet. You don’t go up the half-step. You just end, right where you are.”
He said nothing.
She said nothing either. She’d said more than necessary and closed her mouth.
Beside her, Ha-neul nudged her elbow. Sea-a pretended not to notice.
The man reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a business card. White paper, black print. Clean.
Kang Ri-u. A&R — JYA Entertainment.
Sea-a didn’t take it.
More precisely — she’d been about to take it when the three letters ‘JYA’ made her hand stop mid-air. JYA. Park So-jin’s label. The company behind “At the Window.” The place Choi Jin-hyeok had fed her songs into.
Her hand hovered for a moment, then came back down.
“…I’m fine.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “First time someone’s refused my card.”
“Then I’m the second person you’ve ever met who has.”
Next to her, Ha-neul took a long drink of the grape juice. The one that wasn’t hers.
The man pocketed the card. He didn’t seem offended. If anything, something in his expression sharpened with interest — or rather, his face stayed still, but something moved behind his eyes.
“I stayed for all three sets.” He said it plainly.
“I know.”
“You noticed.”
“From the second set.”
“…Sharp.”
“A session vocalist who isn’t sharp doesn’t survive on stage.” She looked at him steadily. “If there’s something you want to say, say it. Otherwise I need to head out.”
He held her gaze for a moment. Then said:
“There’s a song you wrote. ‘At the Window.’”
Sea-a’s grip on the grape juice tightened.
“I don’t know that song.”
“No?” He kept watching her. “That Em modulation in the chorus — that’s your habit. It came up four times tonight across three sets. Same pattern every time.”
Sea-a looked down at the grape juice.
Purple. Obviously purple. But right now it looked strangely vivid.
“…”
“I’m an A&R at JYA.” He said it evenly. “I don’t know exactly how that song ended up credited the way it did. I want to find out.”
“Why.”
“Because,” he said, “someone who writes songs like that shouldn’t be working as a session vocalist in a Hongdae club.”
Sea-a heard the words.
She tried to let them land without feeling anything. She did. She was fine — and then the stone behind her ribs made that strange sound again. Like someone had reached in and touched it.
“Na Sea-a, right?” he asked. “The owner told me.”
“…That’s me.”
“Kang Ri-u.” He extended his hand. A handshake — since the card had already been refused. “Can we talk sometime? Not now. Whenever works for you.”
Sea-a looked at the hand. Pianist’s hands. Hands that lived in pockets. She found herself wondering, strangely, when they’d last touched a piano — and why they were in his pockets now.
Beside her, Ha-neul murmured under her breath: “Hey. I told you his eyes were something.”
Sea-a shook his hand.
Hers was cold. His was warm. The difference in temperature unsettled her — it made her suddenly, acutely aware that her own hands were so cold.
“Your number,” he said.
“…Ask the club owner.”
“I’d rather get it from you directly.”
“Why.”
“Because I think you’ll actually reply if I get it directly.”
Sea-a looked at him. He looked at her. A beat of silence.
She took out her phone, typed in her number, and held the screen out to him without saving anything.
“Put it in.”
He typed it into his phone. “Thank you.”
“…Don’t mention it.”
Sea-a picked up her grape juice and turned to go. Ha-neul fell into step beside her immediately. As they walked toward the exit, Ha-neul pressed close and whispered urgently into her ear.
“Hey. Hey hey hey. Kang Ri-u. That’s Kang Ri-u.”
“I know.”
“He’s the JYA CEO’s son. Kang Min-jun’s son.”
“I know.”
“You just gave him your number.”
“I know.”
“Why.”
Sea-a pushed the club door open. “He said he’d talk to me about the credits on ‘At the Window.’”
Outside was cold. 1 a.m. in Hapjeong. Streetlights stretched long across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, a cat cried out — impossible to tell if it was the grey tabby from earlier.
“Sea-a.” Ha-neul called from behind her. “What if it’s not about the credits?”
Sea-a didn’t slow down.
“It’s about the credits.”
Wind came from the end of the alley. Her hair scattered loose — she should have retied it, but she left it for a moment. The cold air on her face felt oddly good. Like being reminded she was alive. Like actually feeling the cold.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number — except it wasn’t unknown anymore. She’d just watched him enter it.
A text.
— This is Kang Ri-u. Save the number. I’ll be in touch.
Two seconds later, another.
— It’s good music. Yours.
Sea-a read it. Put her phone in her pocket.
She kept walking. Toward the gosiwon, through the pools of streetlight, into the cold wind.
The stone behind her ribs made that sound again. A little different this time. A little louder than before.
She tried to ignore it.
It didn’t really work.
She got back to her room, dropped her bag, and lay down. The windowless room. A darkness that was total.
She took out her phone and opened a streaming app. Typed into the search bar: park sojin at the window.
Play count: 2,847,391.
Sea-a stared at the number. Two million, eight hundred forty-seven thousand, three hundred ninety-one. That many people had heard this melody. That many ears had received this Em modulation.
She put her earphones in and pressed play.
Piano intro. Park So-jin’s voice. Lyrics about winter and windows and someone’s name. The chorus, and the modulation to Em.
Sea-a lay there looking at the ceiling. At the darkness where the ceiling was.
Whenever her mother put on the haenyeo suit and waded into the water, Sea-a had always held her breath. She’d hold it for as long as her mother was under. When her mother surfaced, Sea-a would finally breathe out. She’d done this as far back as she could remember. Holding her breath alongside her mother.
When her mother came up from the water, she always made that sound — the long, whistling exhale that escaped before the next breath could come in. The sumbisori. The breath of the sea women. The sound of having held on just long enough.
Sea-a had spent her whole life learning to hold her breath.
She was still holding it.