Chapter 81: Blindfold Splint (7)

Part 12

“Don’t step on the left or middle pedals,” the repairman said.

“Got it,” I replied.

“I replaced the broken strings, but a lot of them are old, so avoid playing anything too intense or repetitive,” he advised.

“Understood,” I nodded.

“The 4F and 4G keys have faulty hammers, not strings, so fixing them now’s a stretch. The sound might be off, so work around it—layer more chords or shift positions,” he explained.

“…You’re a real expert, huh?” I said.

“It’s my life’s work. I’d wager I play better than you, young lady,” he teased.

His playful words carried weight, matched by the deft way his hands glided over the keys. An arpeggio danced across two octaves, weaving a simple yet catchy melody, like a singer’s soft hum. A warm, major-key progression… a money chord?

“He was quite the jazz player back in the day,” Dr. Kang chimed in.

“…Wow…” I muttered.

“That look on your face? If you weren’t in this form, you’d have gotten a smack,” Dr. Kang teased.

My stunned expression didn’t budge, despite his comment. Come on, though. A bald, seventy-something grandpa in a loose shirt, tinkering with piano strings, then breaking into a pop-style improv? How do I even react?

“Anyway, miss, it’s fixed enough to use, so I’m looking forward to it,” the repairman said.

“You’re watching my stream too, sir?” I asked, incredulous.

The piano’s sound stopped. His mischievous chuckle made me blurt out the absurd question. He means he’ll watch my performance. These days, even seniors watch streaming sites or hobby broadcasts, so Dr. Kang likely mentioned my stream when arranging this…

“What? I’m watching right here,” the repairman said.

“…Huh?” I gasped.

“Of course. This doctor here, who’s gotta drive me back, insisted on seeing you play. I don’t even know the way home alone,” he added.

My eyes snapped to Dr. Kang. His grin—half-amused, half-mocking—made my stomach churn.

“You didn’t think I was serious?” Dr. Kang asked.

“He’s got a schedule too…!” I protested.

“Since passing the shop to his son, he says he’s got nothing to do but feed his stubborn cat. I suggested we watch your little show together, and he happily agreed,” Dr. Kang explained.

Another blow to the back of my head. I felt dizzy. My clenched fists trembled with some unnameable emotion.

“…My doctor—” I started.

“What? I even covered the cost, so no way I’m getting turned down,” the repairman cut in.

Did he not hear me? His voice silenced me, then left me gaping in disbelief. I was sure now—Dr. Kang’s smirk screamed, “What’re you gonna do about it?”

My shaking fists tightened, then swung, landing a solid thwack near his solar plexus.

“What was that?” Dr. Kang asked.

“Watch or don’t, I don’t care,” I snapped.

“Oh? Ever heard of the ‘nyang-nyang punch’ trend, patient?” he teased.

“I know it didn’t hurt, so quit that smug look!” I yelled.

Shouting, I stormed out to my room, fanning my burning cheeks. I grabbed my laptop, the camera Sanghyeon gifted me, and the microphone mysteriously included with it.

Fine, I’ll just do so well it doesn’t matter who’s watching!

Part 13

Around 11 a.m., the stream’s waiting screen displayed Jeokranun in casual clothes, brandishing a sword tip with cold, dead eyes, as if saying, “It’s about to start, leaving already?” Five minutes had passed since the screen appeared, creeping toward ten.

Thanks to subtle promotions by two well-known streamers, CheungJeokun and Bonfire, the waiting room already had over 300 viewers, even with just a static screen. None seemed to mind the wait.

“Ugh… it was fine when I tested it yesterday. Hold on… the camera angle’s off…” I mumbled.

• Take your time~
• So cute lololol
• Those scampering footsteps lolol

The mic, turned on as I asked for patience, explained why. Jeokranun’s voice, clearer than in CheungJeokun’s streams, was a pleasant surprise for viewers not expecting a polished debut.

“Ah! Oh no…” I gasped.

Short grunts and frantic tap-tap-tap footsteps added to the charm. Rather than annoying, they painted a vivid picture of her usual vibe—a slightly dazed girl sweating over unfamiliar tech. Imagining it wasn’t hard for them.

“Got it!” I exclaimed.

• Oh!
• Finally!

Nine minutes after the waiting screen appeared, a triumphant cry rang out. The black screen vanished, revealing a girl awkwardly standing before the monitor.

Her lips, a touch pinker than usual. Longer, thicker lashes. A bright smile, sweat trickling down pale skin, as if she’d been running around. Her fair complexion showed no heavy makeup.

“Um… do I say, ‘Nice to meet you’ here…?” I asked.

• LOLOLOL
• Don’t ask us! XD

“Haha… it’s my first stream, after all,” I said.

Stepping back, Jeokranun’s full figure filled the camera. A thin short-sleeve shirt and knee-length shorts—familiar from CheungJeokun’s streams. Yet, whether due to makeup or something else, she seemed different.

In the awkward air of tension and anticipation, Jeokranun’s lips curled into her usual faint smile.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jeokranun, starting my first proper stream today. Please take care of me,” I said.

• NUNAAAAA!!!!
• JEOKRANUNRA!!!!
• Open donations!!! Hurry!!!

How did she take the chat’s reaction? With a soft chuckle, she moved further back to the piano, settling naturally into the chair. Her profile, fingers resting on the keys, exuded a calm vibe on the camera.

“361 viewers… Honestly, I didn’t expect so many. I should’ve picked a better song,” I said.

Her smiling lips, lightly made-up, shimmered faintly under the soft light.

“I don’t know many songs, and it’s less about practicing and more about picking what I can play… but I prepared hard,” I added.

The chat’s flurry slowed. Her hands, centered on middle C, shifted slowly to a higher octave.

“As I mentioned on my brother’s stream… I’ll play a bit of piano. This is ‘Becoming the Flower of the Wind,’” I said.

Not nervous? A lie. But after the chaos, Jeokranun felt oddly at ease. Ignoring the silent keys, she recalled a practiced piece. Her skill wasn’t boast-worthy, but sharing it felt less embarrassing, more proud.

Not a flawless performance, but an effort for those watching. A song for them. How could I not be proud? Sharing effort and joy with so many—how could she not be happy?

“I hope you can listen comfortably… heh,” I said.

Her fingers pressed the keys softly. Single notes flowed smoothly into a melody. Instead of flashy arpeggios, simple chords followed the melody’s pitch, understated yet supportive.

A serene stillness, like sunlight. But the composer didn’t want a flower rooted to the ground. Her fingers retraced to a lower octave. The steady single-note melody met a simple arpeggio accompaniment, now running alongside.

The perspective shifted from a rooted flower to the wind circling it. The leisurely right-hand melody darkened. The wind, carrying a wish, curled cautiously in the left-hand accompaniment. Spring’s warm sunlight faded into shadowed clouds.

“…!” I gasped.

Yet the wind refused to let its wish wither in the rain’s chill. The steadfast right-hand melody—carrying the flower’s scent, its entrusted wish—grew vibrant. The left hand’s accompaniment turned lively, bold. The melody layered brighter hues, racing toward distant sunlight.

Her technique wasn’t fully restored, and dodging faulty keys forced cautious movements. A pro might scoff at the clumsiness.

But she didn’t stop. Racing through the cool shade, the girl—the wind—smiled.

The relentless left-hand accompaniment kept pace. The right-hand melody, weaving arpeggios and legatos, matched it in harmony, unaware they’d escaped the clouds’ shadow.

Belatedly, the accompaniment and melody reclaimed their initial peace. Only subtle melodic shifts hinted the wind’s journey was nearing its end.

The tempo slowed. The melody rose, the wind’s steps softened, then stopped.

The wind, carrying its wish, had become another flower.