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# Chapter 2: The Math of It
Mornings in the Hapjeong-dong goshiwon began with smell.
More precisely: at six twenty a.m., every time Sea-a unlocked the front door after her shift and stepped inside, she was met with it — the mingled scent of ramyeon broth someone was boiling at the end of the hall, the damp exhalation of old cement walls, and the artificial sweetness of fabric softener that someone, at some point, had sprayed somewhere. That was the smell of home. Her mother’s house in Jeju had smelled of salt wind and doenjang jjigae, but two years had passed and some days she couldn’t recall it anymore. Every time it slipped away, she felt like she’d lost something. So she’d stopped trying to remember.
She moved down the corridor with quiet steps. Her hand was cold as she fished out the key in front of Room 2. That was what happened when you spent the whole night handing things to customers who stood in front of refrigerators. She opened the door with that hand.
The room was small. With no window, there was no way to tell from inside whether it was morning or night. When she switched on the standing lamp, a single yellow circle appeared. Inside it: a folding desk, a bed with a thin blanket folded flat, chord notes taped to the wall, and an old laptop. The laptop was a three-year-old model with a dead battery, so it had to stay plugged in at all times. If the cord came loose, whatever she’d been working on vanished. She’d lost a song that way once. She never recovered the melody. After that, she memorized exactly where to step so she’d never kick the plug.
The chord notes were written on fluorescent Post-its. Yellow, green, pink. Each color meant something different — yellow for finished, green for in progress, pink for things she probably ought to throw away but hadn’t. There were more pink ones than anything else.
Sea-a set down her bag and sat on the bed. Still in her coat.
The melody she’d heard on the radio was still living in her ears.
She had actually written “By the Window” the previous November.
There was nothing special that sparked it. The old woman from downstairs had been on the phone in the goshiwon hallway, her voice so low that the words were impossible to make out. But the cadence of it — the way it sank and rose — reminded Sea-a of the sumbisori, the breathing sound Jeju haenyeo made when they broke the surface after a dive. The sound of someone who knows their life is about to end but finds it hasn’t. Sea-a had walked into her room and written down the chords immediately.
The skeleton came together in an hour. The chorus in two. When the chorus arrived, her fingers trembled — not from joy, but from the certainty that the melody was right. There’s something in composition like a faint click when a thing finds its place. The sound of bone meeting bone.
She took the song to a small studio near Hongdae. Park In-cheol — a freelance producer she’d met through session work. A short man in his mid-thirties who always wore a baseball cap. At first, Sea-a had believed in him. She’d thought he was someone who genuinely loved music.
“This is good.” Park In-cheol said as he listened to the demo. “Really good. But the vocal quality isn’t there yet. We’d need to rework the arrangement.”
“How should the arrangement change?”
“I’ll handle it. Once production starts, the original always changes a lot anyway. What do you want to do about credits?”
Sea-a thought for a moment. “Just the composition credit is fine.”
“Got it. Let me hold onto it for now. I’ll reach out when I find the right artist.”
That was December. After that, silence. Two months passed before Sea-a asked. Park In-cheol said he was “still working on it.” Sea-a said okay. Another month went by. She stopped asking.
And then tonight — at two seventeen in the morning — the song had come on the radio.
In a room with no window, day and night are the same. Sea-a sat under the lamp and opened her laptop. She searched the Melon chart. Park So-jin, “By the Window.” Still at number four. Released last Friday. She checked the credits.
Lyrics: Park So-jin, Kang Min-jun. Composition/Arrangement: Park In-chul.
Sea-a stared at the screen for a long time. Then she closed the tab.
Her hands were cold. They were always cold. Whether this was different — whether this coldness was a different kind — she couldn’t say. She decided not to try to tell them apart. Once you started making those distinctions, things became impossible to contain.
She picked up her phone and typed a message to Haneul on KakaoTalk.
Na Sea-a: you asleep right now?
A reply came thirty seconds later. Oh Haneul was always awake. Tattoo artists kept late hours, and Haneul in particular preferred working through the night.
Haneul: omg na sea-a why are you texting at this hour. what happened
Haneul: wait you should be sleeping after your shift why are you still up
Na Sea-a: couldn’t sleep.
Haneul: you’re not writing again are you? your light was on yesterday too
Sea-a paused, then typed.
Na Sea-a: Park In-cheol sold my song. to a JYA rookie. without my credit.
Twenty seconds of silence. Then:
Haneul: ??????????
Haneul: which song
Na Sea-a: the one I wrote last year. By the Window. it’s number four on the chart right now.
Haneul: na sea-a
Haneul: call that guy right now
Haneul: no forget calling. go find him in person. i’ll come with you
Haneul: what time is it i can leave right now
Sea-a read the messages and closed the chat. She set down her phone and lay back on the bed. Still wearing her coat.
The ceiling was yellow. That was what happened when the lamp hit it. She stared up at that yellow and sang the chorus inside herself. No sound. Her lips didn’t move. Just the song, living quietly in her chest.
This melody was mine.
Now it belongs to Park So-jin.
And the world seems to agree that’s how it should be.
Her phone buzzed again. Haneul.
Haneul: hello??
Haneul: sea-a
Haneul: are you okay?
Sea-a picked up the phone, held it for a moment, and put it back down. Then she turned off the lamp.
Sea-a had first met Park In-cheol the previous summer, at a club in Hongdae called The Dark Side of the Moon. She did session vocals for the house band there — two nights a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. Fifty thousand won a night. Not much, but session vocal spots were hard to come by. She’d auditioned twice. Got in on the second try.
The club was small. Fifty people would have packed the place, stage and all. The soundproofing on the walls was torn in spots, and a fan behind the drum kit ran constantly to cool the heat off the amps. The air always held a blend of beer and sweat and the burning smell of old equipment. Sea-a didn’t mind it. It smelled like things that were real.
The house band was five people. Guitar, bass, drums, keys, and Sea-a. Everyone was in their mid-twenties to early thirties, each with a day job on the side. The guitarist, Min Jun-o, taught at a tutoring academy during the day. The bassist, Jeong Da-in, ran a café. The only one for whom music was the main gig was the drummer, Lee Sang-hun — and he always had five other session projects running at once, which meant he always looked tired.
Park In-cheol was Min Jun-o’s senior from back in the day. He showed up one Friday night, heard Sea-a sing, and lingered afterward to talk to her.
“Do you write songs?”
Sea-a was stepping off the stage, wiping sweat from her face. She didn’t know him. “Sometimes.”
“Can I hear something? Even a demo?”
“Why.”
“I’m a producer. Looking for songwriters.” He held out a business card. She took it and looked. Park In-cheol, Music Producer. “I’m not some weirdo. I’m Min-jun’s senior.”
Sea-a glanced at Min Jun-o. He gave a small nod. “He’s legit. Knows his stuff.”
That was how it started.
After that, Sea-a gave Park In-cheol three songs. “By the Window” was the first. She gave him the other two as well. The other two hadn’t gone anywhere yet, he’d told her. Sea-a had believed him — or more precisely, she hadn’t so much believed him as grown too tired to keep checking. Checking took energy, and she didn’t have much of that to spare.
Looking at it now, the other two songs had probably gone somewhere too.
She woke at two in the afternoon the next day. Seven hours of sleep. Six KakaoTalk notifications — five from Haneul, one from Do-hyeon.
She opened Do-hyeon’s first.
Do-hyeon: noona mom says her meds run out next week. can you send money this month?
Do-hyeon: oh and i looked into a convenience store part-time but mom said just focus on studying lol
Do-hyeon: but seriously lol if it’s too hard for you just say so. i can figure something out too
Sea-a typed back with her thumb.
Na Sea-a: yeah. i’ll send it by end of the week. don’t worry.
Na Sea-a: don’t get a job. you’ve got two years until the suneung. just study.
Do-hyeon: ok but noona are you eating?
Na Sea-a: yeah.
A lie. She hadn’t eaten yet. Before she could even think about food, her mind went to Park In-cheol.
She texted Haneul.
Na Sea-a: sorry about last night. fell asleep.
Na Sea-a: i’m going to find Park In-cheol today.
The reply was instant.
Haneul: YA!!!!!
Haneul: how many times did i say i’d come with you
Haneul: where are you i’m leaving now
Oh Haneul always wore an oversized hoodie. Today it was black, sleeves pushed up to show the tattoos on her arms. She was waiting at Exit 4 of Hapjeong Station and hooked her arm through Sea-a’s the moment she spotted her.
“What happened to your face.”
“I slept.”
“You don’t look like it. Did you eat?”
“I ate.”
Haneul looked her up and down. “Liar. Come on, let’s get something first.”
“I’m fine. Let’s just go.”
“Sea-a.” Haneul’s voice dropped a register. “What exactly are you going to say to Park In-cheol when we get there?”
Sea-a stopped. She hadn’t thought about that. What she would say. What she would do. She only knew she had to go.
“I’ll figure it out when I get there.”
“Ya.” Haneul let out a breath. “Sea-a. Seriously. Did you sign a contract?”
“…”
“You gave it to him without a contract? Just like that?”
Sea-a said nothing. The answer was in the silence.
Haneul pressed both hands over her face. “Na Sea-a. What are you walking in there with? You have no proof. Nothing that says you wrote it.”
“It’s in my phone’s notes app. Dated.”
“Does that hold up legally?”
Sea-a started to say she didn’t know, and then closed her mouth. Legally. The word felt strange. In the world Sea-a lived in, that word didn’t come up much. You just lived — you didn’t go around invoking legal standing.
“Let’s just go.” Sea-a said.
“Eat something first.”
“Haneul.”
“Eat something first.” Haneul didn’t budge. “GS25 right there. At least a triangle kimbap.”
Sea-a looked at her. Haneul looked back. The silence that passed between them was the kind that only exists between people who have known each other a long time.
Sea-a moved first. Toward the convenience store.
Park In-cheol’s studio was on the third floor of a building near the main gate of Hongdae. No elevator — you had to take the stairs. The stairwell had its own smell: frying oil drifting up from the restaurant on the ground floor, and the sound of drumming leaking down from a practice room above, traveling through the walls.
Sea-a stopped in the third-floor corridor. A nameplate on the door read P.I. Studio. Sounds came from inside — someone mid-phone call.
Haneul took hold of Sea-a’s arm. “Let me go in first.”
“It’s my business.”
“I know. Still.”
Sea-a gently moved Haneul’s hand aside. And knocked.
The voice inside fell quiet. A beat of silence. Then the door opened.
Park In-cheol’s expression locked up for half a second when he saw her. Sea-a caught it. She was good at that — catching the half-second truths that flickered across people’s faces.
“Oh, Sea-a. What brings you by?” He pulled the door open wider. “Come in.”
The studio was cramped. A mixing console, two monitor speakers, foam panels on the walls. Two guitars propped in the corner. Three chairs, one of which was stacked on top of a pile of hard cases.
Sea-a didn’t step inside. She stood in the doorway. “I’m here about ‘By the Window.’”
Something shifted behind Park In-cheol’s eyes. “Oh, that. Doing well, right? Great chart numbers.”
“My credit isn’t on it.”
“Ah, that — when an arrangement changes significantly, sometimes the composition credit gets shared differently or only the arranger gets listed. It’s just how it works sometimes.”
“It’s not under Park So-jin and it’s not under Kang Min-jun. The only name in the composition credit is yours.”
Park In-cheol pulled a chair toward him and sat down. Sea-a watched the motion. He was buying time.
“Sea-a, the music industry is complicated. Just because you contributed an idea doesn’t automatically mean you get a composition credit. When someone provides part of a melody, the producer is the one who shapes it into something, and the credits —”
“It wasn’t part of the melody.” Her voice didn’t rise. “It was all of it. Every chord. You arranged it, yes — but you arranged what I wrote.”
“Sea-a, if you’re going to approach this emotionally —”
“I’m not being emotional.”
Haneul stood in the hallway with her arms crossed, watching Park In-cheol. He glanced at her, then back at Sea-a.
“Sea-a. Do you remember how we started? No contract, I just said bring me something and let’s see. That was a trial. I was seeing what you could come up with. That’s not a commissioned composition agreement. Do you understand?”
As he spoke, Sea-a felt something slowly settling inside her chest. Not anger — anger was hot, and this was cold. The cold feeling of something you expected turning out exactly as you expected.
“Then what are you planning to do,” Sea-a said, “with the other two songs. The ones you still have.”
“Those haven’t gone anywhere yet.”
“Give them back.”
“Sea-a, that’s not the issue right now —”
“It is to me.” She took one step forward. “Delete the files while I watch, and I’ll take the originals with me.”
“Hey, hold on, you’re being way too —”
“In-cheol-ssi.” For the first time, something changed in her voice. It went lower. A trace of Jeju dialect crept into the ends of her words. “I’m not sure if I’m angry right now or not. But I can say this without knowing — if this happens again, I will take legal action.”
Park In-cheol looked at her. Sea-a held his gaze without flinching.
“…I’ll delete the files,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” Sea-a said. The words sounded hollow, even to her.
On the way down the stairs, Haneul grabbed Sea-a’s arm tight.
“Ya.”
“Yeah.”
“You — ah, seriously.” Haneul lost the words and stopped halfway down the stairs. “You said you’d take legal action. Did you mean that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Na Sea-a. Then why did you say it?”
“Because it needed to be said.” Sea-a kept walking down. “If I don’t, he’ll just keep doing it.”
Haneul followed her down. When they pushed through the door at the bottom and stepped outside, the noise of Hongdae in the afternoon hit them all at once — busking somewhere nearby, music spilling from a café speaker, the overlapping voices of people on the street.
Sea-a stopped for a moment inside all that noise. She narrowed her eyes. That busking — the guitar was running a C to Am progression. Overused. But the voice riding over it was something else. A little rough, like someone who’d been breathing cold air all winter.
“Hey, what are you looking at?” Haneul turned her head.
“Nothing.”
“You’re analyzing that guy’s singing right now.”
“…”
“Sea-a.” Haneul stepped in front of her and met her eyes. “What you did up there — that was the right thing. But it’s not over. You know that. Deleting the files doesn’t fix anything. That song is already out there. It’s on the chart. It’s being sung under Park So-jin’s name.”
Sea-a looked at her. “I know.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“…I don’t know.” Sea-a said it plainly. “Not yet.”
Haneul studied her for a long moment. Then exhaled — not out of frustration, exactly. More like the sigh of someone who has understood something for a long time and still doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Are you hungry?” Haneul asked.
“…a little.”
“Wow, actual honesty. Come on. Malatang. My treat.”
“It’s fine, I’ll pay —”
“Na Sea-a.” Haneul pulled her by the arm. “I’m paying today. Just let someone do something for you. Is that really so hard?”
Sea-a paused, then fell into step beside her. It really was that hard, actually.
The malatang place was a small Chinese restaurant near Hapjeong Station. Past lunch hour, but still half full. They took a seat by the window. The alley leading toward the Han River stretched outside the glass.
Haneul studied the menu and pointed at things. “I want the spicy beef with extra mushrooms. You?”
“Anything.”
“Anything isn’t on the menu.”
“…same as you.”
“Sea-a, you can’t handle spicy food.”
“I can.”
“You were crying over tteokbokki last time.”
“That wasn’t because of the tteokbokki.” Sea-a said it quietly.
Haneul went still. Sea-a seemed to register what she’d said, because she looked out the window.
“…order mine without the szechuan peppercorns,” Sea-a added.
“Okay,” Haneul said, softly.
After they ordered, a silence settled between them. The noise of other tables filled the space. A group that looked like college students were laughing and passing around a phone.
“Sea-a.” Haneul spoke first. “The other two songs — they’re probably in the same situation as ‘By the Window,’ aren’t they?”
“…probably.”
“So all three songs could be out there somewhere under his name. Sold, or waiting to be.”
“I don’t know. I need to check.”
“How?”
Sea-a took out her phone. She opened the Melon app and searched Park In-cheol’s name. A list of songs he’d been credited as producer came up. Sea-a scrolled slowly. Twelve tracks. She looked for any melody she recognized.
There was one.
“Scent of Spring.” She’d written it last autumn — a quiet acoustic piece. Now it had been rearranged into a pop ballad. The artist name was unfamiliar: Lee Jun-hyeok, indie singer-songwriter. Fifteen thousand streams. Not on any chart.
“’Scent of Spring’ is there too,” Sea-a said.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Haneul leaned in to look. “Lee Jun-hyeok.”
“I don’t know him.”
“The third one?”
Sea-a kept scrolling. “Afternoon Light.” Nothing. Not there yet, or listed under a different name.
“’Afternoon Light’ doesn’t seem to be up yet.”
“Yet — that’s what you said. Sea-a, this — you really do need to go the legal route.” Haneul’s voice dropped. “You need to find a lawyer. Someone who specializes in music copyright.”
“With what money.”
“…”
“Do you know what lawyers cost? Right now I have my convenience store shifts and session work. After my mom’s meds and Do-hyeon’s academy fees, I have less than a hundred thousand won left at the end of the month.”
Haneul went quiet. Sea-a didn’t usually talk about money this directly. Normally it was “I’m fine” and “don’t worry about it” and “leave me alone.”
“…I can pitch in a little,” Haneul said quietly.
“No,” Sea-a said immediately.
“Sea-a.”
“I said no.” Her voice stiffened. Then, a moment later, softened. “…thank you. But no. I’ll find a way.”
The food arrived. Two bowls of malatang. Steam rose from the broth and hung between them for a moment before disappearing. Sea-a picked up her chopsticks and brought a spoonful of broth to her lips. Hot and spicy. Her tongue went briefly numb.
“It’s good,” Sea-a said.
“Yeah?” Haneul smiled a little. “Is it too spicy?”
“A bit.”
“Can you handle it?”
Sea-a took another spoonful. “I can handle it.”
Haneul heard that and seemed to think something, then decided not to say it.
At seven that evening, Sea-a headed to The Dark Side of the Moon. Tuesday. House band night.
The club started setting up two hours before the show. When Sea-a arrived, the drummer Sang-hun was tuning the kit, and guitarist Min Jun-o was running short riffs in front of his amp.
“Sea-a, you’re here,” Min Jun-o said with a nod.
“Yeah.”
“We changed the setlist. The club owner wants to try something new. In-cheol hyung sent over a song — we’re gonna put it in tonight.”
Sea-a went still. “Which song?”
“This one.” Min Jun-o held out his phone. A Melon link. Sea-a didn’t open it. She just read the title.
“Afternoon Light.”
She handed the phone back. “I can’t do that song.”
“Huh? Why not? Did you listen? It’s good.”
“I just can’t.”
Min Jun-o looked at her, puzzled. Sea-a’s face gave nothing away. She didn’t want to explain. She didn’t have the energy for it.
“Can we do something else?” Sea-a said.
“I’d have to check with the owner.”
“Please do.”
Min Jun-o studied her for a moment, then nodded and headed inside.
Sea-a set her bag down in the small space beside the stage and stood in front of the mic stand. The mic wasn’t connected yet. She looked at it for a moment.
“Afternoon Light.” She’d written that song last spring. When her mother was hospitalized for the first time. Sea-a had come down to Jeju and sat in a hospital corridor and written it. The afternoon sun was coming through the window — and the light was, strangely, warm. Her mother was sick, there was no money, she had no idea what came next, and still the light was warm. She had turned that contradiction into a melody. Why is this beautiful when nothing is resolved? That was the song.
She couldn’t sing it here. Not under someone else’s title. Not under someone else’s name. She couldn’t.
Min Jun-o came back. “Owner says it’s fine. What do you want to do instead?”
“’Spring Day.’ BTS.”
“Oh, nice choice.” Min Jun-o nodded. “You do that one really well.”
Sea-a didn’t answer. She adjusted the mic stand to her height. When she wrapped her hand around the mic, her fingers warmed slightly. Mics were always a little lukewarm — like they held the trace of every hand that had touched them before.
The show ran from nine to eleven. Two hours, twelve songs. The club was half full. That was a Tuesday night in Hongdae — not the white heat of a weekend, but there were always people who came to listen to music.
Sea-a kept her eyes open when she sang. Not looking at the ceiling, not looking at any one person. Somewhere in the middle of the room, in the space between things. It was a habit. If she met someone’s eyes, their feeling came into her. And when it did, her singing changed. That wasn’t always bad — but changing in ways she couldn’t control frightened her.
When she sang “Spring Day,” she knew why she’d chosen it. Will this season come again. A song about waiting. Sea-a understood that waiting. The way she had waited for her mother to surface from the sea. The way she was waiting for someone to sing her melodies with her name attached to them.
When the final chorus ended, applause came. Sea-a bowed her head. Her hair was tied back. She always retied it after a show — it always came loose during.
The band members took their bows—